by M C Beaton
Others had clustered about and were listening eagerly.
Isabella wondered whether it was possible to die on the spot from shame.
The viscount’s face was hard with contempt.
‘But,’ said Sir William with awful eagerness, ‘you are dishevelled, Isabella, and where is your bonnet?’
Goodbye, love, thought Isabella bleakly. Aloud, she said, ‘I will tell you what happened. Captain Farmer and my sisters in their great fright ran off and left me. I was at first too frightened to move and then the prankster in the tower let out a wail and I fled. In my flight my hair came down and I lost my bonnet. When I gained the road, I found Lord Fitzpatrick riding towards me. He suggested, as it was about to rain and that you would be worried, that he should take me straight home. But I had recovered my wits and remembered that I do not believe in ghosts and so I persuaded my lord to accompany me to the tower. We found the evidence that it had all been a trick and were prepared to leave, and then the downpour started. We had only been waiting at the entrance to the tower a few moments when you arrived. And now, Papa, if you consider you have shamed me enough, may I please go home.’
The viscount looked at her dejected face. He wanted to cry out that he would marry her, but, firstly, to do so would mean that the listeners would think something had happened between them that made him think he ought to. Then, secondly, he could only remember his own passion. A horrible thought that Isabella might be party to the Beverleys’s plan to get him to marry one of them and then try to get him to buy Mannerling would not leave his mind. And so he said nothing as Isabella was led away towards the road, towards the waiting carriages.
Mr Ajax Judd wandered gloomily through the stately rooms of Mannerling. Faintly, from across the lawns, filtered the sounds of the workmen repairing the temple. With all the superstitious nature of the true gambler, Mr Judd felt the falling of his fortunes was due to the blowing up of the temple. Now he was tied to a woman he did not really rate very highly and had only used to irritate the Beverleys. But Mary had made great friends with his mother and to get rid of her appeared unthinkable. He had not realized just how much money was entailed in running an estate like Mannerling. Certainly it was in good heart, but he had invested money on various ventures on the Stock Exchange thinking that they might prosper, only to lose money. He had paid a brief visit to London to gamble in St James’s, with disastrous results.
He felt Mannerling was punishing him. It was almost as if the great house had a soul, had thoughts. He loved it all with a passion. In an effort to placate it as he would have tried to placate a human being, he had rehung the Beverley ancestors in the Long Gallery, had bought back some of the paintings he had sold and put them back in place. The heavy Jacobean furniture, which he liked so much but Mannerling did not seem to, had been consigned to the bonfire and the pretty, light drawing room pieces restored to their former places.
He paused on the landing and patted the banister. ‘There now,’ he whispered. ‘Everything will be as it was. Change my luck for me. I must keep you.’
Isabella faced her family in the drawing room. Sir William stood with his back to her, staring at the window. In a clipped cold voice, Isabella told them what had happened and about how her father had tried to constrain Lord Fitzpatrick to marry her.
‘And,’ said Isabella, glaring at Jessica, ‘I know you are probably plotting to see if you can get Lord Fitzpatrick for yourself. Well, mark my words, after this day, he will certainly have nothing to do with this family ever again.’
‘We must think of something,’ said Lady Beverley. ‘Perhaps a present for Mrs Kennedy . . . ?’
Her voice trailed away before the wrath in her eldest daughter’s eyes.
‘Cannot you understand?’ shouted Isabella. ‘MENNERLING IS GONE!’
She turned on her heel and left the room. She went up to the bedchamber she shared with Jessica and flung herself face down on the bed.
She heard Jessica come in but did not look up. ‘I shall not give up so easily,’ she heard Jessica say fiercely. ‘I am going to Perival tomorrow to make my peace with Mrs Kennedy and see what I can do.’
‘Go away,’ said Isabella in a muffled voice. ‘You weary me.’
The weather was dry and breezy as Jessica and the twins set out for Perival. Isabella, watching them go from an upstairs window, noticed that a gig and a horse had been hired for them, so Sir William knew why they were going. A man had been hired from Hedgefield to drive them. Isabella thought they would have been better to take Barry. He would at least comfort them after they had been snubbed. But then Jessica would never turn to a mere servant for comfort.
