The romance, p.7
The Romance, page 7
part #5 of The Daughters of Mannerling Series
‘That’s ridiculous,’ expostulated Perry. ‘The planks probably had sprung in the heat.’
‘Nonetheless, I would like to make sure.’
‘Then you organize it,’ said Perry, and strode off towards the house.
‘Why bother?’ said St. Clair, standing up. ‘I’m thirsty. Let’s all go back and have some luncheon.’
Lord Gyre walked off in the direction of the stables and the rest of the party made their way back to the house.
‘That was an interesting accident,’ said Mrs. Ingram, falling into step beside Belinda. ‘If it was an accident.’
‘I think it must have been,’ said Belinda. ‘If anyone wanted to drown Saint Clair, they would hardly try to do so when so many people and servants were about.’
‘The plan may have been to disgrace him.’
‘Well, if that was the case, it sadly missed. Saint Clair is the hero of the day.’
‘I think Perry Vane might have been behind it some way. In fact, if you want to regain Mannerling, I would concentrate your attentions on Mr. Vane. He means to have the place, of that I am sure.’
Belinda moved rapidly away from her. Mrs. Ingram gave a rueful shrug. Now I have been much too impertinent, she thought.
Lizzie scampered after her sister. ‘You almost ran away from Mrs. Ingram, Belinda. Did she say something to offend you?’
‘She suggested I should concentrate on Perry Vane because he means to discredit Saint Clair and gain Mannerling for himself.’
‘He must not succeed,’ said Lizzie fiercely.
‘Why?’ demanded Belinda drily. ‘I thought it did not matter whom I married as long as I got Mannerling.’
‘But I cannot like Mr. Vane. And we were agreed that Saint Clair would make an amiable husband. Did you hear that Mrs. Ingram was haunted during the night?’
‘I heard she was frightened by the tinkling of the chandelier, nothing more. Mrs. Ingram has too vivid an imagination and sees ghostly happenings and Gothic plots everywhere she looks. And yet, if she had any sensitivity, she would take herself off.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she is Gyre’s ex-mistress,’ said Belinda crossly. ‘You would think any woman of breeding and delicacy would find the situation distressful.’
‘They seem the best of friends,’ said Lizzie, ‘which all goes to show that Gyre is not the man for you.’
‘Stop talking fustian,’ snapped Belinda. ‘I have no interest in Gyre whatsoever.’
She walked faster and Lizzie scurried to keep up. ‘You see,’ panted Lizzie, ‘I am afraid history will repeat itself and you will be like our elder sisters and throw up the chance of Mannerling for love.’
Belinda stopped and faced her. ‘Our sisters decided not to marry highly unsuitable men and as a result are all happy.’
‘I knew it! You are interested in Gyre.’
‘Lizzie, you are making my poor head ache. If only we could talk to Miss Trumble. I feel the need of some sensible conversation.’
* * *
Later that day, Lord Gyre, followed by two grooms who claimed to be excellent swimmers and also by a farm labourer leading a sturdy horse, headed for the lake.
The idea was that the grooms were to dive down where the rowing-boat had sunk and attach ropes to it, which would then be fastened to the halter on the horse. Then the horse would be backed away from the lake and so pull the boat out.
The grooms stripped off, chattering cheerfully to each other and obviously treating it all as a bit of an adventure.
Lord Gyre waited patiently as each man with a rope in his hand dived into the lake, swam to where the boat had sunk, and dived again. It was only a few moments before both surfaced, gasping and spluttering and then swimming frantically for the shore. They scrambled out. ‘What on earth are you about?’ demanded the marquess wrathfully.
‘There’s a drowned man down there, m’lord,’ gasped one. ‘I was groom at stables when the previous owner was here. It was that Mr. Cater, the sugar planter, him what used to call. He…reached out his hands for me.’
‘Dolts,’ said the marquess savagely. ‘Oh, I’ll do it myself. Thank God the ropes are floating on the surface.’
He stripped off, tossing his clothes at his feet, strode to the water’s edge and dived in.
As he managed to locate the boat by feel, he wondered furiously how those idiots had managed to see anything at all at the bottom. He attached one rope, surfaced, and swam back with it and threw it on the bank, where one white-faced groom fastened it to the horse’s collar. The marquess then swam back and repeated the process with the other rope.
