Banishment (Daughters of Mannerling 1) Read online

  ‘She can’t swim,’ shouted Isabella.

  The viscount tore off his coat and boots and dived into the pool from the other side while Isabella wrung her hands and prayed to God to save her little sister.

  The viscount’s black head surfaced. He was clutching Lizzie to him as he struck out for the bank. Isabella ran round and, lying on her stomach, she reached down and grabbed Lizzie’s arm and pulled her up onto the grassy bank on the opposite side of the pool from where Lizzie had jumped.

  Lizzie was coughing and spluttering, having only suffered from having swallowed several mouthfuls of clear river water.

  ‘You bad girl!’ shrieked Isabella, shaking her wet sister furiously. ‘Why did you do it?’

  The viscount climbed out and immediately headed round the pool and climbed up to the flat rock from which Lizzie had jumped. He snapped off a stout branch and began digging feverishly at the soft earth and moss under the rock.

  ‘It was the fan,’ snivelled Lizzie.

  ‘The fan?’ Isabella, quieter now that her great fright was over, stopped shaking her and hugged her close. ‘Your fan was broken. What of it?’

  ‘It was my prettiest fan,’ whispered Lizzie. ‘I will never be able to afford another like it.’

  ‘We still have plenty of pretty fans,’ said Isabella. ‘You may choose from mine, anything you want.’

  ‘But don’t you see,’ said Lizzie, ‘the fan was a symbol.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of Mannerling. It was executed especially. It had a painting of Mannerling on it. We have lost all, Isabella, and we will never go home again.’

  ‘Mannerling, Mannerling, I hate Mannerling,’ shouted Isabella. ‘I will never go there again. Never. Listen to me, Lizzie, I thought you were the most sensible of us all. We can have a good life at Brookfield House. Look at all the balls and parties we are invited to. You must put Mannerling out of your mind or the place will drive us mad, and it nearly killed you.’

  People were coming running up. ‘Oh, what can we tell them?’ asked Isabella. ‘I cannot say my sister nearly committed suicide over a house.’

  But the viscount was miraculously taking charge. He was already advancing to meet the crowd.

  ‘All is well,’ he said. ‘An accident. That stone over there . . .’ He pointed to the flat rock which he had managed to dislodge enough to make it look dangerous. ‘We were standing admiring the view when it gave way and plunged us all in the pool. Please return to the party. I will take the ladies home. No, no, please go away. The ladies do not want to be seen as they are with their gowns sodden.’

  He did not want any sharp-eyed observer to remark that Isabella’s gown, except from the parts which had become damp when she was clutching her sister, was quite dry.

  He waited until they had gone and then said quietly, ‘Come, I will take you home.’

  Fortunately, by the time they had returned to the squire’s house, everyone, with the exception of Lady Beverley and Isabella’s sisters, was back inside the marquee.

  ‘I will take them home,’ said the viscount. He turned and ordered a servant to fetch his carriage. ‘It was an accident. But as you can see, the ladies are wet.’

  ‘Why do you not put on some dry clothes and return?’ said Lady Beverley brightly. ‘Mr Blane is asking for you, Isabella.’

  Isabella looked at her mother in a sort of wonder but said quietly, ‘Perhaps. Pray all of you return to the dance.’

  She and the viscount and Lizzie drove home in silence.

  When Lizzie had been handed over to the maids and Isabella turned to thank the viscount, he said harshly, ‘Have I the right of it? Was your little sister trying to kill herself?’

  Isabella nodded. ‘It all hit her when her fan broke – that we had lost Mannerling forever – and it temporarily, I hope, turned her brain.’

  ‘So she has excelled you. You would throw away love for a pile of bricks and mortar, but your sister would throw away her life. You are all mad.’

  He turned on his heel and strode away. Isabella stood in the shadowy hall, tears running down her cheeks.

  Barry, who had been standing in a corner of the hall, listening, moved quietly away.

  Something would have to be done.

  EIGHT

  Really, if the lower orders don’t set us a good example, what on earth is the use of them?

  OSCAR WILDE

  Mrs Kennedy listened in amazement as her nephew told her the tale of Lizzie’s attempted suicide.

