The Homecoming Page 12

  “That’s out of the question,” said Gerald savagely. “He told me last night he is engaged to Lizzie Beverley.”

  “Then Aunt and Papa will say I have failed. Papa says he will put me on bread and water.” She gave a pathetic little sob. She did not want to tell Gerald that it was her apparent admiration of Peter that had prompted her father into his forthcoming visit.

  Gerald had a wonderful plan. He would offer to rescue this little charmer and take her away with him. He would tell his parents that he had quarrelled with the duke over some trivial matter and thought he should leave ahead of them. Tiffin, distressed and vulnerable, looked infinitely desirable in the morning sunlight.

  “I will rescue you,” he said. “I have fallen in love with you. Oh, I know you have been told my intentions are dishonourable, but I love and respect you. We could leave tomorrow before your father’s arrival. Say you will come with me.”

  Tiffin looked at him, wide-eyed. He was not so handsome that morning, his nose being swollen and red, but his blue eyes were kind and sincere. She thought he was offering her an elopement. He was of good family. Once the marriage was a reality, her father would come about. She did not love him, she loved Peter Bond. But Mr. Bond would never run away with her, and in any case, the duke would not allow him to marry. If she stayed, her father would make a vulgar scene, and her aunt would rant and rave.

  “I do not love you, Mr. Parkes, but I am deeply grateful to you. I could come to love you.”

  “That is enough for me,” said Gerald fervently.

  “Is it far to Scotland?” asked Tiffin timidly.

  “Scotland? Oh, Gretna,” said Gerald, thinking with a pang of guilt that this chit really expected him to marry her over the anvil at the blacksmith’s at Gretna. “Well, as to that, I thought we’d go somewhere and make some plans. But you must not breathe a word about this to anybody. Promise?”

  “I promise,” said Tiffin in a low voice.

  “Then take only one bandbox and meet me outside the main door at six in the morning. No one will be about. Should any servant question you, however, you must say that I am taking you to visit your father.”

  “Very well. I am so frightened.”

  “I will save you,” said Gerald, striking his breast. “Only you must not tell anyone, anyone at all.”

  The company met in the drawing-room for dinner after a long and boring day during which none of them had seen anything of the duke. He had given up any idea of entertaining them. When they were all gathered, he went up to Lizzie and took her hand in his.

  “I wish to announce that Miss Lizzie Beverley and I are engaged to be married,” he said. “Wish us well.”

  Servants came in and carried around trays of champagne. The duke pressed Lizzie’s hand hard. “Look as if you love me,” he hissed.

  At first he thought she was not going to comply, but she suddenly raised a glowing face to his. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  Then the room was rent by a scream. Transfixed, all eyes turned to Sarah Walters. “You compromised him,” she shouted. “You stole him away from me.” Then she burst into noisy tears.

  “Please take her away immediately,” said Miss Trumble to the furious squire and his startled wife.

  The Chumleys bustled forward to offer their congratulations as a weeping Sarah was led from the room. Peter felt covered in shame. It was all his fault that Sarah had been invited. How could he have been such a fool? He had tried to speak to Tiffin, but she had answered him in monosyllables. He had thought she was becoming fond of him, but there was no longer anything in her manner to suggest such a thing. Verity and Celia offered their congratulations, both with thin smiles fixed on their faces. Their parents did the same but Verity’s father, the earl, was heard to say loudly, “Well, I for one am set on leaving. This visit has been a deuced waste of time.”

  As Celia’s parents began to say that they must also make preparations to leave, Miss Trumble wondered how they could bear to make their ambitions so blatant. All at once, Miss Trumble missed Barry and wondered if he had returned from Bath.

  It was an awkward dinner. This time Lizzie was led in by the duke and seated at his right hand. But the duke smiled at her, his silvery eyes lit up—apparently—with love. Lizzie, at first dismayed to be involved in what she privately damned as “such a farce,” remembered her part of the bargain and smiled back at the duke, trying to fight down an odd little longing which made her wish that his affection were real.

