by M C Beaton
After dinner, in the drawing room, Mr Judd asked her to play something on the pianoforte. Isabella obediently sat down to play, her fingers rippling over the keys, her back to the room, dreaming that when she finished playing and turned round, all would be as it had once been. But when she finally finished playing and turned around, it was to find that both Mr Judd and his mother were sprawled in their chairs, fast asleep.
She longed to escape. All she had to do was to summon Betty and the carriage, slip out quietly and go home. But, in a way, to do that would be to give up the battle, to admit to herself that she did not want to marry Mr Judd, and that would mean giving up any hope of Mannerling, Mannerling which was changing daily as Mr Judd brought in more ugly furniture and paintings and planned to desecrate the grounds.
She turned back to the keys and began to play a noisy piece with many crashing chords, so that when she finally finished and turned back, both were awake.
‘Jolly good,’ said Mr Judd, stifling a yawn.
‘I prefer pretty ballads myself,’ said Mrs Judd. ‘Miss Stoppard, now, does play some pretty tunes.’
‘You are tired and it is late,’ said Isabella. ‘I thank you for a most pleasant evening.’
When a footman announced the carriage had been brought round, Isabella was accompanied down the stairs and outside by Mr Judd. He said to Betty, ‘Get in the carriage. Your mistress will follow in a few moments.’
He turned and smiled down at Isabella with his foxy smile. ‘I’m tired o’ the single life. Got an important announcement to make at the ball, so look your finest.’
Isabella blushed modestly and looked down. He tilted her face up and gave her a quick hard kiss on the lips. ‘So no more jauntering about the countryside with Fitzpatrick, hey?’
‘As you wish,’ said Isabella, the picture of meek womanhood.
‘Good girl. Be calling soon.’
He handed Isabella into the carriage. She smiled at him sweetly. The coachman cracked his whip and the carriage rolled off.
Now all Isabella felt was sweet triumph. She had done it, by God! She was no longer a failure. Then she remembered promising to ride out with the viscount in two days’ time. Well, Barry would need to go over to Perival and say she was indisposed.
When she told her family her news, she basked in their admiration. Lady Beverley began to plan the wedding. Jessica was in alt. Isabella was the cleverest of sisters, and they had never doubted for a moment that she could rescue them. Only Lizzie suddenly said in a lull in all the congratulations, ‘Will you be happy, Isabella?’
Isabella fought down a sudden qualm and said brightly, ‘Of course. I will be back at Mannerling. I will be home again.’
Although Isabella made excuses not to go riding with the viscount again, she found it hard to keep to her room, supposedly ill, when Mrs Kennedy came calling. For her sisters were enjoying their cooking and sewing lessons, and so had no reason to give them up. Isabella could hardly be said to be encouraging the attentions of the viscount, and so Mrs Kennedy would have no reason to feel angry when Isabella’s engagement to Mr Judd was announced at the Mannerling ball.
Also, Isabella found the days long, and time lay heavy on her hands. Mr Judd took her driving several times and sent her presents of flowers and hothouse fruit, but he hardly seemed like the ardent lover. On their last drive out he had said he would now be busy right up until the ball, but when her hopes flagged a little, he gave her his sly sideways smile and said the announcement would be worth waiting for.
One day, a week before the Mannerling ball, she learned that Mrs Kennedy was not to call that day and so she wandered out into the garden to find Barry. He was working on building a hen-run. She stood for a few moments watching him and then joined him.
Suddenly eager to confide in someone other than the members of her family, she said, ‘Mr Judd is to announce his engagement to me at the Mannerling ball next week, Barry.’
‘There now,’ he said slowly. ‘There be a thing I did not rightly expect.’
‘And why not?’
‘To be sure, miss, I had been thinking that perhaps you and that Lord Fitzpatrick might make a go of it.’
‘No, no, Barry. You must be happy for me. You see, I will soon be back in my old home.’
He looked distressed. ‘But it can hardly be the same, miss, what with you becoming Mrs Judd and all.’
‘How will that make any difference?’
He looked at her innocent eyes and shook his head. ‘Not my place to say, miss.’