  She raised her hands in horror. ‘And to think I thought that poor lamb was the only sane one out o’ the lot of them! Order the carridge!’

  ‘And just where do you intend to go?’ asked the viscount wearily.

  ‘Why, to Brookfield House.’

  ‘That is enough, Aunt Mary. Leave those poxy, mad, pride-ridden Beverleys alone.’

  ‘That I will not. Sure, that poor little child will be sick wit’ misery and Lady Beverley will hang on to that lie you told her about the loose rock until Doomsday. I am going there and I am bringing her back with me and you cannot stop me.’

  ‘Oh, you are as mad as the rest of them. Go, by all means, and get snubbed and humiliated for your pains.’

  Mrs Kennedy called servants to bustle about as she had a hamper packed full of all sorts of food, from meat pies to pastries and cakes. With the light of battle in her eyes, she ordered the coachman to drive her to Brookfield House.

  Lady Beverley was reclining on a chaise longue in the drawing room when Mrs Kennedy was ushered in. ‘To what do we owe the honour of this visit?’ asked Lady Beverley languidly, putting one white hand to her brow.

  The door opened at that moment and Isabella and her sisters came in, with the exception of Lizzie.

  Mrs Kennedy said, ‘I am come to take Lizzie back to Perival with me and nurse her back to health.’

  Lady Beverley sat up and stared at the Irishwoman in amazement. ‘Take Lizzie . . . Why? The dear child fell in the river at the squire’s and got a soaking, nothing more. I am . . . ahum . . . perfectly capable of looking after my own children. I am sorry your journey has been wasted.’

  Isabella stepped forward. ‘I think Lizzie should go,’ she said quietly. ‘You did not hear the correct story. Lord Fitzpatrick was trying to save our ridiculous pride. When Lizzie’s fan broke, it was symbolic to her of all we have lost and she realized for the first time that we would never live in Mannerling again. She did not slip into the river. She jumped. She meant to take her own life. Lord Fitzpatrick loosened the rock on which she had been standing before she jumped so that it would look like an accident. He dived in and saved her life.’

  ‘I . . . I cannot bear any more,’ whispered Lady Beverley. ‘You must be lying, Isabella.’

  ‘No, I am not,’ said Isabella. ‘Pray come with me, Mrs Kennedy. Your kindness is more than any of us deserve.’

  She led the way upstairs to the small dark bedroom where Lizzie lay with her face turned to the wall.

  ‘Now, Lizzie,’ said Isabella gently, ‘you will rise and get dressed and you will go to Perival with Mrs Kennedy, who is come in person to take you. The change of scene will do your spirits the world of good.’ She then went to the doorway and shouted for Betty, the maid, and when the girl came running, ordered her to pack Miss Lizzie’s things.

  Lizzie rose from bed like a sleep-walker and allowed herself to be dressed.

  ‘I’ve got a hamper of things delivered to your kitchen,’ said Mrs Kennedy robustly, although her shrewd eyes watched Lizzie’s still, white face anxiously.

  ‘You are so very kind.’ Isabella’s voice trembled and Mrs Kennedy looked at her in surprise, for she had put Isabella down in her mind as a scheming, heartless jilt.

  With Isabella’s arm around her waist, Lizzie was helped down to the carriage. When she was seated beside Mrs Kennedy, Isabella leaned in at the open carriage window and said quietly, ‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Mrs Kennedy. I apologize humbly to you and your .
. . family . . . for my callousness. May I call on Lizzie?’

  ‘Oh, any time you like,’ said Mrs Kennedy warmly. ‘Do not worry about Lizzie. I shall send a man over with daily reports.’

  The carriage drove off. Isabella waved her handkerchief and then went indoors to face the recriminations of Lady Beverley, who begged her again and again to say that she had been lying.

  By the end of November, Lizzie was still at Perival. She was completely restored to health and spirits but yet dreaded returning home, clinging all the time to Mrs Kennedy and begging to be allowed to stay ‘just a little longer.’

  The rest of the Beverley family went out to various functions where Isabella sometimes saw the viscount and sometimes she did not, and all the time she remembered how he had kissed her in the tower and tortured herself with the thought that had it not been for her father’s pushy vulgarity, the viscount might have asked her to marry him.

