by M C Beaton
At last, just before the supper dance, Mr Judd jumped up on the small dais in front of the band and held up his hands.
‘I have an important announcement to make,’ he said.
Everyone was suddenly very still and quiet, waiting. Over, round and about them it was as if the very house itself were waiting.
‘I have great pleasure in announcing my engagement.’
There was a buzz of speculation. Isabella was aware of many eyes on her. Mr Judd held up his hands again.
Mr Judd lowered his hands as he waited for the silence to become absolute. Across the ballroom his eyes met those of Isabella and he smiled, a slow, foxy smile.
Then he said loudly and clearly, ‘My intended is none other than Miss Mary Stoppard, daughter of our good vicar.’
Although Mr Judd held out a hand to Mary, who was being led forward by her proud father, his eyes never left Isabella’s face. The stunned silence seemed to go on and on.
The viscount was wondering whether to leap up on the dais and punch Mr Judd on the nose. Isabella deserved this, all of it, but how his heart ached for her!
And then Isabella gave a radiant smile and began to clap. All around her people began to clap as well. And then Isabella moved forward to the dais. She gave Mary a hug and said, ‘I am very happy for you, Mary. You and Mr Judd deserve each other.’
Mr Judd had a dark, baffled look on his face. The other Beverley sisters were crowding round, offering Mary their felicitations, their beautiful faces as radiant and happy as Isabella. The immense pride of the Beverleys had come to their rescue.
But this is not the end of it, thought Mr Judd, there’s more to come, and their pride won’t be able to stand another blow.
Footmen were circling the room with glasses of iced champagne. What a bunch of actresses, marvelled the viscount. And even Sir William and Lady Beverley were graciously smiling all about them, as if this were something they had already known about.
Again Mr Judd held up his hands for silence. ‘I have another surprise. An entertainment. Everyone to the back terrace, please.’
Isabella muttered to her sisters as they made their way downstairs, ‘Whatever happens, do not look distressed. Mr Judd is out to humiliate us.’
The guests crowded onto the back terrace, some of them spilling over into the garden, laughing and chatting, still carrying glasses of champagne.
Mr Judd, with Mary on his arm, waited until they were all assembled. It was a clear night, a full moon riding serenely overhead. The marble temple’s white pillars gleamed across the vista of lawns and trees.
‘What are we to watch?’ cried someone. ‘Fireworks?’
‘In a way,’ said Mr Judd, giving his foxy grin. ‘Watch this!’
He took a large white handkerchief out of his pocket and waved it in the air.
A flicker of white over by the temple signalled a reply. In the bright moonlight, they could then see the little figure of a man running away from the temple.
And then there was a tremendous explosion. The temple flew apart, the roof blew right off and landed several yards away, the pillars shattered, and then black smoke obscured everything.
‘What do you think?’ chortled Mr Judd. ‘Hated that thing.’
And then Dowager Lady Tarrant, whose house and lands lay on the far side of Hedgefield, said loudly and clearly, ‘What disgusting desecration. I am going home. Someone get my carriage.’
Voices also calling for their carriages were raised all around. People were clustering around the Beverley family. Guests were murmuring to Sir William, ‘The man is common, as common as dirt. We must exchange cards. We have not seen you this age.’ One moment the terrace was full of people and then it seemed to the wrathful Mr Judd that they had all gone, gone even before supper, gone off into the night. Not one word of thanks, either, only cold, shocked silence.
The Beverleys walked to their shabby rented carriage. Word of Mr Judd’s engagement and the ruin of the temple had spread like wildfire through the servants. Betty wrapped shawls about ‘her ladies’ ’ shoulders, Barry assisted them into the carriage as solemn and stately as the best of footmen.
Then they drove off, away from Mannerling. The air was full of the smell of gunpowder.
Jessica was the first to find her voice. ‘That monster! But you misled us, Isabella. Mary Stoppard, mistress of Mannerling! It’s beyond anything.’
‘I see it now,’ said Isabella in a tired voice. ‘He led me to believe he would marry me. The disgusting man even kissed me. And all the time he was planning to humiliate me . . . us. Why? What did we ever do to incur such venom?