He watched her sadly as she walked away. Isabella could feel her courage ebbing each step she took away from him. But she was doing the right thing. It was her duty to reclaim Mannerling.
But she could not bear to return to the house and face the others. She walked away over the fields, feeling the strengthening breeze tugging at her muslin skirts. She took off her straw bonnet and let it dangle by the satin ribbons from her hand. She had gone quite a bit away from the house and was enjoying the fresh air and exercise, feeling her courage coming back, when she heard the thud of horses’ hoofs across the turf and, looking up, saw, with a sinking heart, the viscount riding towards her. He reined in and dismounted and looked at her thoughtfully.
‘You do not look at all unwell to me,’ he said abruptly.
‘I am recovered,’ said Isabella, turning her face away and looking out across the fields.
He eyed her impatiently. He had missed her more than he wanted to admit to himself. She looked even more beautiful to him with her hair tousled by the wind and the skirts of her thin gown blowing about her than when she was coiffed and groomed.
And then, all at once, he knew he wanted her more than anything in the world.
‘Miss Isabella,’ he said in a rush. ‘Will you marry me?’
She turned to him, shocked and alarmed.
‘I cannot!’
‘May I know why?’
She blurted out, ‘I am to marry Mr Judd. He is to make an announcement at the ball next week.’
His face darkened with fury and she backed away a step.
‘Do not look at me like that, my lord. You know what my old home means to me.’
‘And what does this Judd mean to you? Good God, have you thought you will need to entertain him in your bed?’
Eyes of puzzled innocence stared into his own.
‘You do not know what I am talking about,’ he jeered. ‘But you soon will, and God help you.’
Her lips quivered and tears filled her eyes.
He gave a stifled exclamation and pulled her roughly into his arms and kissed her, at first angrily, and then very gently. Then he mounted his horse and rode off without looking back.
She stood in the field, her hand to her mouth, and watched him go.
Then she suddenly sat down and began to cry as she had not cried since she had been a child.
After some time, she slowly recovered. Across the fields came the old familiar pull of Mannerling, calling her home.
She regretted losing the viscount’s friendship. He should not have kissed her, and yet she could still feel that second kiss, that gentle one, warm against her lips.
Isabella began to walk home, trying to think only of Mannerling, trying to think only of what it would be like to be home again until Mr Judd, that instrument of bringing it all about, had sunk back to a shadowy and unthreatening figure in her mind.
Mrs Kennedy looked up with a sigh of relief as her nephew strode into the dining room that evening. She rang a little bell beside her plate as a signal that the meal could now be served. But her relief soon changed to anxiety. She had never before seen him look so drawn or grim.
‘Faith, what’s amiss?’ she cried.
He sat down heavily and ran his fingers through his thick hair. ‘What a day,’ he muttered.
‘So what happened?’
His eyes signalled that the servants were entering carrying the dinner. Mrs Kennedy had to content herself by talking in generalities, in ta
lking about the Beverleys and what a pity it was that poor Miss Isabella was unwell, and about what progress the others were making with their sewing, all the time fretting and fretting about the dark look in her nephew’s eyes.
At last, when the covers had been cleared and the decanters brought in and bowls of fruit and nuts shone on the polished surface of the mahogany table, Mrs Kennedy nodded to the servants to leave and turned anxiously to the viscount. ‘So now tell me – what has happened?’
‘I was fool enough to propose marriage to Miss Isabella Beverley.’
Mrs Kennedy raised her little chubby hands in a gesture of amazement. ‘Never say she turned you down.’
‘She not only turned me down but told me that she is to marry Judd.’
‘Why? He’s a repulsive creature.’
‘Because of Mannerling. Because anyone Irish is still not good enough for the Beverleys. Because she is willing to sacrifice herself for a pile of bricks and mortar. The announcement is to be made at the ball.’
Mrs Kennedy felt her temper rising. She had, on a couple of occasions, overheard Jessica mimicking her accent but had good-naturedly said nothing about it, considering that it would take some time for the proud Beverleys to appreciate their changed circumstances.
‘So Isabella has not been ill?’
The viscount shook his head.
