by M C Beaton
At the end of the dance, her father introduced her to Viscount Fitzpatrick. The viscount had just arrived. Isabella sank into an elegant curtsy – but not too low. One must remember he was an Irish peer. He was a tall man. It was not often Isabella had to look up to anyone in this age of short people, but the Irishman topped her by a head. He was impeccably dressed and he had well-coiffed thick black hair worn in the Windswept, but his blue eyes in his lightly tanned face were bright, intelligent, and mocking, almost as if he found the Beverleys and their ball a prime joke. Sir William and Lady Beverley exchanged glances and then went off, leaving the couple together. Isabella’s heart sank. From formerly being considered fit partner only for a duke, her parents might now have lowered their sights and thought an Irish peer good enough.
‘You are a beautiful ornament to a beautiful home,’ said the viscount.
‘I am very proud of my home.’ Isabella sounded complacent. ‘And my sisters,’ she added, smiling indulgently across the room to where the other five stood in conversation.
‘It’s like a museum,’ he said in awe, ‘and you and your sisters are like exhibits under glass.’
Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘That is impertinent.’
‘I am allowed an observation,’ he said with unimpaired good humour. ‘Pray walk with me and show me some of the beauties of your home.’
So Isabella led him back to the landing overlooking the main staircase and pointed out with pride the painted ceiling, a swirling baroque assembly of classical deities, and then her voice gained energy and warmth as she went on to describe some of the many treasures of the house: the remarkable walnut Queen Anne chairs in the drawing room; the delicately carved rococo chimney-piece and overmantel of the fireplace in the library; the chinoiserie mirrors in the Blue Saloon; the large musical clock in the Red Saloon, which played a different tune for every day of the week; and the two Boulle marriage chests in the morning room.
He gave a little shiver and his blue eyes danced. ‘Faith, it’s like being at an auction sale,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon, my lord.’
‘It’s the way you give me an inventory of the contents. I am a superstitious man and would feel it was tempting fate if I itemized the contents of my home to a guest. “How much am I bid for this fine painting?” – that sort of thing. Now shall we dance?’
Isabella was tempted to snub him as she had snubbed so many in London but was taken aback when he said gently, ‘That is, if it is correct to ask a married lady such as yourself to dance.’
‘You jest. I am not married.’
‘Oh, but you are.’ He drew her arm through his own and led her back into the ballroom. ‘You are married to this house, to Mannerling. Such devotion, such passion is wasted on bricks and mortar and geegaws.’
She opened her mouth to protest but he drew her into the steps of a waltz. He chatted easily about his problems of getting his English estate in order and she began to relax. There was a warmth and friendliness about him that she found engaging. She liked to pigeon-hole people and so she put him down in her mind as an amusing rattle, not marriageable but entertaining, and in relaxing in his company and laughing at his sallies did not realize that animation was adding to her beauty.
He danced again with her that evening and after it was over led her up to her father and asked permission to go out riding with her. Lady Beverley, standing beside her husband, said, to Isabella’s embarrassment, ‘We expect our daughter to marry the highest in the land.’
‘But of course,’ said Lord Fitzpatrick easily, seeming not in the least put out. ‘Shall I call for you, say, at two o’clock on Monday, Miss Isabella?’
‘Thank you,’ said Isabella. She could not quite believe that her stately and elegant mother had been so, well, blunt.
The ball proceeded to its elegant end. Guests who were staying went off to their respective rooms, guests who were leaving got into their carriages and bowled off down the long drive.
Isabella was glad to retire to her room and allow her sleepy maid to prepare her for bed. Most ladies chatted after a ball to their servants, but not Isabella. She had been surrounded by so many servants since the day she was born and considered them part of the furniture; and besides, had been influenced by a father who expected all servants to be seen and not heard and even to turn their faces to the wall as he passed. To her surprise there was a scratching at the door. She sent her maid to answer it, thinking it might be one of her sisters come for a chat, but it was a tired and worried Mr Ducket, the secretary, who walked into the room.
