Banishment (Daughters of Mannerling 1)

by M C Beaton

  The captain blushed. ‘Forgive me. I should not be discussing your . . . er . . . new circumstances in this way.’

  ‘Indeed, Captain Farmer, it is a relief to talk openly. We have never asked for help before or taken favours and now we must, and I think it might be good for us,’ said Isabella, resolutely forgetting how her parents took every kindness as their due and even ordered the squire’s coachman on Sundays as if he were their own.

  Captain Charles Farmer began to feel very much at ease and older than his twenty years, very much a man of the world. Here he was sitting beside the most dazzling beauty in the county and chatting away on intimate terms. And she was to go driving with him, along with all her gorgeous sisters. He prayed fervently that the day would be fine so all could observe his triumph.

  He began to tell her of his military adventures and Isabella became quite absorbed in his tales, although she did privately remark that he seemed to be the hero of every one and wondered where truth stopped and embellishment began.

  Then he stopped in mid-sentence and looked alarmed. ‘I must be boring you dreadfully, Miss Isabella. Ladies are not expected to listen to military matters.’

  ‘Fustian. I am quite fascinated, sir.’

  ‘Really?’ The captain looked at her with such a comical mixture of gratification and surprise that Isabella laughed.

  The viscount heard that laugh and his face darkened. How dare she enjoy herself?

  He had imagined an Isabella isolated from society and company by that damned Beverley pride and given plenty of space and time to think of what she had lost, namely his love. He had imagined her standing by the window looking out, hoping to see him ride up. She had no right to look so beautiful or act in that carefree manner. He craned his head forward. Young Farmer, by all that was holy. So the pride of the Beverleys had finally broken and haughty Miss Isabella was setting her cap at a mere pup when she could have had him!

  ‘You wook so fierce,’ said Miss Jardey with a nervous laugh. ‘Ickle me is all a-twemble.’

  The viscount’s blue eyes fastened on her. ‘Were you born with a speech defect, or are you merely following the irritating fashion of speaking like a baby?’

  ‘Weally!’ declared Miss Jardey, turning her head away and beginning to prattle to the gentleman on her other side.

  The viscount drank his wine and brooded until the end of the supper. He found himself tailing Isabella and the captain back to the ballroom. He followed at a discreet distance, saw Isabella and the captain approach the Beverley parents. He saw the captain say something, saw Lady Beverley’s initial haughty look of surprise and thought, aha, the captain wishes to take Isabella driving and is about to be refused. But Isabella said something sharply, Sir William murmured a few words and Lady Beverley nodded her head. The viscount pressed closer, in time to hear the captain say cheerfully, ‘Good, that’s settled. I shall call for you at eleven in the morning the day after tomorrow.’ He turned to Isabella. ‘You will like the Norman ruin. It is said to be haunted.’

  Isabella laughed, that charming laugh. ‘I do not believe in ghosts or Gothic tales.’

  The viscount withdrew quickly before his interest could be observed.

  So you do not believe in ghosts, he thought savagely.

  But you will!

  SEVEN

  From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties

  And things that go bump in the night,

  Good Lord, deliver us!

  ANONYMOUS

  Isabella, for the very first time, felt excluded from her sisters’ company. When she joined them in the drawing room, parlour, or garden, they always broke off what they were saying and relapsed into innocuous chit-chat. She knew she was being left out of whatever plans the Beverleys had now of reclaiming Mannerling.

  But there was the outing with Captain Farmer to look forward to. The day was not sunny but one of those sort of uniform grey days which happen so frequently in England. The air was very still and damp, but there seemed to be no sign of actual rain.

  Captain Farmer arrived driving a large barouche himself. The sisters got in and Joshua loaded a large picnic hamper into the rumble and off they went, Isabella perched on the box beside the captain. They drove through Hedgefield, Captain Farmer nodding to right and left to various friends and acquaintances, feeling very proud to be driving so many beauties.

  Isabella, who had been relaxing in his company, felt her pleasant feelings ebbing away as they passed the Green Man. There it had been where she had spent such a happy time with the viscount. Such a man would soon be married.