Betty, the maid, crushed in a corner of the large, old, creaking carriage, said in a small voice, ‘If I may make a suggestion, miss?’
‘Go ahead,’ said Isabella.
‘The night of the storm,’ said Betty, ‘the night Lord Fitzpatrick found you left by Mr Judd and brought you home, I thought I heard a noise outside. I looked out and there was Mr Judd, listening at the parlour window.’
Isabella thought hard. ‘Dear heavens, we were all discussing how I had to marry him to regain Mannerling. He must have heard. Betty, you silly widgeon, why did you not tell me?’
‘It didn’t seem my place, miss, and you did say you wasn’t interested in servants’ gossip. Besides, I did not know what you was saying in the parlour.’
‘Gone,’ said Sir William suddenly, ‘all gone. But there is one last chance.’
The sisters looked at him wearily.
‘What, Papa?’ asked Isabella.
‘I will tell you when we are home. Let us all have some tea in the drawing room. See to it, Betty.’
‘Betty has done enough this evening,’ declared Isabella quietly. ‘One of the other maids can fetch it, or, if they are abed, then, wonder of wonders, one of the famous Beverleys might even know how to prepare a pot of tea with their very own useless hands.’
‘Don’t be vulgar,’ admonished Jessica testily.
She was furious with Isabella. Somehow it was all Isabella’s fault. She was not ruthless enough, nor brave enough. If Judd had heard them talking about him in the parlour, then he would have said something. No man would go to such lengths to humiliate them. He had said he did not like the temple. Isabella had probably been too vain to ever think he might prefer anyone else.
When they arrived home, Barry insisted on making the tea himself. He wanted an excuse to be in that drawing room when Sir William discussed this new plan, for Betty had whispered to him what Sir William had said in the carriage.
So when he carried the tea-things into the drawing room, he was just in time to hear Jessica ask, ‘You said there was still hope, Papa. What do you mean? Judd is to marry the horrible Mary and I do not see how we can stop that.’
‘Judd is a gambler and is bound to be out of funds soon,’ said Sir William, a hectic light in his eyes, ‘and mark my words, Mannerling will soon be up for sale.’
Isabella surveyed her father, suddenly exhausted, wondering whether he had gone mad.
‘That will not help us,’ said Isabella. ‘How could we ever afford to buy it back?’
Sir William rubbed his hands together nervously. ‘Lord Fitzpatrick appeared much taken with you, Isabella.’
Isabella flushed. ‘What has that to do with anything?’
‘I learned tonight that despite his being Irish, he is immensely wealthy. Were he to marry you, you could suggest he sells that pawky house and estate, what’s-its-name, Perival, and buy Mannerling instead.’
Isabella took a deep breath. Barry hovered over the tea-things, frightened to make a noise and draw attention to himself.
‘I did not tell you, Papa, but Lord Fitzpatrick proposed marriage to me last week and I turned him down and blurted out that Mr Judd was to announce his engagement to me at the ball. He was naturally furious with me and his aunt is disgusted with all of us. So thanks to the madness of the Beverley pride, we have lost two good friends. I do not think I want tea. Pray excuse
me.’
She walked from the room, leaving a stunned silence behind her. Then Sir William saw Barry and found his voice. ‘Hey, you, fellow, leave that and get out of here.’
Barry left. The front door was standing open. He looked out. Isabella was walking across the lawn, her muslin gown floating about her slim body.
He ran after her. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but will you be long? I want to know when to lock up for the night.’
She turned to face him. ‘I need some time by myself,’ she said quietly. ‘I will lock up when I return.’
He turned to go. ‘Stay,’ said Isabella suddenly. ‘If I do not talk to someone sensible, then I will go mad.’
There was a fallen log at the end of the lawn. She made to sit on it, but Barry said, ‘You will ruin your gown.’ He took off his jacket and spread it on the log.
Isabella sat down. ‘Join me,’ she said, and Barry sat down next to her.
The air was warm and the night was quiet and still.