  And then, at the beginning of December, Mr Judd married Mary Stoppard. The Beverleys did not go to the wedding but learned that it had been a very quiet affair, without any great celebrations.

  Barry watched and waited, wondering if there was any way he could bring Isabella and the viscount together. He had gone with Isabella several times when she went to visit Lizzie, but on each occasion the viscount had been absent, probably, thought Barry, due to the fact that on each occasion Isabella had sent a note warning of her coming.

  Mrs Kennedy was, however, beginning to warm to Isabella more on each visit. The girl, she decided, had changed a great deal, and whereas she lacked her earlier spark and animation, there was a quiet humility and gratitude about her which was pleasing. From thinking her nephew had made a lucky escape, she began to wonder if a beautiful and pleasant girl like Isabella, although she probably had little dowry, if any at all, might not be a highly suitable bride for the viscount after all. Mrs Kennedy had long believed that when her nephew married, she would need to move out of the house. But if he married Isabella, she would not need to move at all. They dealt together extremely well.

  One dark winter’s evening, when a high wind rushed through the newly planted trees about Perival and Lizzie had gone to bed clutching one of the novels which Mrs Kennedy had just had delivered, Mrs Kennedy looked up when her nephew entered the drawing room and put aside her sewing.

  ‘That is one of Isabella Beverley’s ball gowns,’ he said harshly. ‘Will you never be done slaving for that family?’

  ‘Sit down, sit down. There is no need to be driven to a passion by the very sight of the girl’s duds. I do not slave for anyone. I am helping Isabella make over a gown for the Christmas ball at Lady Tarrant’s.’

  ‘If she had less pride, she would be content to go to balls and parties in gowns which the county have seen before.’

  ‘She is a normal female creature like any other. No lady worth her salt likes to turn up in the same old gown.’

  ‘May I point out that she probably has a wardrobe full of “same old gowns.” Mr Judd did not take their vast amount of clothes away.’

  ‘Why is it anything to do with Isabella makes you angry? I declare you are in love with her, and she is in love with you, and you are both being very silly.’

  ‘Hah! If I proposed marriage to that one, the first thing she would demand as a wedding present would be her precious Mannerling.’

  ‘No, she would not. It is my belief she had come to her senses long before Lizzie jumped in the river. But you will never know now, will you? For you are as stubborn as an ox. I was tempted, the last time I received a note from her to say when she would be calling, not to tell you so that you might stay and see for yourself what a sweet girl she has become. She was brought up to be proud and then driven to try to ensnare Judd by what she wrongly thought was her duty to that family. Oh, well, sulk on and see what good it does ye. Why do you not call on the lass to say how-d’ye-do? ’Twould not hurt.’

  ‘I will never call at Brookfield House again,’ he said, and strode from the room.

  But his aunt’s words niggled away in his brain that night, preventing sleep. Could it possibly be that she loved him? He had savagely believed her acceptance of his caresses in the tower was because she was party to her father’s plot to coerce him into marriage. But he had kissed her, not she, him! And did she cause the rain to fall at the right moment?

  He fell into an uneasy sleep just before dawn, confident that when he woke up he would once again be buoyed up with all his old resentment of her.

  But when he awoke in the morning he was filled with a sudden longing to see her, speak to her, study the expression in her eyes.

  He could not bring himself to tell his aunt, however, where he was going. He rode off in the direction of Brookfield House, unaware that his aunt was standing by the upstairs window of the drawing room watching him go, a smile of satisfaction on her face.

  Isabella, wrapped in a long fur-lined mantle, was standing talking to Barry by the hen-run when he rode up. He dismounted and walked towards them, leading his horse.

  ‘I’ll take that to the stable for you, my lord,’ said Barry. Isabella blushed and studied the hens as if she had never seen such interesting birds before.

  ‘No need,’ said the viscount. ‘I shall not be staying long.’

  Barry was torn between a desire to leave the couple alone and yet worried if he did so that they might never get down to what he privately designated as ‘business.’

  ‘And how do you go on?’ the viscount asked Isabella.