  As if reading her thoughts, the captain said, ‘I saw Fitzpatrick when I was out riding yesterday. Charming fellow. Now someone like that should have taken over Mannerling. My sister, Susan, is wild about him, but then so are all the other ladies. How can I compete with a title, good looks, and wealth?’ he asked, shooting Isabella a teasing look.

  You can’t, thought Isabella sadly, but she said aloud, ‘You have an engaging manner, Captain, and you are very enjoyable company.’

  He flushed with gratification and began to whistle. His father had warned him that he was not to become seriously involved with any of the Beverley sisters. It was his duty to marry some female with a sensible dowry. But he had the knack of living for the moment and therefore was content to be seen driving ‘the prettiest woman in England,’ which was what he privately thought Isabella to be.

  They arrived at the tower, which was perched on a bluff commanding a fine view of the rolling countryside. They could see the silver gleam on the river Severn below them. The tower was covered in ivy.

  ‘Is it possible to climb up it?’ asked Lizzie.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the captain. ‘I thought we would all do that after we have our picnic.’

  His groom took the basket from the carriage, spread a cloth on the grass, and began to lay everything out. The girls in their pretty gowns sank down on rugs and cushions, which the groom had then provided. As the captain entertained Isabella and poured her wine, Isabella noticed the others were clustered close to Jessica, talking in whispers. She caught the name Fitzpatrick and frowned, causing the alarmed captain to ask if he had said something to offend her.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Isabella truthfully, for she had not been listening to a word he had said. She was suddenly sure that Jessica was the one chosen to try to engage the affections of the viscount and then persuade him to buy back Mannerling.

  She gave a little shiver. How mercenary they all were! And yet Jessica, with her auburn hair, vitality, and determination might find it easy to capture the viscount. Isabella experienced a stab of jealousy but did not recognize it for what it was, only wondering why she had a sudden intense feeling of dislike for Jessica.

  Above their heads, the ‘ghost’ in the tower waited patiently. He crossed to one of the narrow arrow-slits and looked down. Jessica came into view below him and with her were the twins, Rachel and Abigail. Jessica’s clear voice rose up to his listening ears. ‘We cannot rely on Isabella any more. It is up to me.’

  Rachel said, ‘Cannot you woo Mr Judd away from Mary?’

  ‘I do not think so. That one would sue him for breach of promise. No, no, Fitzpatrick is the answer. He will buy Mannerling for us.’

  ‘But,’ protested Abigail, ‘we have disaffected poor Mrs Kennedy.’

  ‘That was Isabella’s doing, not ours. We will call on her tomorrow and I will begin my plan of campaign.’

  They moved off. The ‘ghost,’ Lord Fitzpatrick himself, moved away from the window. He was now anxious for them to inspect the tower. He was going to give them the fright of their lives.

  Down below, among the remains of the picnic, Isabella and the captain had been joined by the others. Isabella was laughing and protesting there were no such things as ghosts, but the captain said quite seriously, ‘It is said that the ghost of a Norman knight haunts this tower.’

  Isabella’s sisters began to look nervous. The day was growing darker. �
��I think it is going to rain,’ said little Lizzie uneasily. ‘Perhaps we should come another day when . . . when it is sunny.’

  The captain signalled to his groom. ‘Hitch up the horses again. We will just climb up and have a look and then we will return home. You cannot leave without a look.’

  Chattering and giggling, the girls entered the tower, Jessica in the lead and Isabella and the captain following in the rear.

  The old stone stairs were broken in places. The wind had risen and moaned about the old tower, setting the ivy rustling, casting odd flickering shadows through the arrow-slits.

  The giggles died away, a silence fell on the party.

  ‘Nearly there,’ called back Jessica. The steps led straight into a small circular room at the top.

  She stood on the threshold and then stopped short, her hand to her mouth.

  The disembodied head of a Norman knight in helmet and vizor appeared to float in the gloom. His eyes were glittering and he was surrounded by an eerie greenish light.

