Banishment (Daughters of Mannerling 1)

by M C Beaton

  But the viscount, who was thirty, had forgotten the difference between his age and that of such as nineteen-year-old Isabella. He did not know that Isabella had never thought of love, that she was unawakened and innocent and thought, if she thought at all, of marriage as a sort of business partnership and had not the slightest idea of how one conceived children.

  And so he was quickly restored to good humour. He told her a story of how one of his Irish servants had been found shaking all over and the other servants had diagnosed whirligigitis and had pushed him in the pond, water being supposed to be the best cure, and how Mrs Kennedy had practically had to rescue the poor man from drowning for he could not swim, and had offered the correct diagnosis: that he was shaking all over because he had drunk a considerable amount of the viscount’s brandy in the servants’ hall the night before.

  They rode on amicably. ‘What a wonderful summer,’ sighed Isabella.

  He looked at the sky. ‘Not for long, I think,’ he remarked. ‘The wind has changed.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ she said, thinking that her promised tour of the Mannerling gardens was only two days away.

  ‘But the countryside needs rain,’ he said, wondering at her obvious anxiety.

  She gave a little shrug, suddenly hoping he would not call on her on Tuesday and find she had gone to Mannerling.

  FOUR

  So long as all the increased wealth which modern progress brings goes but to build up great fortunes, to increase luxury and make sharper the contrast between the House of Have and the House of Want, progress is not real and cannot be permanent.

  HENRY GEORGE

  Isabella set out for Mannerling on the Tuesday, and her mother, father, and sisters stood outside Brookfield House to wave her goodbye as if she were going off to the wars.

  She was sharply aware that the coachman on the box and the footmen on the backstrap had once worked for the Beverleys and might remark on this odd send-off.

  She found herself anxiously awaiting the first sight of Mannerling, knowing somehow that the magic spell her old home cast on her would stiffen her resolve, because without it, a nasty little voice of common sense was telling her that she was pursuing a gentleman in whom she had no interest whatsoever except as a means of returning to her beloved home.

  Betty, the small maid, elevated to lady’s-maid for the occasion and wearing one of Lizzie’s old gowns, sat looking as solemn as a well-behaved child. Isabella was wearing one of her more dashing hats, a straw embellished with silk roses of different colours around the crown. She was dressed in a light muslin gown in shades of delicate lilac, darkening towards the hem to near purple. The sun no longer shone, a bad omen, and a blustery wind from the west rustled the parched leaves of the trees on either side of the road.

  It was when the carriage was turning in at the gates of Mannerling that she began to wonder whether this visit were not too unconventional. Mr Judd had no lady in residence, and although she, Isabella, had a maid with her, it was surely not correct to visit a single man in his home.

  Therefore she experienced a surge of gladness and relief to be initially received in the drawing room by Mrs Judd, Mr Judd’s mother, a tall, thin widow with a perpetual air of disapproval.

  After the introductions and pleasantries were over, Mrs Judd said, ‘This was your home, was it not?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Isabella, stealing a look around and noticing several very pretty ornaments which had decorated the mantelpiece were no longer there.

  Mrs Judd was dressed in black, as befitted her widowed status, shiny black decorated with jet, which gave her a reptilian look. She folded lace-mittened hands in her lap and commented, ‘I have told Ajax time and again that gamblers always ruin themselves sooner or later.’

  At first Isabella was too surprised to learn that Mr Judd was called Ajax to take offence, but then the full import of Mrs Judd’s words sank into her brain. She rose and said with quiet dignity to Mr Judd, ‘I am anxious to see the gardens, sir, and perhaps we should begin now because it looks like rain.’

  ‘Gladly,’ he said with that foxy smile of his. When they were outside, he pointed his stick in the direction of a stand of trees. ‘I’m getting those cut down for a start,’ he said. ‘Block the view.’

  ‘Oh, no, Mr Judd,’ said Isabella, shaken. ‘Capability Brown himself designed those vistas. Do you not see how those trees are part of the harmonious plan?’

  ‘Well, well, I don’t like ’em and it’s my place now. Hey, now, though, if it troubles you so much, I’ll leave the trees for the moment. But you’ll like what I’ve got planned round the back. Come.’