At last Isabella said, ‘It seems I am a failure.’
‘Now to my reckoning, you be a success,’ said Barry. ‘Miss, I was praying and praying that you would not marry Mr Judd. Look at the manner of man you have observed this night!’
‘I know, I know,’ said Isabella wretchedly. ‘Now what am I to do?’
His voice sounded out, flat and even in the quiet night. ‘Forget Mannerling.’
‘I cannot,’ whispered Isabella.
‘May I make a suggestion, miss, if I may be so bold? I fear that the reason the Beverley family will not let go of Mannerling is because they might have to accept and live with their present circumstances.’
Isabella turned and looked at him haughtily. She was sharply aware that she, Isabella Beverley, was conversing on intimate terms with a mere servant, and only an odd man at that. But the angry retort which rose to her lips suddenly died away. The full import of what he had just said sank in and she knew it to be true.
Instead she said, ‘Perhaps now I can begin to accept our new circumstances. But the others cannot . . . will not. They looked to me to save them.’
‘Then you must look now to yourself, miss. ’Tis a pity about Lord Fitzpatrick. There’s a real gentleman.’
But Isabella was too ashamed to think about Lord Fitzpatrick or his aunt. She had used both of them ruthlessly. She had not even learned how to flirt, but she had been beginning to learn friendship but not the value of it.
She rose. ‘I must go in or they will come looking for me. I can only hope Jessica is asleep because I could not bear any more recriminations tonight.’
But Jessica was awake and waiting in the bedroom, her eyes hot and angry. ‘Now what are we to do?’ she burst out. ‘It is too bad of you, Isabella. You could have managed Judd.’
‘I have no wish to manage, as you put it, such a creature as Mr Judd,’ said Isabella. ‘Mary and he are well suited.’
‘But such a lowly creature as Mary to be mistress of Mannerling and all its treasures!’
‘After tonight’s exhibition,’ said Isabella, stretching her hands behind her back and beginning to unfasten the tapes of her ballgown, ‘I doubt if there will soon be many treasures left. We must give up any idea of Mannerling, Jessica, and accept our circumstances.’
‘Give up Mannerling!’ Jessica strode up and down the small bedroom, clenching and unclenching her hands. ‘And to think I used to look up to you, Isabella. You have changed. You even talk familiarly to the servants. You have forgot who you are.’
‘My sole wish,’ said Isabella, taking off her gown and throwing it over a chair, ‘is to forget the type of person I was. I am weary and I cannot bear you giving me a jaw-me-dead, Jessica. If you think Judd is such a prize, get him yourself!’
‘And how easy will that be now he is engaged to Mary? It should have been left to me. I would not have failed.’
Isabella went over to the toilet-table and filled a basin with water. ‘What do you know of men, Jessica? You are the way I was until recently. You only think of them as commodities, as bearers of land and houses and money.’
‘Any minute now you are going to talk about true love,’ jeered Jessica.
‘If you are going to go on and on, I am going to change places with Lizzie and you can complain to her,’ threatened Isabella.
‘As if that would do any good.’ Jessica’s face was hard with contempt. ‘We all think you have failed us.’
Are they all mad? wondered Isabella when Jessica had finally fallen asleep. This so-called pride of the Beverleys is a sham. How can they feel other than grateful that I had such a lucky escape?
She fell into an uneasy sleep and dreamt she was running towards the temple, crying out, ‘No! No!’ and then seeing the whole edifice disintegrate in front of her eyes.
It was soon to be borne in on the hitherto neglected Beverleys that Mr Judd’s behaviour at his ball had restored them to society. Lady Tarrant was the first to call, and after her, in the succeeding days, came carriage after carriage and invitation after invitation to balls and routs and parties. But neither Mrs Kennedy nor the viscount called.
A month later, the Beverleys once more set out for a ball, at Lady Tarrant’s this time. They were all mentally geared up to facing the sight of Mr Judd and Mary Stoppard. But when they arrived, there was no sign of either. Lady Beverley said in what she hoped was a casual manner, ‘I suppose we shall be meeting the terrible Mr Judd.’