Jessica was in high spirits. She was taking action, not like that widgeon, Isabella, who had now let two men slip through her fingers. Rachel and Abigail were infected by her high spirits. Barry had been right in what he had said to Isabella. The Beverleys were determined to live in hope, for to accept the fact they had lost Mannerling forever would be to accept their changed circumstances.
As they were approaching Mannerling, for the road to Perival took them past the gates, Mary Stoppard could be seen in an open carriage with her father coming down the drive of Mannerling. The lodge-keeper ran to open the gates for them.
Mary saw Jessica and the twins. Her black eyes flashed with triumph as they raked over the shabby hired gig and then she gave them a brief little nod before her father drove her right past them.
‘Did you see that?’ demanded Jessica furiously. ‘Giving herself all the airs of the lady she is not! Well, let’s see her face when Mannerling is bought back by us!’
The old horse which was pulling the gig clopped lazily along the winding country road which led to Perival. ‘I’m hungry,’ said Rachel.
‘Never mind,’ consoled Jessica. ‘Mrs Kennedy will be so glad to see us that she will provide us with tea or even a cold collation.’ For Mrs Kennedy’s dislike could only be temporary. A visit from any of the Beverleys was an honour.
As they drove up the drive to Perival, Jessica looked all around. There were men putting in full-sized trees and men gardening. She gave a little smile. Lord Fitzpatrick was obviously as rich as her father had heard him to be.
She could see that the windows of the drawing room upstairs were open and she could see the comfortable figure of Mrs Kennedy. And then the viscount came into view and bent over his aunt and said something.
‘Both at home,’ said Jessica with satisfaction, for she had begun to think that she should have sent Barry over with a letter first, which was what she originally had planned to do.
She waited impatiently for the driver to jump down and knock at the door, but he was only a hired driver and so he just sat there.
She climbed down herself and performed a brisk tattoo on the brass knocker.
There was a silence and then the door opened and the butler stood there.
Jessica handed him her card and asked for both Mrs Kennedy and Lord Fitzpatrick.
‘Wait there, miss,’ he said. He took the card and she could see him mounting the stairs.
She was just turning to tell the twins to get down from the gig, so sure was she of her welcome, when she heard the butler returning.
He bowed slightly and said, ‘Neither Mrs Kennedy nor my lord are at home.’
Jessica blushed painfully. The cut direct!
She turned and walked to the gig, as stiff as an outraged cat.
‘Take us home,’ she said to the driver.
‘What happened?’ asked Abigail.
Jessica frowned her to silence. A hired driver must not know of the Beverleys’s humiliation.
How long and weary the journey back seemed!
‘They are here and so soon!’ cried Sir William, who had been standing at the drawing room window.
Isabella slipped quietly through to the kitchen, smiled wanly at Joshua, and then escaped into the back garden. She saw the comforting figure of Barry over by the hen-run and went to join him.
‘Trou
ble, miss?’ he asked.
The hens scratched and uttered sounds like rusty gates.
‘I think so,’ said Isabella. ‘I did not wait to hear the news. But when my sister Jessica and the twins go calling on Lord Fitzpatrick and return very quickly, looking miserable, I can only assume they were snubbed. So this is it, is it, Barry? Brookfield House for ever and ever, amen?’
‘And not a bad place either, if I may say so, miss,’ said Barry. ‘And if I may also say so, cards are still arriving. You will have plenty of amusements. You go to the squire’s garden fête on Saturday, do you not?’
‘I believe so. Yes, yes, of course. The good squire is sending the carriage for us. At least Captain Farmer will be there,’ added Isabella, half to herself.
Barry threw the last of the grain to the hens and put down the bowl. ‘As to that, miss, I did hear on good authority that the young captain was so thoroughly ashamed of himself and his cowardly behaviour in running off and leaving you that he has rejoined his regiment.’