  A damp breeze blew against Isabella’s cheek. The rain could not be far off. They walked around the side of the house to the back. ‘Now, see that temple thing over there,’ he commanded.

  The Greek temple stood on a mound overlooking the ornamental lake, its slender columns whiter than ever against the darkening sky.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ sighed Isabella, thinking of how on sunny days she and her sisters would get the servants to carry a picnic hamper to the temple. Then they would take a boat out on the lake. She closed her eyes for a second, remembering happy, peaceful, innocent days gone forever.

  ‘Going to knock it down,’ said Mr Judd with satisfaction.

  ‘Why?’ asked Isabella faintly.

  ‘Having a ruin is all the crack, one of those Gothic things, all moss, and with a hermit. Have that instead. Got to have a hermit.’

  ‘And do you know a hermit?’

  ‘Don’t need to be a real one. One of the servants will do it. That footman, John, now he’s a trifle too uppity for my taste. If he wants to continue to collect his wages, he can be a hermit and put on some rags instead of that plush uniform.’

  Raindrops rattled down on Isabella’s bonnet. ‘We must return to shelter,’ he said. ‘Poxy rain.’

  Isabella felt like crying. If he was prepared to smash down the beautiful temple, what other horrors had he in store for Mannerling?

  When they were back in the drawing room, Mrs Judd presiding over the teacups, Mr Judd said, ‘I’m thinking of giving a ball here, get to know the neighbours. Is that secretary still about?’

  ‘Until the end of the week,’ said Isabella.

  ‘Better get him to furnish me with a list.’

  ‘Ajax,’ reprimanded his mother, ‘you cannot be contemplating a ball when your poor father is scarcely cold in his grave!’

  ‘Pooh, died over a year ago.’

  Mrs Judd took out a starched handkerchief and applied it to her eyes.

  ‘How did your father die?’ asked Isabella.

  ‘Blew his brains out,’ said Mr Judd succinctly.

  ‘I wish that nice Miss Stoppard was here,’ moaned Mrs Judd. ‘She is all sentiment.’

  ‘I am deeply sorry to learn of your loss,’ said Isabella.

  ‘My husband would never have let us live here,’ wailed Mrs Judd. ‘The place is too big.’

  ‘He could never have afforded to live here,’ remarked her son with heartless satisfaction. He was standing by the fireplace and ran his hand lovingly over the marble mantel in the way one caresses a favourite pet.

  Isabella stole a covert look around the room again. Drawing rooms, because of the custom – still regarded on the Contintent as a form of English barbarity – of separating the men and the women at the end of a meal, had come to be regarded as the preserve of the ladies, and this was usually reflected in the lighter furniture, knick-knacks, portfolios of water-colours, work-tables, and the latest ladies’ magazines. But the console table at Mannerling now only held sporting magazines, a gamebag lay discarded just inside the door, and a fishing-rod was propped against the window shutters.

  ‘I am feeling poorly,’ complained Mrs Judd. ‘Be so good as to excuse me, Miss Isabella.’

  And so convention demanded that Isabella took her leave. Mr Judd walked her downstairs and out to the carriage. They stood for a moment under an umbrella held over them by a foo
tman.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Mr Judd, ‘I’ll take you for a drive next week. Tuesday again, hey?’

  Isabella dimpled and curtsied. ‘I consider myself honoured, sir.’

  ‘Call for you at two.’

  And so, as Isabella was driven off, she fought down that constantly monitoring voice which was telling her that he ought to have asked her parents’ permission first. The farther she was driven from Mannerling, the more awful Mr Judd and his mother seemed. But surely no sacrifice was too great to regain Mannerling.

  When she arrived home, she was hustled into a little parlour on the ground floor by her sisters, anxious to hear her news.

  They gave exclamations of dismay when she told them about the trees and the temple.

  But Jessica said stoutly, ‘All that can be restored when you are married, Isabella.’

  ‘I wish I were a gambler,’ sighed Isabella. ‘Then I would play him at cards for Mannerling.’

  Lizzie looked at Isabella, her green eyes shining. ‘You cannot, but Lord Fitzpatrick could . . . if you asked him.’

  Isabella shook her head. ‘My lord thinks that the best thing that could happen to the Beverleys is that Mr Judd should set fire to the place and burn it down!’