The farm horse was backed slowly up the bank and gradually, with the men helping, the boat was pulled to the shore and up the grassy bank. Naked, with water running down his body, the marquess bent down and examined the boat carefully. Then he stood up.
‘Someone sawed a hole in the bottom of this boat. Something must have been put over the hole to cover it so that it would sink after a certain time.’
Lizzie and Belinda, who had gone out for a walk, had entered the folly. They looked down at the tableau by the lake—two naked grooms and an equally naked marquess. Lizzie let out a squeak and then covered her eyes with her hands. Belinda finally dragged her own eyes away and led Lizzie out of the folly and back towards the house.
‘I did not know naked men looked like that,’ said Lizzie at last.
‘We have seen classical statues,’ said Belinda in a bracing voice which belied the fact that she was quite shaken and that the statues she had seen had all worn decorous marble fig-leaves.
* * *
The marquess had urged the grooms not to talk nonsense about a drowned man in the lake, but then he became anxious that there might really be a body down there and informed the authorities. The house party gathered again at the lake as it was dragged by a team of men from the nearby market town of Hedgefield.
Somehow, the marquess was not surprised when the search was finally over without anything being found. He wondered then whether to turn the authorities’ attention to the rowing-boat but decided against it. Perry would only protest hotly that he had had nothing to do with it and the house party would be made miserable by scandal.
He found himself gravitating towards Belinda, a cool figure in the inevitable white muslin considered suitable for young girls.
‘Did you expect to find a drowned man?’ she asked.
‘Not really,’ he said with a smile. One of her black curls had come loose and was lying against the whiteness of her neck. He had a sudden impulse to wind that glossy curl around his fingers.
‘Do you not plan to visit your home while you are here?’ he asked.
Belinda gave a little sigh. ‘I would like to call on my governess, Miss Trumble. She is an estimable lady.’
‘Then perhaps you will allow me the honour of driving you there tomorrow.’
‘Lizzie, too?’ asked Belinda, ignoring a little snort of disapproval from Lizzie, who had heard this exchange.
‘Of course. Shall we say eleven o’clock tomorrow morning?’
He noticed her hesitation and said gently, ‘Today was unusual. Saint Clair does not rise until two in the afternoon. You will be back in plenty of time to resume the hunt.’
Belinda gave a reluctant laugh. ‘I feel I should not let you talk to me on such terms.’
‘I think you find it a relief to let down your guard and be honest.’
Gurney Burke watched Belinda and his friend with narrowed eyes. That Gyre, who had remained a bachelor so long, should fall for nothing better than a scheming adventuress called Belinda Beverley was too much. Gurney found himself joined by Mirabel, who languidly waved his quizzing-glass in the direction of Belinda and the marquess. ‘It seems as if my friend, Saint Clair, is no longer a target.’
‘Fustian,’ said Gurney crossly. ‘Gyre is a confirmed bachelor.’
‘Doesn’t look that way at the moment,’ said Mirabel airily. ‘But he has no chance. Belinda Beverley wants Mannerling and Saint Clair wants Belinda Beverley, and there’s nothing can be done about it and I, for one, only want to see my friend happy,’ with Jane Chalmers, he added silently.
Perry, too, observed the couple, but with satisfaction. The earl would be furious if the house party ended without St. Clair’s becoming betrothed. But Jane Chalmers was a difficulty. If she turned out to be the chosen one, then the earl would be even more delighted. Jane Chalmers was a rich heiress. Perry discounted the Hartley twins. Saint Clair hadn’t even seemed to notice their existence.
Mrs. Ingram found herself walking with St. Clair. ‘You are a hero,’ she said in her light, amused voice. ‘But does it not alarm you that someone deliberately tried to drown you?’
‘Might have been a prank,’ said St. Clair. ‘I mean, chaps will play pranks. We once sawed through old Lord Eaner’s carriage floor, just enough, you know. Carriage sets off, floor gives way, old boy running like mad. We laughed ourselves silly.’
‘He could have been killed, you wicked man!’