‘We made a mistake being friendly with such people. By all that’s holy,’ said Mrs Kennedy wrathfully, ‘you would wonder what more is needed to bring that stiff-necked family to its senses. They may rot in hell. I shan’t go there anymore. It’s Isabella I’m disappointed in. Lying and pretending she was ill. I thought she had more character than the rest. I’m not angry at her turning you down, it’s the reason that makes me fair boil. I hope that spalpeen, Judd, gets drunk one night, knocks over his bed candle and sets the whole place up, wit’ himself inside.’ Her accent became broader in her anger. ‘A fellow straight out o’ the bogs o’ Kilkenny has more dignity than that lot! And you can tear up our invitations to the ball.’
The viscount poured them each a glass of port. ‘We shall go. I shall look at the joy and gratification on the faces of those Beverleys and my heart will be eased by thinking that I have had a lucky escape. But, oh, she is so very beautiful.’
‘Humph! Beauty don’t last. I remember Colonel Petrey’s lady. Like a picture she was wit’ these great blue eyes and a little neat figure and ankles to die for. When her looks began to go, she became petulant, and the more her looks faded, the more she flirted outrageously wit’ every man in the regiment, so she did, all trying to bolster her vanity. Ended up a semi-invalid, dosing herself with rubbish in a darkened room, and all because she could no longer face the world. Go for character, and that don’t mean any of those Beverley girls.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘And I thought they liked me.’
‘I am sure they do,’ he said quietly, ‘and they will miss you and missing you will do them no harm at all. Drink your port, Aunt Mary.’
And although the Beverley sisters spent their time looking forward to the ball and anticipating Isabella’s triumph, they did miss Mrs Kennedy. Only Isabella knew the reason for her absence, the reason for the curt letter that lady had sent saying she would be too much occupied in the following days and weeks to call on them and too busy to receive them. She had not told her family of the viscount’s proposal. Lizzie, who had been making new curtains for the parlour under Mrs Kennedy’s tuition, felt lost and bewildered. She had begun to look forward to each visit of the Irishwoman. She no longer had a governess and time lay heavy on her hands. Sharper than the rest, she suspected that somehow Isabella had ruined the friendship. Mrs Kennedy must be mad with Isabella, for Isabella had pretended to be ill and Lizzie was sure Mrs Kennedy had not been deceived by the excuses, not knowing that the good-hearted lady had believed every word of them until her nephew had opened her eyes.
Jessica, the proudest of them all, struggled with an uneasy conscience. She had been doing an imitation of Mrs Kennedy one day when she had suddenly turned and had seen that lady standing in the doorway. Jessica had had the grace to blush but Mrs Kennedy had gone on in her usual friendly way and so Jessica had comforted herself with the thought that she might not have heard anything. She had the sense to admit reluctantly to herself that she had taken Mrs Kennedy’s great kindness for granted and she felt shabby. But like the rest, she clung to the thought of returning to Mannerling. They would probably not be able to live there once Isabella was married, but they could go over on visits every day if they liked.
Isabella had many ball gowns which had been made for her London Season and had not yet been seen in the country. She now did not regret the loss of her jewels. She had always felt uneasily, when they were all decked out like barbaric princesses, that it was a trifle vulgar.
Barry had hired a carriage for the evening and would wear a suit of dark clothes and act as footman. Betty would act as lady’s-maid. Nothing could go wrong now. All they had to do was wait for the great day.
SIX
Gunpowder, Treason and Plot.
ANONYMOUS
It was the great day at last, bright, calm, and fair. There was to be a full moon.
Betty, running from one sister to the other, reflected that they had all forgotten she was merely an ordinary maid as each commandeered her attention as if she were that sister’s own private lady’s-maid. It was Isabella who finally put a stop to it and told her sisters that they were supposed to be able now to look after themselves and it was too much work for Betty. She ordered Betty to the kitchen and told her to ask Joshua to make her tea and then informed her sisters that she would arrange their hair herself. Isabella was glad of the occupation. For some reason all the elation she had felt at her ‘triumph’ was ebbing away and she heartily wished the evening were over.