  She usually only drank water at meals, but this time she drank wine to help her in her act of being the loving fiancée.

  Miss Trumble watched them sadly, thinking them a pair of excellent actors, and wondering what on earth was going to become of little Lizzie Beverley now. When the engagement was terminated, Miss Trumble decided to revert to her real name and status and take a house in London and bring Lizzie out herself.

  Celia and Verity were barely speaking. Celia blamed Verity for having “forced” her to go up on that roof, and Verity blamed Celia for having nearly killed her and was rapidly coming to the conclusion that it had been a deliberate attempt on her life.

  The squire and his wife were absent from the dinner-table. The squire had expended his rage on his wife and daughter to such effect that he was quite exhausted.

  After dinner no one seemed inclined to stay up, playing cards or chatting. One by one they made their excuses and left.

  The duke walked Lizzie to her room. “You did well tonight,” he said. “One would think you actually liked me.”

  “I do not dislike you,” said Lizzie. “You are also a good actor.”

  “Would you believe me if I said I was not acting?”

  Lizzie looked up at him. In the shadowy light of the corridor he looked a grand and formidable figure armoured in evening dress, the diamond of his stickpin buried in the snowy folds of his cravat. His hooded eyes were inscrutable.

  “No,” she said bluntly.

  He gave a little laugh and kissed her cheek. “The way they were all going on tonight, we should be shot of them tomorrow.”

  “I am worried about little Miss Moon. She appeared in sore distress. I hope Mr. Parkes has not been worrying her.”

  “Probably only that dreadful aunt of hers. Parkes will not trouble her. If he touches you again, I shall kill him. Good night, Lizzie.”

  “Good night, Your Grace.”

  “You may call me Gervase.”

  “Good night, Gervase.”

  He seemed to loom over her for a moment and her breath became rapid and she lowered her eyes. But when she looked up again, he was striding off down the corridor.

  Chapter Six

  A taste for drink, combined with gout,

  Had doubled him up for ever.

  —W S. GILBERT

  MISS TRUMBLE COULD not sleep. She had begun to think Lizzie and her nephew were very well suited, but was afraid of hoping too much. There was a restless, malignant air to the great house that night. She put her head down on the pillow and tried to compose herself for sleep, but, faintly to her ears, came the sound of weeping. She thought it might be the house playing tricks on her senses, but decided to go and investigate. She called at Sarah’s bedchamber first, but that young lady was deep in sleep. She stood for a moment, irresolute, and then she remembered how distressed little Miss Moon had looked. She walked along to Miss Moon’s bedchamber and listened outside, hearing the sounds of sobbing. She opened the door and went in.

  Tiffin was not in bed. She was sitting in a chair by the fire, crying dismally.

  “Now, then, child,” said Miss Trumble gently. “Whatever ails you can be mended if you talk about it.”

  Tiffin scrubbed at her eyes with an already sodden handkerchief and said in a choked voice, “I gave my word not to talk about it.”

  Miss Trumble pulled a chair up next to her. “If the something you gave your word not to talk about is causing you so much fright and distress, then that something must be very wro
ng indeed. You are a good girl, and as far as I can judge, a moral one. You are sorely in need of a friend. I am that friend, Miss Moon.”

  Tiffin gave a shuddering sob and then hung her head. “It is Papa,” she said. “He has great ambitions for me. I wrote to him and said the duke was too far above me and that I was…interested…in Mr. Bond. He replied that he had not paid for an expensive education for me in a Bath seminary that I might throw myself away on a mere secretary. To that end, he plans to arrive tomorrow to read me the riot act.”

  Miss Trumble’s worried face cleared. “Then he will have me to deal with. You are not alone.”

  Tiffin’s large eyes swam with tears again. “There is worse.”

  “Out with it!” commanded Miss Trumble bracingly.

  “He will be so angry if he knows I have told you. Mr. Parkes wishes me to elope with him in the morning while everyone else is still abed.”

  “Did he mention marriage?”