  ‘What a monster!’ cried Abigail. ‘But does Mr Judd appear at all warm towards you, Isabella?’

  ‘Ye-es, yes, he does. He is to take me driving next week.’ The door opened and Sir William and Lady Beverley entered.

  ‘How went it?’ asked Sir William eagerly.

  ‘I met Mrs Judd,’ said Isabella.

  ‘Angels preserve me!’ Lady Beverley put a fluttering hand to her bosom. ‘He is married!’

  ‘No, Mama, his mother.’

  ‘Ah, the relief! And how did you find the lady? Is she elegant? How was she gowned?’

  ‘Mrs Judd is a widow,’ said Isabella cautiously, ‘and still grieves for the loss of her husband.’

  ‘When did he die?’

  ‘A year ago, I gather. He blew his brains out.’

  ‘Merciful heavens. Why?’

  ‘I do not know,’ retorted Isabella sharply. ‘Perhaps gambling runs in the family. Mr Judd is to take me driving next Tuesday.’

  Sir William rubbed his hands. ‘It’s as good as in the bag.’

  ‘What is, Papa?’

  ‘Your marriage to him, of course.’

  ‘Tell Papa about the temple,’ urged Lizzie.

  ‘Mr Judd intends to knock down the temple and replace it with a ruin. He is going to put footman John in it to act the part of a hermit.’

  Sir William walked to the window and stared out at the rain. Raindrops gathered on the window and ran down it like tears. ‘Well, well,’ he said in a stifled voice, ‘such things can be put back again.’

  ‘How?’ asked Lizzie, her pointed chin on her hands. ‘After the wedding, does Isabella say, “I want that temple back”? And he says, “Yes, dear”?’

  ‘Gentlemen can be coaxed,’ said Jessica loftily. ‘If he loves Isabella, he will do anything for her.’

  Love, thought Isabella, what is love? She did not read romances. ‘Do you not think, Mama,’ she ventured, ‘that it is extremely odd in Mr Judd to make arrangements to take me for a drive without asking the permission of my parents first?’

  ‘It shows that Mr Judd feels on easy terms with us,’ protested Lady Beverley.

  ‘He is to give a ball,’ said Isabella.

  ‘He will never give one in such style as we did,’ said Sir William over his shoulder.

  Isabella half-closed her eyes, remembering in dismay how much had been squandered on that last ball, from the new bed hangings to the gold swords for the footmen.

  Barry came in with a basket of logs and kindling.

  ‘Begging your pardon,’ he said, ‘but the day has turned damp and cold. I thought you might like a fire.’

  Lady Beverley nodded. Barry set the fire and lit it and soon there was a cheerful crackling of burning wood.

  He retreated with the empty log basket over his arm.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Isabella hurriedly. She followed Barry through to the kitchen. ‘Where is Joshua?’ she asked.

  ‘Gone to the market in Hedgefield this morning and not back yet,’ said Barry. ‘But he will be. He waits until the end and then buys produce cheaply.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Isabella sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I suppose he has a very small amount to spend.’

  ‘Yes, miss, but the gamekeeper at Perival sent over some rabbits and a fine hare and a brace of rooks. Rook pie for dinner tonight.’

  ‘How very kind,’ said Isabella.

  ‘I was about to have a jug of ale, Miss Isabella. Would you care for some?’

  Isabella nodded. She had never drunk ale. She wondered what she was doing to be so familiar with this servant, but Barry seemed a solid, stable figure in an uncertain world.

  He drew a small tankard of ale for her and a larger one for himself.

  Isabella waved a hand. ‘You may sit down.’

  Barry sat down opposite her. He had heard many tales of the incredible pride and haughtiness of the Beverleys, and yet here was the eldest daughter joining him for a tankard of ale.

  ‘May I be so bold as to ask how your visit to Mannerling went, miss?’ he asked.

  ‘It was . . . disturbing.’ Isabella sighed. It was warm and comfortable in the kitchen. The rain pattered steadily against the windows and dropped down the chimney and hissed on the fire. ‘Mr Judd wants to take down a Greek temple and replace it with a ruin. You know, Barry, not a real ruin but one of those fashionable ruins.’

  ‘I have never heard of such a thing, miss!’