St. Clair beamed at her with approval. He found he liked being called wicked. ‘Oh, I’m a bit of a rip,’ he said complacently. A faint elusive scent was coming from her clothes. Her bosom was deep and generous. He felt an unaccustomed stirring of physical interest. Women usually frightened him. A few brief nasty tumbles in brothels had left him with an extreme distaste of sex.
‘What think you of my waistcoat?’ he asked suddenly.
Mrs. Ingram studied the waistcoat. It was a gaudy creation of sky-blue silk embroidered with sunflowers.
‘The pink of fashion,’ she commented.
‘You think so? I say, I am glad you are here. It is pleasant to have the company of a mature lady of discernment.’
‘Why, thank you, my lord.’ Mrs. Ingram flashed him a coquettish look from her fine eyes and he visibly preened.
Good heavens, thought Mrs. Ingram, amused. Would it not put the cat among the pigeons were I to attract this amiable fool? I would be saving the beautiful Belinda from herself. But we’ll see…we’ll see.
* * *
Now that the novelty of being back at Mannerling was over, Lady Beverley relapsed into one of her mysterious illnesses. She had become all too accustomed to the invalid state, lying on a day-bed and keeping the servants running hither and thither to fetch things for her. And so she did not know her two youngest daughters were to visit their home with Lord Gyre. Belinda had behaved very prettily to St. Clair after dinner the evening before. Lady Beverley considered Mannerling as good as hers. She never stopped for a moment to consider that if Belinda did marry St. Clair, she might not want her mother in residence.
Lizzie was inclined to sulk as she went down to the great hall with Belinda. She feared her sister was going to neglect St. Clair in favour of Gyre. Belinda looked at her pinched face, half in exasperation and half in amusement. Only the mad Beverleys would fear a marriage to a rich and handsome marquess. ‘Gyre is simply being kind,’ she assured Lizzie. ‘He is so much older than I am. He goes on rather like an uncle.’
‘Pooh,’ muttered Lizzie and would not be comforted.
Even the sight of the racing curricle which Lord Gyre had borrowed from the stables to drive them or the appearance of the handsome marquess himself in impeccable morning coat and snowy cravat did little to cheer her.
They drove the short distance to Brookfield House. Miss Trumble herself came out to meet them, her face breaking into a glad smile of welcome. Lord Gyre saw an elderly lady whose curls were still glossy brown and with fine eyes in a wrinkled face.
Belinda flew into her arms, crying, ‘We are come! We have missed you so much.’
Lizzie followed reluctantly.
Belinda introduced Lord Gyre and then said gaily, ‘Miss Trumble was at that musicale where we first met.’
Lord Gyre remembered only that Belinda’s companion on that evening had been a lady with puffed-out cheeks and a ferocious black wig and assumed Belinda had made a mistake.
‘The day is fine,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘We will take tea in the garden. You must see Barry.’
At that moment the odd man came around the corner of the house. Lord Gyre had heard much gossip about the haughtiness and pride of the Beverleys, but there was no sign of it as even little Lizzie greeted this servant like an old friend.
Soon they were seated around a table under the cedar tree, drinking tea and eating the cook’s feather-light cakes.
‘It is peaceful here,’ said Lord Gyre, stretching out his long legs. ‘I, for one, am glad to get away from Mannerling for a little.’
‘And what has been going on?’ Miss Trumble asked Belinda. ‘Are you having a pleasant stay?’
‘The best,’ said Lizzie defiantly. ‘It is so good to be home again.’
‘Home is here,’ said Belinda crossly. ‘What will Lord Gyre think of you?’
She turned to the governess. ‘We have been having an eventful time. Someone tried to drown Lord Saint Clair.’
Lord Gyre noticed a flicker of alarm in the governess’s eyes as Belinda told her of the deliberately damaged rowing-boat.
‘That evil house,’ said Miss Trumble, half to herself, when Belinda had finished.
‘Houses are not evil,’ protested Belinda. ‘Only people are evil.’
‘Tell me about the mysterious Mr. Cater,’ said Lord Gyre. ‘I gather nothing was ever heard of him after his disappearance.’
‘We assumed he had gone abroad,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘Why?’
‘Only that two of the grooms, local lads, who were sent down into the lake to retrieve the boat swore that they had seen this Mr. Cater.’