‘I crave your pardon for disturbing you so late, Miss Isabella,’ he said, ‘but Sir William is leaving directly for London and wishes to take all the jewels to be cleaned.’
Isabella looked at her tiara and necklace, still lying on the toilet-table where the maid had placed them when she had taken them off. ‘They were cleaned before the beginning of the Season, if you remember,’ she said. ‘Pray leave them.’
‘Sir William is anxious to depart and was most insistent that I collect all the jewels.’
‘Oh, very well,’ said Isabella.
Mr Ducket snapped his fingers. Two footmen entered carrying a large iron-bound box. They threw back the lid and Mr Ducket put the tiara and necklace into it.
‘And all the others,’ he said apologetically.
Isabella felt too tired to question him further. She nodded to her maid, who went to fetch Isabella’s jewel box. The contents were added to those in the chest.
But when they had gone, when a weary Isabella climbed into bed, a bright image of the jewels in the chest came into her mind. She remembered seeing Jessica’s ruby necklace, the twins’ pearl sets, bit and pieces of her mother’s collection poking up amongst the others. How odd that her father should decide to get them all cleaned at once.
The sisters all felt rather flat and low after the excitement of the ball. They talked of beaux but without much enthusiasm. Isabella’s invitation to go riding with the viscount did not interest them. The Beverleys did not judge men by looks and character but by fortune and rank. But Isabella found herself actually looking forward to the outing. It was all very safe. He knew the Beverleys considered him unmarriageable. The Beverleys were of higher rank because of lineage and wealth and they were English.
On the Monday when Isabella went out with the viscount she was mounted on a placid white mare with a broad back.
‘That must be like riding on a sofa,’ he commented, looking down at her from the height of his stallion. ‘Do you never wish to ride something speedier?’
Isabella patted the mare’s neck. ‘I thought we could ride about the grounds and I could show you some of the features of our estate.’
‘And I think we should ride to my place where I can find you a mount and then we can go for a proper ride.’
As he said this, they had ridden a certain distance from Mannerling and it was almost as if the spell the house normally cast on her was losing its hold as Isabella said, ‘Are you so sure, my lord, that I can ride anything more exciting?’
‘I think you would tell me you could not.’
‘Very well. But is it conventional to go to your estate?’
‘My aunt is in residence. We shall be going to the stables, perhaps to the house later.’
‘Then we will see whether I can manage your choice of mount.’
Isabella was wearing a pale-blue velvet riding dress frogged with gold. On her head was a jaunty little hat with a chiffon scarf wound round it, the ends being left to float out from the back. He was in a well-cut black jacket, doeskin breeches, and boots with brown tops.
They rode away from the Mannerling estate at a sedate canter, which was all Isabella’s mare could manage. As they approached the stables of Perival, the name of Lord Fitzpatrick’s estate, Isabella began to look curiously about her. There seemed to be a great deal of activity everywhere. Men were working on the roofs of cottages, men and women were working in the fields. She had expected
everything to be run down and so it was, but energetic efforts appeared to be underway to put everything right.
‘I bought it cheaply,’ he said as if reading her thoughts, ‘although the repairs and work to be put in on the fields will come to quite a bit.’
She wanted to say that she thought Irish peers never had any money at all but did not because it would be impolite. When they arrived at the stables, she had a clear view of the house, a fairly modern mansion; she remembered hearing that it had been built in 1750. It was solid and square without ornament or even creeper to soften its lines, but it looked sturdy and well-built.
The viscount had brought servants from Ireland, particularly stable staff, and he was amused at the effect on them of the beauty of Isabella Beverley. His head groom stood open-mouthed and had to be gently called to order. A tall, rangy-looking hunter was brought out for Isabella’s inspection. ‘His name is Satan,’ said the viscount. ‘Do you think you can handle him?’
The pride of the Beverleys came to Isabella’s rescue. ‘Of course,’ she said haughtily.