  Lizzie peered round Jessica and began to scream. Isabella found her sisters crushing past her in their panic to escape.

  ‘What on earth . . . ?’ began the captain. Then, ‘Wait there,’ he said to Isabella.

  He stared into the room. The ‘ghost’ stared back. And then a voice from the grave whispered, ‘Begone!’

  The captain turned as white as paper. He thrust blindly past Isabella and hurtled down the stairs. The other sisters were already huddled in the carriage, clutching each other. The captain sprang to the box, shouted to the horses, and the carriage hurtled crazily off. It was only when they had gone some miles and were nearly at Hedgefield that the terrified captain realized he had left Isabella behind.

  Isabella stood outside the top room, petrified, too scared to move. Dimly she heard the carriage driving off and then there was only the sound of the wind. She began to edge slowly backwards down the stairs. Nothing was going to make her look in that tower room.

  And then a great voice cried, ‘Wooooo!’

  She turned and ran, stumbling down the broken stairs, and once outside the tower, ran desperately in the direction of the road.

  In the tower room, the viscount tore down the curtain of green gauze which he had hung before his face, blew out the oil-lamp with its green-stained glass, took off the helmet and threw it in the corner of the room. He opened the lapels of his black coat, which he had closed to cover the whiteness of his shirt, darted lightly down the stairs and ran to a stand of trees where he had concealed his horse. He set off across the fields, which would bring him onto the road ahead of the fleeing Isabella, urged his mount over the last fence, and once on the road, slowed to an easy canter, looking for all the world like any English gentleman out for a sedate ride.

  The whole ‘haunting’ had gone better than he had expected.

  But he felt a sharp pang of conscience as he saw, down the length of the road, Isabella running towards him, hatless, her hair tumbling about her shoulders, her face white.

  He reined in beside her and swung himself down from the saddle. Isabella gave a gasp and threw herself into his arms. Soft curls tickled his nose, firm breasts were pressed against his chest, and he experienced a swimming feeling of sweetness.

  ‘There’s a ghost . . . a ghost,’ she babbled. ‘Back there . . . in the tower.’

  ‘There, now,’ he said, hugging her. ‘It must have been a trick of the light and the moving ivy.’

  She disengaged herself, blushing, and making a great effort, she said, ‘Are you sure? But the others saw something, and Captain Farmer was so frightened out of his wits that he ran off and left me.’

  ‘Dear me, your swains do seem to have a habit of abandoning you to your fate, do they not? You had best let me escort you home.’

  Isabella hesitated. ‘What is the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘I do . . . did not believe in ghosts, and you see, I did not look in the top room of the tower, which is where the others saw something. Do you believe in ghosts?’

  ‘No,’ said the viscount firmly and then immediately regretted his denial, for Isabella put up her chin and declared, ‘Please accompany me back to the tower, my lord. I would see for myself. I thought I heard a wail, but that could have been the wind.’

  He glanced up at the sky. ‘It looks like rain and you have already had a bad fright and you have lost your hat.’

  ‘It does not matter. Do you not see? I must find out. I am the eldest. If it turns out to be a mere trick of the light, then I can tell my sisters that. Poor little Lizzie will have nightmares.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly.

  He mounted his horse, and leaning down, pulled her up to sit in front of him, and with one firm arm around her waist he rode off in the direction of the tower.

  Isabella was surprised to find it was so close. She felt she had run away from it for miles and miles.

  As he helped her down, she felt a spasm of sheer terror and clutched at his arm. ‘Would you like to wait here?’ asked the viscount.

  But Isabella resolutely shook her head. ‘No, I must be brave. Lead on!’

  The viscount mounted the stairs. He wondered if he could reach the room well before her so that he could try to hide the evidence of the haunting in some dark corner, but she pressed close behind him, not wanting to be left on her own.

  The game is up, thought the viscount, but at least she will not guess I was the prankster.

  He strode confidently into the tower room. ‘Look,’ he said to Isabella, ‘here is your ghost.’ He picked up the helmet in one hand and the green gauze in the other.