‘And who exactly is this good authority?’
‘Sir William, miss. He received a letter from the captain this morning. You know, miss, thinking about military men and all that, the squire’s son, Harry, now, he is expected to be at the fête and he is an army captain. Have you met him?’
‘No, but I have heard of him.’
‘He is accounted handsome, miss, and very genial.’
‘I do believe you are trying to matchmake for me, Barry,’ said Isabella with a smile as she thought how the old Isabella would shun the mere suggestion that she should be at all interested in a mere squire’s son. But then the old Isabella would not have stooped to converse on friendly terms with any servant.
‘Heaven forbid,’ said Barry. ‘It is only that it is pleasant for a young lady to meet a friendly and easygoing gentleman.’
Isabella looked around her. ‘So this is it, finally,’ she said. ‘This is home.’
‘Until you get married, miss.’
Isabella began to walk away. She said over her shoulder, ‘That day may never come.’
She went indoors, hearing the murmur of voices from the drawing room. She went upstairs and changed into a walking dress and half-boots, went out again and began to make her way across the fields.
She thought of what she had so nearly had and what she had thrown away. Lord Fitzpatrick’s face rose before her eyes. He would marry soon and would probably be happy and consider himself well quit of the Beverley family. Mary would make sure all the Beverleys were invited to her wedding to witness her ‘triumph.’
But Mary was to be pitied, not envied. Isabella wondered whether the queer spell that Mannerling cast on everyone had infected Mary or whether she just saw it as a grand house of which she would soon be the mistress. Her thoughts turned back to the viscount. He would be at the squire’s fete. It would be painful to attend, for everyone would know about how her father had tried to coerce the viscount into marrying her.
She toyed with the idea of pretending to be ill. But then that would mean staying at home and wondering whom the viscount was speaking to, whom he was flirting with. All she could do was put on a brave face and ignore the looks and whispers.
On the day of the fête, Isabella took some comfort from the fact that Jessica’s humiliation had seemed to put an end to her father’s mad schemes, although Sir William was already the worse for drink when they set out in the carriage the squire had sent for them.
Lizzie, sitting quietly in a corner of the carriage, reflected that they all looked very fine in their India muslins. But gowns did not last forever and Lizzie, as the youngest, knew the day would soon come when she had to be content with her sisters’ hand-me-downs. She felt she could be content at Brookfield if only Mrs Kennedy would come back again and fill the house with activity and bustle and things to do.
They could hear the noise of a band playing a jolly tune as they approached the squire’s. Tables had been set out on the lawns and there was a marquee where the dancing would take place later.
The squire and his wife met them and proudly introduced their son, Harry.
He was an engaging-looking young man with curly fair hair worn longer than the current fashion. He had grey eyes which danced with laughter. His face was lightly tanned and he had a good figure, although he was quite small in stature.
Those grey eyes fastened appreciatively on the elegant picture Isabella made in a white muslin gown with a wide green sash and broad-brimmed straw hat embellished with silk flowers.
‘Father,’ he said, turning to the squire, ‘the guests are almost all arrived. I shall escort Miss Isabella.’
The squire, Sir Jeffrey Blane, felt he could hardly protest and comforted himself with the thought that Harry was soon to rejoin his regiment. In any case, the boy had already been told not to become romantically involved with the Beverleys, for the girls could not command any reasonable sort of dowries.
‘We are lucky with the weather, are we not?’ said Harry Blane, leading Isabella across the lawn. ‘A perfect summer’s day. I was lucky to get leave in order to be here.’
‘Will the war never end?’ asked Isabella, referring to the battles raging in the Peninsula.
‘Oh, we will win in the end, never fear. It is a delight to talk to you, Miss Isabella. We have been neighbours for so long and yet we have never met before.’
Isabella reflected that they had never been on intimate terms with the Blanes before, the Beverleys considering a mere squire and his family not important enough.
Mary Stoppard came up on the arm of Mr Judd. Mr Judd hailed Isabella. ‘The temple’s being repaired,’ he said eagerly.