Her side-saddle was taken off the mare and put on the hunter, which was led out to the mounting-block. She was helped up into the saddle. The ground seemed an awful long way below her. ‘Ready?’ asked the viscount and she nodded.
They set off and then the viscount turned off down a bridle-path lined with trees. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s see how fast we can go.’
Her heart in her mouth, Isabella spurred Satan to a gallop. He went off like the wind. At first it was terrifying, then it was exhilarating, then she felt like singing for joy as the great horse flew like a bird straight down the path and then across open fields. She finally reined in beside the viscount at the top of a rise, her eyes shining and her face flushed. ‘Well done, Miss Beverley,’ he said with a touch of surprise in his voice.
‘You play a dangerous game, my lord,’ she said lightly. ‘What would you have done had I not been able to handle the brute?’
‘You forget, I am an Irishman. I could tell by the very way you sat on Satan as we rode out from the stables that you could hold him. Besides, he’s safe enough. Neither a biter nor a bolter.’
‘I would like to buy him,’ said Isabella.
‘My regrets, lady, he is not for sale.’
‘I would give you a good price.’
‘That is one of my favourite horses and I would not part with him for money . . . or for love.’ His blue eyes glinted at her. ‘Anyway, there are things that are not for sale, O rich Miss Beverley.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as warmth and loyalty and friendship. Most of my servants would opt to work for me without wages should I fall on hard times.’
‘As would ours, I hope,’ said Isabella.
‘Would they now? Care for them, do you? Look after them when they’re sick?’
‘We have an excellent butler and housekeeper. The welfare of the servants is their business.’
‘I have heard it said in the county that Sir William expects the servants to make themselves scarce when he approaches, or to turn their faces to the wall. You know, that sort of master does not often command loyalty, and one never knows when one will need loyalty.’
‘My father is a fair master and pays the wages promptly each quarter-day.’
‘Money again. I fear you love only material things, Miss Beverley. Your soul is made up of bricks and mortar and money – oh, and woods and trees, too, if carefully domesticated and put into pleasing vistas.’
‘Really, my lord, I wonder you care for my company as you are so highly critical of me!’
‘You forget your exceptional beauty.’
‘I am tired,’ said Isabella abruptly, ‘and wish to return.’
‘We shall take tea with my aunt first. She will enjoy your company.’
‘Perhaps another time . . .’
‘I told her to expect you, and old ladies are not to be disappointed.’
And so Isabella, after they had returned to the stables and dismounted, found herself meekly accompanying him into his home.
She was pleased, for she had taken him in dislike because of his criticisms, to notice that his house was not particularly richly furnished. In the drawing room the paintings were all dark hunting scenes or landscapes, badly in need of cleaning. It was then that she remembered her father taking all the jewels to London. How very odd. But then her attention was taken by a small square lady with a round red face who had risen to meet her. ‘Aunt, may I present Miss Beverley, our neighbour,’ said the viscount. ‘Miss Beverley, my Aunt Mary, Mrs Kennedy.’
‘Sure and it’s the beauty you are,’ said Mrs Kennedy, beaming up at Isabella. ‘Come sit yourself down and give me your crack.’
How terribly vulgar she is, thought Isabella, feeling more superior by the minute. She sat next to Mrs Kennedy on the sofa and accepted a cup of tea. Mrs Kennedy blew noisily on her tea before drinking it with noisy slurps.
‘Ah, that’s better, sure it is,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Nothing like a dish of tay. Did you enjoy your ride, Miss Bever1ey.’
‘Yes, I thank you, ma’am.’
‘And try the fruit-cake, do. I made it meself wit’ me own hands. Do you bake, Miss Beverley?’
Isabella gave a little laugh. ‘I leave such things to the servants, Mrs Kennedy.’
‘Ah, but to be a good mistress you should be able to do everything your servants can do and better. Is that not the truth now, Guy?’
‘Not this generation, Aunt Mary,’ said the viscount. ‘You are sadly out of touch with fashionable ladies. A fashionable lady never even opens the door for herself.’