The house was full of the smells of perfume, pomade, and hot hair. Isabella wielded the curling-tongs to such good effect that her sisters declared she was better than any lady’s-maid. She herself was wearing a muslin gown of dark rose, a break from the usual tradition of white muslin. Jessica was in pale green, Rachel and Abigail in lilac, Belinda in pink, and Lizzie in white. Their gowns, with the exception of Lizzie’s, had been dyed and all had been altered to more stylish lines by Mrs Kennedy, and the sisters agreed that they looked all the crack; perhaps only Lizzie, in the excitement of all the preparations, remembering who was responsible for their very modish look.
They felt quite like their old selves as the Beverleys gathered in the drawing room for a glass of champagne before setting out for Mannerling. Isabella suddenly suggested that they should invite the servants in to share a glass and to wish them well. Lady Beverley looked outraged but the suggestion appealed to Sir William’s gambling nature, and besides, he had come to believe that the ruin of the Beverleys was only a temporary hiccup in an otherwise pleasant life. Had he not that very day found a four-leafed clover in the garden by the hedge? Nothing could go wrong again.
And so the small band of servants was brought in. Barry toasted the family and wished them well, although in his heart of hearts he prayed that Isabella would never marry Mr Judd.
Some of the euphoria generated by the champagne faded a little as they climbed into the shabby rented carriage. Barry had had to scrub it out and remove every vestige of straw and it still smelled damp. They could not help thinking what sorry figures they would all cut arriving in such a rig.
But as they approached Mannerling, an almost hectic excitement invaded the party. They were going home.
Somehow they had expected the ball to be like one of their own, no expense spared. But there were no footmen in grand livery lining the staircase. Isabella thought that Mr Judd had probably sold those gold swords. Then there was no band from London but a few local men from Hedgefield to provide the music, which had a tinny, scraping sound. The walls were not hung with silk, nor were there any hothouse flowers. Mr Judd was standing at the top of the stairs beside his mother. Mrs Judd
was dressed in unrelieved black. What had happened to all their jewels? wondered Isabella. She had braced herself to see Mrs Judd wearing some of them, but nothing glittered on any of that dull, depressing black.
The ballroom was full of familiar faces, all the people they used to invite themselves. Mary Stoppard was there wearing a silk gown with many tucks and gores and flounces. Her black eyes were gleaming with pleasure and Isabella noticed to her distress that it was Mary rather than Mrs Judd who kept an eye on the servants and who stopped at the entrance to the saloon where the refreshments were to be served to have a word with the butler. All that would soon change, she comforted herself.
And then hot colour flamed in her face as the viscount entered the room. For the first time, as her eyes went from Mr Judd to the viscount, she realized just how very attractive and handsome he was, how firm his mouth . . . She remembered that kiss and blushed again. Mrs Kennedy went on as if every member of the Beverley family were invisible. Lizzie suppressed a shiver. Let the engagement be announced. Let everything be all right again, thought Isabella.
Mr Judd claimed her hand for the first dance. It was the quadrille. As they walked to join the others in a set, Mr Judd pressed her hand and said, ‘Looking forward to the announcement?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Isabella and gave him a wan smile.
He danced gawkily and badly, his legs flying out all over the place. He had remarkably thin shanks. The viscount had beautiful legs. Stop it! Stop it now! Isabella told her treacherous thoughts. She was glad when the dance was finally over and Mr Judd strolled off to claim another partner.
Then she found herself hoping that the viscount would ask her to dance, that he would forgive her, that he would say he understood why she must marry Mr Judd, but he did not come near her. She could not help noticing this time what a flutter he was causing among the young ladies.
She was sad that Mrs Kennedy had obviously decided the Beverleys were no longer worth knowing. And yet, little Lizzie, who spent most of the evening with the dowagers and chaperones, went and sat next to Mrs Kennedy. Mrs Kennedy turned her head away. Lizzie leaned forward and said something and Isabella saw Mrs Kennedy’s face thaw somewhat and soon she appeared to be talking easily to Lizzie. At least she likes one of us, thought Isabella bleakly. She danced and danced, wondering when that dreaded announcement would be made.