  “Not precisely. But what else could he mean? I asked him if it was a long way to Scotland.”

  “To which Mr. Parkes replied?”

  “He said something like we should go somewhere first to plan things.”

  Miss Trumble took a deep breath. “This is very wrong. You are a perfectly respectable young lady, and were Mr. Parkes’s ambitions honourable, then he would have consulted his parents and then asked your aunt and your father for your hand in marriage. You have nothing to fear from your father. Not only will I deal with him, but Mr. Bond will do so as well.”

  “But he will tell Mr. Bond of my interest in him,” wailed Tiffin.

  “Listen to me. You are not going anywhere tomorrow and as you are a timid little thing, your father will be told by me that you are unwell and unfit to see him. I will return shortly and tell you of my other plans.”

  Tiffin gave her a watery smile. “You are so strong and so resolute. You must have only contempt for me.”

  “The only contempt I feel at this moment is for Mr. Parkes. Wait here.”

  Miss Trumble went straight to the duke’s room. He was not asleep, but sitting reading by the fire.

  “Gervase,” said Miss Trumble. “Here’s a coil.” She told him of Gerald’s attempted seduction of Tiffin.

  The duke put down his book and stood up. “Mr. Parkes is going to be made to feel very sorry for himself. Let me ring for Mr. Bond. I have noticed my secretary’s feelings have left Miss Walters and become attached to Miss Moon, but we shall see.”

  “You would allow him to marry?”

  “Yes, I have thought of it and do not see how marriage would interfere with his duties.”

  Peter was sent for and the whole matter explained. Miss Trumble, with amusement, noticed that the news that pretty Tiffin had a tendre for him was making him look quite elated.

  “Her father is descending on us tomorrow, Mr. Bond,” said the duke. “My aunt and I will deal with him. You may court Miss Moon if you wish. As I have pointed out to my aunt, I see no reason why you cannot be married and continue your duties to me.”

  Peter thanked him, but then said, “Do you wish me to rouse Mr. and Mrs. Parkes?”

  “No,” said the duke slowly, “I would like to see Mr. Parkes well and truly humiliated. I think I have a plan.”

  Gerald had spent a restless night. He had tossed and turned, plagued with fears that Tiffin might have confided in someone. It was a relief to at last prepare to depart. He had to go to the stables first and ask for a carriage to be brought round to the door. He could not ask for a travelling carriage, for that would occasion too much curiosity. But then, he did not plan to go very far.

  The sleepy head groom showed no curiosity what-soever The carriage would be outside the door at six. It was an open carriage, but the morning was fine, with shafts of sunlight striking through the lime trees which bordered the drive.

  Again he had a nagging little feeling of guilt. The morning was so sweet and innocent—birds singing out their hearts to the rising sun, dew glistening on flowers and grass. But he pushed the thought away. Gerald’s parents had not spoilt him, but his incredibly good looks and a too-lenient tutor on the Grand Tour most certainly had. Gerald had enjoyed a time of great sexual license in Italy and had begun to think that morals were something the upper classes pretended to have but only the lower classes practiced.

  He stood impatiently outside the door. The carriage was brought round, a light curricle pulled by only one horse. He looked impatiently at his watch. And then the door behind him opened and a slim, heavily veiled figure came through carrying a bandbox.

  “Get in the carriage,” he urged, “and let us make all speed before we are discovered.”

  A nod of the head. He helped her into the carriage and then climbed in and picked up the reins and soon they were bowling down the long drive. He planned to make it to the nearest large town of Barminster and find a room in a posting-house and take it from there.

  He was so intent on putting as many miles as possible between himself and Mannerling that he did not slow his pace to converse or ask his companion how she fared. He was amused by the thick black veil she wore and wondered where she had managed to find it or if she was always prepared for a funeral.

  At last they arrived in Barminster and he drove straight into the yard of The George. He decided to engage a private parlour and then get around to the tricky business of moving her to a bedchamber later.