‘Mr. Cater was courting Rachel Beverley,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘He tried to force her to marry him and fled to escape arrest. Nothing was heard of him since. Perhaps he was drowned at sea.’
‘So you believe there is a ghost…that people see the drowned Mr. Cater in the lake?’
‘I assure you, my lord,’ said Miss Trumble, ‘that before I ever visited Mannerling, I did not believe in anything supernatural at all.’
‘I confess I begin to take a dislike to the place,’ said Lord Gyre. ‘How pleasant it is here! I declare I find myself reluctant to return.’
Miss Trumble smiled. ‘You may stay as long as you like.’
‘Ah, my revered lady, I must point out that Miss Belinda is anxious to return to the hunt.’
Belinda coloured as Lizzie threw her a fulminating glance and Miss Trumble a reproving one.
‘Belinda always did have a puckish sense of humour,’ said Miss Trumble quickly. ‘You must not take her too seriously, my lord.’
‘I assure you, Miss Trumble, I do not take her seriously at all.’
The minute the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. This grand governess made him feel as if he had been childish and rude. And yet, he had become used to being chased and courted and fêted. The fact that Belinda Beverley obviously did not find him attractive in the least rankled in an increasingly unpleasant way.
He recovered quickly and said blandly, ‘That was said in the wrong way. I find the fascination Mannerling appears to hold for everyone extremely irritating. It causes a false air of menace to permeate the rooms of the place and leads to the servants’ tattling about ghosts.’
‘It is an odd place,’ said Miss Trumble while her brain worked furiously. Gyre had referred lightly to Belinda’s ‘hunt’, which probably meant that Belinda had actually discussed her ambitions to secure St. Clair with this highly eligible man. How on earth could Belinda or any other woman look at St. Clair with a prize like Gyre around! She longed for a private word with Belinda but could not think how to engineer it. Then she saw Barry coming around the corner of the house and hailed him. As Barry came up to them, Miss Trumble said, ‘We are most proud of our vegetable garden, my lord. Would you care to see it?’
The marquess looked surprised, but said politely, ‘Yes, I would.’
Miss Trumble waved one thin, elegant hand. ‘Barry, do conduct my lord to the vegetable garden. Belinda, there is something I want to show you.’
Belinda reluctantly followed Miss Trumble into the house. ‘No, not you this time, Lizzie,’ said Miss Trumble quietly as Lord Gyre disappeared with Barry.
Lizzie pouted but returned obediently to the table in the garden.
Miss Trumble led the way into the parlour and turned to face Belinda. ‘Now, young miss,’ she began sternly, ‘what are you about, to confide your ambitions so freely to Lord Gyre?’
‘I did not…’ began Belinda, and then she shrugged. ‘It seemed better to tell the truth,’ she confessed. ‘Everyone learns sooner or later about the Beverleys’ ambitions.’
Miss Trumble forgot all her good resolutions to let Belinda make her own mistakes and lead her own life. ‘Are your wits wandering?’ she demanded. ‘Here is a handsome, rich, and eligible man. I had hopes…’ She bit her lip. ‘Belinda, I am fond of you. I am fond of you all. I did not mean to criticize or interfere. But it infuriates me that you are prepared to ally yourself to a useless fop for the rest of your life and, yes, to bear his stupid children when you might have had a man like Gyre.’
Belinda looked at her haughtily. ‘I am persuaded Mama has the right of it and you forget your position in our household. You praise Gyre, yet what do you know of him? He is too old for me, and not only that, he parades his mistress Mrs. Ingram, at Mannerling. This Mrs. Ingram is of the house party.’
‘I have heard nothing but good of Mrs. Ingram,’ said Miss Trumble, suddenly heartily weary of the Beverleys and all their machinations.
‘And what can you possibly have heard?’ demanded Belinda. ‘You are not exactly in society.’
‘I hear a great deal more than you could possibly imagine, miss. Gyre is in his early thirties and a man like that could not be expected to live like a monk. Oh, forget what I said. Do what you wish.’
Belinda felt herself crumple. She had hoped that a lecture from Miss Trumble on the folly of chasing St. Clair would have strengthened her resolve to do just that, but here, in her home and away from Mannerling, she could feel her resolve ebbing away.