  Isabella stared at them. ‘So someone hid here to frighten us to death. What a monster! Who knew of our outing?’

  ‘Young Farmer has many friends, army friends, young and heedless.’

  ‘Monstrous! But at least I can put my sisters’ fears to rest.’

  ‘Then I had better get you home quickly. Captain Farmer will have a search party looking for you by now.’

  Isabella began to laugh with relief. ‘How frightened I was. And I lost one of my best bonnets in my flight.’

  She turned and went down the stairs and he followed her. But as Isabella was about to leave the tower, she drew back with an exclamation of dismay. The rain had started to fall, steady, drumming rain.

  The viscount looked over her shoulder. ‘We cannot leave in this downpour. Come, sit over here.’ He pointed to a flat slab of masonry. ‘I will go and find some shelter under the trees for my horse.’ He took off his coat and put it about her shoulders and then ran off into the rain.

  When he returned, his fine cambric shirt was wet and raindrops glistened in his thick hair. He sat down beside Isabella, thinking she had never looked more beautiful than she did at that moment, with her hair tumbled about her shoulders.

  ‘So tell me,’ he asked, ‘what led you to believe that Mr Judd was going to announce his engagement to you at the ball?’

  Isabella hung her head. ‘He courted me. He sent me presents. He . . . kissed me.’

  ‘The devil he did! So the whole idea was to humiliate you and your family. Why?’

  ‘Betty, one of the maids, said that the night you brought me back after rescuing me from the field, she saw Mr Judd listening at the parlour window. That was when we were talking about my marrying Mr Judd to get Mannerling back.’

  He thought of the conversation he had recently overheard and gave a wry smile. ‘You and your sisters should be more careful when you are plotting. Anyone could be listening. You should also be more careful with your kisses.’

  Isabella blushed and her eyes filled with tears. She was conscious of his nearness, of the warmth emanating from his body, of his wet shirt clinging to his powerful chest.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ he said softly. He tilted her chin up and kissed her gently on the lips, and then harder, feeling a tremendous surge of passion.

  Isabella buried her small white hands in his hair and returned his kiss, deaf and blind
to everything but the feel of warm strong lips bearing down on her own.

  And then he suddenly drew back and said, ‘Listen! What’s that?’

  From outside came cries and shouts.

  He smiled at her tenderly. ‘The search party, or I am much mistaken.’

  They walked to the doorway and looked out.

  A strange sight met their eyes. Men carrying torches were coming across the field towards the tower, fanning out. In the vanguard was the squire, pushing in front of him a trembling Mr Stoppard, who was holding up a large cross.

  The viscount laughed. ‘They probably think you have been dragged off to hell.’ He waved and pointed to Isabella standing next to him.

  The look of relief on Mr Stoppard’s face was comical. The viscount shrewdly guessed his relief was not so much at the sight of Isabella safe and well but the realization that he did not have to face any phantom.

  Sir Jeffrey Blane, the squire, came hurrying up. Behind him, Isabella saw her father approaching.

  ‘My dear child,’ cried the squire, ‘what on earth has been happening? That young fool, Farmer, told us some tale of a frightful ghost and how he had run off with the others and left you.’

  ‘Someone was playing tricks,’ said Isabella. ‘You will find, up in the tower room, a Norman helmet and some green gauze and a lantern. That is your ghost.’

  Sir William had now joined them. His eyes darted from his daughter’s flushed and happy face to that of the viscount.

  ‘Do I take it, Lord Fitzpatrick,’ he said, ‘that you have been alone in this tower with my daughter?’

  ‘We had to shelter from the rain,’ said the viscount quietly. He drew a little away from Isabella, as if he knew what Sir William was about to say next.

  ‘Well, my dear Fitzpatrick,’ said Sir William, rubbing his hands gleefully, ‘it appears you will have to make an honest woman of my daughter.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ snapped the viscount. ‘When did sheltering from the rain with a gentleman count as compromising a lady’s honour?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said the squire in amazement. ‘In faith, sir, you should be thanking Fitzpatrick here for having minded your daughter instead of trying to force him to marry the girl.’