Isabella looked at him in surprise. ‘Surely it was silly to blow the thing up, only to have to restore it?’
He appeared not to hear her. ‘And I have rehung your ancestors in the Long Gallery,’ he went on, still with that strange eagerness in his voice.
Isabella tugged at Harry’s arm as a signal she wanted to move on. She gave a little bow.
‘Was that the famous Mr Judd of Mannerling?’ asked Harry when they were out of earshot.
‘Yes, and how rude of me not to introduce you. I thought you knew him. With him was his intended bride, the vicar’s daughter, Mary Stoppard.’
‘Oh, I know her. So her father has toad-eaten his daughter into a good marriage at last. I wish her the joy of him. Judd seems quite mad.’
‘He certainly behaved very oddly. At the Mannerling ball, you must have heard this, the piece de resistance, apart from the announcement of his forthcoming marriage, was when he blew up the Greek temple. Now it appears he is restoring it. I wonder why. Such a great deal of unnecessary expense.’
‘And deuced odd that he should rehang the Beverley ancestors,’ exclaimed Harry. ‘What’s so special about that? They ain’t his ancestors.’
It must be Mannerling, thought Isabella suddenly, Mannerling casting its weird spell on Mr Judd, Mannerling demanding that all should be as it was. She had said she did not believe in ghosts but she began to wonder if Mannerling was a haunted house, a strange place which demanded absolute love from its owners.
And then she forgot about Mannerling, for the viscount had arrived. Mrs Kennedy was not with him. Isabella hoped the old lady was well. It was unlike her to miss any event. Isabella began to chatter to Harry in an animated way, all the time conscious of the tall presence across the garden.
When they went to take their seats at the table, she found to her dismay that not only was she seated well away from the viscount, but in such a position that she could not see him at all. She felt such a great degree of frustration and then of sadness and loss that she found it hard to maintain a polite conversation with the gentlemen on either side of her.
Her head ached by the end of the meal and she longed to go home, but there was dancing to follow. Her hand for the first dance was promptly claimed by Harry. It was a rowdy country dance and Isabella was pretending with all her might that she was enjoying
herself immensely so that the viscount’s attention might be distracted from the pretty girl he was dancing with, when she noticed that Lizzie, who was dancing with a young boy, lost her fan, the cord that held it to her wrist snapping. The fan fell to the grass floor of the marquee. Lizzie gave an exclamation and stopped to retrieve it, but at the same time a stocky young man leaped backwards in the figure of the dance and his large foot came down onto the delicate fan, snapping the ivory sticks and crushing it into the grass.
Isabella watched anxiously as Lizzie, her face paper-white, bent to try to retrieve the pieces of the fan. Her partner was laughing and trying to pull her away, but Lizzie suddenly stood up and darted out of the marquee.
‘My sister, I must go after her,’ said Isabella, and before Harry could stop her, she, too, ran out of the marquee.
She stood outside, looking this way and that. Behind her, the tumty-tumty music of the band sounded on the summer air. Isabella ran to the house and questioned the servants. A little maid said she had seen a young lady running through the gardens at the back of the house towards the river.
‘The river!’ echoed Isabella with a feeling of dread.
She hurtled through the gardens, down over the lawn, jumped the ha-ha, straight towards the rushing noise of the river, calling, ‘Lizzie! Lizzie!’ at the top of her voice.
She had just about gained the river bank when a strong arm pulled her round and demanded, ‘What is the matter?’
Isabella looked up into the viscount’s face and said on a choked sob, ‘Lizzie! She is upset. She was seen running for the river.’
He dropped her arm and ran along the river bank, adding his cries of ‘Lizzie’ to those of Isabella.
And then they saw her, a sad little figure standing on the edge of a jutting-out flat stone which overhung a deep pool. Her face was pinched and white and her eyes had a blind look.
‘Lizzie!’ screamed Isabella at the top of her voice.
The little face turned to look first at Isabella and then at the viscount. She gave an odd little wave of her hand and jumped.