  ‘Very well, I thank you, my lord.’

  ‘The weather is very cold. Perhaps I should not keep you standing here, talking.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Isabella dismally.

  Barry suppressed a click of annoyance. He found his voice. ‘Have you observed my fine hen-house, my lord?’

  The viscount looked at the shack. ‘Very fine,’ he said. ‘Keep the fox out, does it?’

  ‘Haven’t lost a hen yet, my lord,’ said Barry proudly. ‘I beg you to step inside and have a look.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said the viscount ungraciously.

  ‘Come as well, Miss Isabella,’ urged Barry. ‘I am uncommon proud of my work.’

  Isabella looked at him and tried hard to mask her irritation. She had already admired the hen-house when he had first built it. The hens were in their run. She followed the viscount into the small shed, which smelled anything but pleasant.

  ‘Excellent,’ the viscount was just beginning to say politely when Barry slammed the door on the pair of them, leaving them in semi-darkness.

  The viscount tried the door. It was locked fast.

  ‘Is this another of your family’s tricks?’ he demanded wrathfully. ‘Am I supposed to stay in here with you until your loving family consider you have been well and truly compromised?’

  ‘I do not know what is going on,’ said Isabella desperately. She raised her voice and shouted, ‘Barry, let us out of here immediately.’

  ‘Your little plot won’t work,’ sneered the viscount, ‘for I am about to kick this flimsy edifice to pieces.’

  And Isabella slapped him across the face as hard as she could.

  He stared down at her in the malodorous gloom of the hen-house, lit only by one small window of glass made from the ends of wine bottles.

  Her eyes looked enormous. Her lips were trembling. He cursed softly under his breath and jerked her into his arms and kissed her mouth over and over again, as if trying to quench a thirst, until she moaned softly against his mouth and wound her hands in his thick hair.

  ‘You love me,’ he said at last, looking down at her in wonder.

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply, ‘I think I always will. Please let us get out of here or Papa will indeed turn up and consider it a good opportunity to force you to marry me, and I could not bear that. What sane man would want such in-laws?’

  ‘I am not sane,’ he said huskily. ‘My senses are reeling. Kiss me!’

  And she did, while outside, Barry pressed
his ear harder against the wood. Ask her outright to marry you, he prayed silently.

  But the couple were too intent on kissing and stroking and murmuring sweet nothings for quite some time. At last the viscount said, ‘And you are not going to ask me to buy Mannerling for you should it come up for sale?’

  ‘I never want to see the place again,’ said Isabella.

  ‘We are going to be married, are we not?’

  Isabella leaned her head against his chest and sighed, ‘Oh, yes, my darling, my heart, I would like that above all things.’

  He crushed her lips under his again and she responded with such vigour that it took them some time to realize the door of the hen-house had mysteriously swung open and their performance was being watched with interest by several beady-eyed hens.

  ‘What a romantic setting,’ said the viscount with a laugh. ‘Where is the dreadful Barry? I assume he locked us in deliberately.’

  ‘Do not be angry. He always wanted me to marry you. Oh, dear, Papa is going to be so mercenary.’

  ‘Nothing your family can say or do can worry me now.’ He put an arm about her waist and she leaned her head on his shoulder and together they walked out of the hen-house.

  The former Mary Stoppard, now Mary Judd, looked bleakly out at the gathering dusk of the winter’s evening and was thankful her husband had gone off to London and she did not know when he was expected back. Being mistress of Mannerling was not what she had dreamt of, not what she had expected.

  Also, her relationship with Mrs Judd had turned sour. Mrs Judd blamed her for her son’s absence, saying if Mary were a proper wife, she would be able to keep him at home. She also blamed Mary for their lack of callers, sighing and moaning like the winter wind outside and saying that this was what came of ‘poor Ajax’ marrying beneath him.

  Mary had been used to occupying her time with parish calls and gossip. But in her new position as mistress of Mannerling, she considered herself too grand to call on her old humble friends, and yet when she went calling on any important members of the county, she was always told they were ‘not at home.’ Snubbed and rejected, she blamed the Beverleys and thirsted for revenge. She felt sure it was they who had alienated the great and the good from visiting Mannerling.