  ‘They were all the crack, but the fashion has lately been exploded except in the minds of such as Mr Judd. A gentleman would invite his guests to “come and see the ruin of my ruin.” If he already had a ruined something or other, he would embellish it with moss, creepers, and a hermit.’

  ‘The ways of the Quality do be strange, miss.’

  ‘Mrs Judd is in residence.’

  ‘That would be the widow, miss.’

  ‘You appear better informed than I was, Barry.’

  ‘Servants’ gossip, miss.’

  ‘And the late Mr Judd shot himself?’

  ‘Yes, miss, lost a fortune at cards.’

  ‘Oh, dear, perhaps it is as well that the son appears to be a luckier gambler.’

  ‘There was a scandal about him. I do hear, miss, that he was once accused of using marked cards.’

  ‘Oh, I am sure that is wrong, Barry. Envious people do say the most dreadful things.’

  ‘Yes, miss. As you say, miss.’ Barry buried his nose in his tankard.

  ‘On the other hand, Mr Judd is to take me driving next Tuesday, so I shall be better able to judge his character for myself,’ said Isabella. ‘I mean, it is always better to make up one’s own mind, do you not think so?’

  ‘Yes, miss. Mr Ducket did say as how several of your old servants had called on him, including that lady’s-maid of yours, miss, looking for employ.’

  Isabella’s face hardened. She remembered the gloating look on Maria’s face. And yet, and yet, when had any of the Beverleys treated their servants in any way to command loyalty? Sir William did not expect the servants, such as they were at Brookfield House, to turn their faces to the wall when he passed, but that might be because he now regarded Brookfield House as an unwelcome interruption in his life and expected to return to Mannerling. How they were all relying on her! Isabella gave herself a mental shake. Mr Judd had bad taste, but he seemed amiable and inoffensive enough. She would be able to manage him. Mannerling was so big, she naively thought, that after they were married she need not see very much of him. She would have her own suite of apartments in the west wing.

  ‘We cannot afford any more servants,’ she said aloud. ‘What will they all do?’

  ‘I s’pose they will go to London,’ said Barry. ‘They have references, do they not?’

/>   ‘I believe Mr Ducket saw to all that,’ said Isabella. ‘Here comes Joshua now. I will leave you.’

  She returned to the parlour. Lady Beverley said, ‘A footman is arrived from Perival with a request from Mrs Kennedy that you join them for dinner, Isabella. I do not think you should go. If you are to encourage the attentions of Mr Judd, familiarity with such persons is not to be encouraged.’

  ‘Mrs Kennedy and Lord Fitzpatrick are kindness itself,’ said Isabella hotly. ‘I wish to go, Mama.’

  ‘I forbid it!’

  ‘Then I confess the idea of driving out with Mr Judd next Tuesday wearies me.’

  ‘But you must!’

  ‘Then I have no intention of turning down an invitation to Perival.’

  ‘Oh, go, go,’ said Lady Beverley pettishly. ‘You will no doubt have a better dinner than we will enjoy here.’

  ‘There is rook pie for dinner.’

  ‘Rook pie!’ exclaimed Lady Beverley in accents of loathing. ‘Since when did the Beverleys eat rook pie?’

  ‘Since they lost all their money,’ said Isabella and left the room before her mother could reply.

  Isabella was disappointed to learn that the viscount had gone out earlier and had not returned but was expected in time for dinner in half an hour’s time. ‘So that means,’ said Mrs Kennedy, who appeared to have recovered from her cold, ‘that we can fit on your gown. I have it here. Take off your dress, Miss Isabella.’

  ‘Here? What if one of your servants should come in?’

  ‘They won’t unless I call ’em.’

  Isabella slipped off her silk gown and stood in a thin shift and gartered stockings.

  ‘No corset, I see,’ said Mrs Kennedy, taking Isabella’s altered gown out of a swathing of tissue-paper. ‘Now just let me help you into this and tie the tapes, so. There! Go to the looking-glass. Stand on that chair and you will get a full-length view.’

  Isabella climbed up on a hard-backed chair and studied her reflection in the glass over the fireplace. The gown had lost its lace overdress and now boasted a low square neckline. Lace now ornamented three deep flounces at the hem. But the altered line was elegant and simple.