‘Good gracious, no,’ said Lady Tarrant roundly. ‘No one is going to ask them anywhere ever again. Such disgraceful behaviour!’ Lady Tarrant had already voiced her horror at Mr Judd’s behaviour, but the Beverleys, even Isabella, had naively thought that the owner of such a pearl as Mannerling must be forgiven everything. Yet it became apparent to her, as the ball progressed, that Mr Judd was being generally snubbed and not invited anywhere, and she took comfort from the thought that the scheming and devious Mary as well as Mr Judd was being socially ostracized.
And then she forget about them for the viscount entered the ballroom, with Mrs Kennedy on his arm. He looked as handsome and carefree as ever. Had he avoided looking at her, Isabella might have comforted herself with the thought that he still felt something for her, but he stopped beside her, bowed and smiled very pleasantly, and then moved on. That she should wish he still retained some feeling for her came as a surprise and, usually an excellent dancer, she stumbled several times in the steps of the cotillion and in the following waltz actually trod on her partner’s toes.
She began to hope that the viscount might relent, that he might take her up for the supper dance, but he bowed before a pretty little debutante, a Miss Jardey, and then led her into supper. Isabella herself was escorted by a young army captain called Charles Farmer. He was fresh-faced and had a jolly laugh and talked about how much he was looking forward to the start of the hunting season while Isabella was all too aware that the viscount was sitting along from her at the table, a few places away. She could hear his laugh. Miss Jardey appeared to be keeping him well amused. He would probably marry someone like Miss Jardey who would appreciate him, who would have Mrs Kennedy as a friend, and Miss Jardey would ride Satan. All that she had nearly had and now had lost hit her like a blow. She tried to think of Mannerling, but all she could do was marvel at her obsession for her old home, an obsession which had now left her.
‘Do you hunt?’ she realized the captain was asking her.
‘No, I do not,’ said Isabella. ‘And now, as we have no horses, I could not, even if I wanted to.’
‘As to that,’ he said awkwardly, ‘I would be honoured . . . consider it a privilege . . . to supply you with a mount.’
Isabella smiled at him. ‘That is very kind of you, sir, but I have no interest in hunting. Dear me, how rude I sound! I am interested in your stories of hunting, of course I am. I simply meant I have no interest in taking part in the sport.’
The captain lowered his voice. ‘It’s a shame what happened to your family. No horses! I tell you wha
t, I’ll bring a carriage over, provided your parents give you permission, and take you and your sisters out for a drive. There’s an interesting ruin . . . Dear me, my wicked tongue. The last thing you probably want to see is a ruin.’
‘So long as it isn’t on the grounds of Mannerling, I should be delighted,’ said Isabella.
‘I say, I shall be the envy of all having such a bevy of beauties in my carriage,’ said the captain. ‘Mama has a barouche I could borrow which would be just the thing.’
‘Where is this ruin, and what is it a ruin of?’ asked Isabella.
‘It’s a Norman tower a few miles from Hedgefield. It’s all that’s left of a castle. It is covered in ivy. Most romantic. And it commands a splendid view.’
‘If you drive us,’ suggested Isabella, ‘we could bring a picnic.’
‘Capital.’ His face fell. He wondered suddenly just how impoverished the Beverleys were and whether it would be rude to suggest he bring a picnic hamper himself. Almost as if she had read his thoughts, she said gently, ‘We are blessed with an excellent cook.’
His face cleared. ‘Oh, in that case . . . Would tomorrow be too soon?’
‘Perhaps the day after,’ suggested Isabella. ‘I cannot see my parents making any objection.’ Surely they would not start questioning the captain’s lineage and fortune.
‘I haven’t been to Mr Stoppard’s church since the Mannerling ball,’ said Isabella. ‘Do you go yourself?’
‘Yes, I and my family still go. But you do not?’
‘We go to the church in Hedgefield.’
‘Not walking, surely!’
‘Not as bad as that. Papa hires a carriage, or sometimes the squire, Sir Jeffrey Blane, comes to collect us all.’