‘Now that’s a crying shame,’ said Mrs Kennedy.
‘I see no reason for an unnecessary training in house-keeping,’ said Isabella firmly.
‘You might not always have servants . . .’ began Mrs Kennedy, and to Isabella’s surprise the old lady promptly fell silent after a warning look from her nephew. But the viscount had surely warned his aunt that she was in danger of being impertinent. Isabella began to talk easily about the ball at Mannerling, of the courses served at supper, of the music, of how everyone had fallen in love with Mannerling.
‘There are six of you,’ said Mrs Kennedy. ‘The six beautiful daughters of Mannerling. Did nobody fall in love with any of you? Or was the love all for the house?’
God spare me from the Irish, thought Isabella, feeling cross again. She rose to her feet and said, ‘I really must leave. My sisters and mother will be wondering what has become of me.’
‘Then you must call again, m’dear,’ said Mrs Kennedy warmly. ‘You know the way.’
Her mare was once more saddled up and she and the viscount made their staid way to Mannerling. He again pointed out various repairs that were taking place, and how he planned to drain the six acre, idle, harmless country chit-chat which made Isabella feel quite in charity with him.
She made her goodbyes. He refused her polite invitation to step indoors for some refreshment. He bowed, said he would call on her quite soon, and swung his athletic body up into the saddle.
Isabella went to join her sisters and mother in the drawing room. She gave a very funny description of Mrs Kennedy which set them all laughing, and wondered why she began to feel quite small and mean and diminished.
She changed the subject abruptly by asking, ‘Why did Papa find it necessary to take all the jewellery to London to be cleaned, Mama? Most of mine was cleaned before the beginning of the Season.’
‘I really don’t know, my dear,’ said Lady Beverley. ‘But be sure your father knows what he is doing.’
Later that day, Isabella went to the study where the secretary was working over some estate papers. ‘Mr Ducket,’ she said, ‘that mare of mine is a trifle tame. I wish to buy a horse with more speed and power.’
To her surprise he looked awkward and embarrassed. ‘It is not for me to say, Miss Beverley, whether you should have a new horse or not. I beg you to apply to Sir William when he retur
ns.’
‘But that is not necessary,’ said Isabella. ‘I do not know any horse dealers. I wish you to arrange it. Have a selection of horses brought to the stables for my inspection.’
‘I must insist that you wait for your father’s return, Miss Beverley.’
‘I find your attitude most odd, Mr Ducket. We have always applied to you in the past for things when Papa has been absent.’
‘I am sorry, but those are my instructions,’ he said.
‘From Papa? How strange,’ said Isabella huffily. ‘I am sure you are mistaken and he will be most cross with you on his return.’
She felt quite taken aback. She had never been refused anything before.
TWO
Eating the bitter bread of banishment
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Any lady of less arrogance and pride than Isabella Beverley would have thought often of the handsome viscount, but as a week went past, Isabella almost forgot about him, until on the following Monday he sent a footman over with a request that she should go out on a drive with him. The weather during the preceding week had been rainy and unseasonably cold, but the sun had started to shine again and Isabella, after consulting her mother, decided that a further acquaintance with the viscount could be used to advantage. ‘Perhaps I have been too stiff and cold with the gentlemen I have met,’ said Isabella earnestly. ‘I could practise my social manners on this viscount.’
And so, attired in a carriage gown and smart hat, Isabella smiled at the viscount as he assisted her into his curricle and called to the Mannerling groom to stand away from the horses’ heads.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Isabella. She did hope they were not going to visit his aunt.
‘To Hedgefield.’
‘To the town? But there is a fair on today, is there not?’
‘Do you not like fairs?’
‘I have only been to one. Are they not rather noisy and vulgar?’
‘Great fun, I assure you, Miss Beverley.’
Isabella thought that if she protested, then he might decide to take her to see his aunt. So she gave a little smile and said it might be amusing.