  It was only nine o’clock in the morning, hardly the time of day to ply her with wine, but he might be prepared to get her to share a jug of ale with breakfast.

  To his relief, she stood beside him silently while he engaged a private parlour “for myself and my wife.”

  First hurdle over.

  He ordered breakfast to be sent up. Once inside the private parlour, he tried to take her in his arms, but she whispered, “Not yet.”

  The servants soon arrived with breakfast, but his companion sat there as silently and heavily veiled as ever.

  Then, when the servants had retired, to his exasperation she began to eat heartily, tucking mouthfuls of food up under her veil.

  “There is no need for such secrecy anymore, my sweeting,” he said. “Pray remove your veil.”

  A shake of the head was his only answer.

  He was nervous, angry, and nonplussed all at once. There was no atmosphere of timidity or worry about her situation that he would have expected from such a shy girl as Tiffin.

  “Take off your veil…now!” he commanded.

  “Shan’t,” said an amused voice from under the veil.

  His eyes narrowed. The voice had a country burr and Tiffin had none.

  He found the palms of his hands were sweating.

  He walked round the table and ripped off that veil and hat. A cheeky face under a red-gold mop of curls looked up at him.

  “Who are you?” cried Gerald.

  “Lamp-boy from Mannerling, Freddy Potter,” said the boy laconically. Mannerling, like other great and rich establishments, had so many oil-lamps that a boy was employed for the sole purpose of trimming, filling and cleaning the lamps.

  Gerald drew back his fist, his face flaming with fury.

  “I wouldn’t do that or it’ll be the worse for you,” said Freddy.

  “I am going to beat you within an inch of your life,” howled Gerald.

  “And I’ll scream me head off and cry rape,” said Freddy, “and they’ll all come running and wonder o’ wonders, it’s a boy, and you’ll be damned as a backgammon player. Raping females is one thing, raping boys is a time in the stocks.”

  Gerald’s fist fell to his side. The awful truth of what the boy had just said was borne in on him. He turned quite white. “Who was behind this plot?” he asked.

  “His Grace,” said Freddy. He wiped a piece of bread round the remains of egg on his plate, wiped his mouth on the tablecloth, stood up and walked to the door. He put on his hat and veil. “Don’t let your breakfast get cold, sir,” he said mockingly.

  Fred
dy went quickly down the stairs and commanded the inn servants to bring “her” carriage round. The horse would be tired, he thought, but he could drive very slowly and easily back to Mannerling.

  Gerald sat alone over his nearly untasted food, burning with humiliation. He could not go back. He could not face his parents. He was lucky in that he had a generous inheritance from a late uncle. He was not dependent on his parents for money. He thought of Rome, of the sunshine, of the easy immoral life. He would call at his bank in London and then make his way to the coast. But for a small revenge, he would sell that carriage and horse before he left Barminster.

  He, of course, found both carriage and horse gone.

  Farmer Moon had been feeling as grand as a lord when he left his farm. His sturdy girth was encased in a morning coat of Bath superfine, his shirt-points were so starched that they cut into his florid cheeks, a gold watch the size of a turnip hung from his watch-chain, along with a selection of seals and fobs.

  He had never been to Mannerling before, not even on the days when the locals were invited. As the carriage moved up the long drive and the graceful building that was Mannerling hove into view, he gave a little gulp. He had heard through local gossip that the duke had bought it on a whim to add to his other residences and had expected something more in the lines of a hunting-box. He had discounted tales of the grandeur of Mannerling, thinking country people were easily impressed. But the splendid lines of the building, the porticoed entrance with two tall liveried footmen already waiting, took him aback.

  But, he braced himself with the thought, he had every right to call. His daughter and sister were guests of this duke, were they not?

  He had an uneasy feeling that the liveries of the servants were better tailored than his own coat, of which he had been so very proud when he struggled into it that morning.

  The footman helped him down from his carriage. He had been driving himself, fancying himself as a good whip. A groom went to the horse’s head but did not lead horse and carriage to the stables, a sign that his visit was not expected to be of any long duration.