The Homecoming Page 13

  Then he was in the Great Hall of Mannerling. He gawped up at the painted ceilings and then ahead at the double staircase down which a butler who looked as grand as an archbishop was descending.

  He had a struggle to extract his card case from his waistcoat pocket, for his waistcoat, like his coat, was very tight. He handed the butler his card.

  The butler held the card with the tips of his gloved fingers and looked silently at the farmer.

  “I am come to see my daughter, Miss Moon,” said Mr. Moon testily.

  The butler gave a slight bow and went back up the staircase, oh, so very slowly, his very back seeming to imply that no one could possibly be in a hurry to greet such an undistinguished guest.

  Mr. Moon took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. Four footmen stood at attention on either side of the staircase and regarded him solemnly.

  At last the butler came back, still with that very slow gait. He inclined his head. “Be so good as to follow me, sir,” he said.

  Farmer Moon let out a little puff of relief. He had begun to entertain the awful thought that he might be sent away.

  But the thought that he was going to see his own daughter gave him courage. Tiffin was a pretty girl, but the ambitious farmer thought she was a great beauty. His wife had had only indifferent looks and he saw in this only daughter a means to get on in society.

  But when the double doors of the Yellow Saloon were thrown open and he was ushered in, his heart sank. It was a very large room with little islands of furniture dotted here and there.

  A tall, imposing man was standing by the fireplace, an elderly lady was seated on a sofa and an unexceptionable young man in coat and breeches of correct black was standing by a window.

  “Be seated, Moon,” said the tall man. “I am Severnshire. May I present Miss Trumble, a friend of the family? And my secretary, Mr. Bond.”

  “Oh, you’re Bond, are you?” said Mr. Moon.

  “It was Mr. Bond who rescued your daughter and your sister,” said the duke severely, and Mr. Moon muttered a gruff “Thank’ee.” Then he looked around. “Where is my daughter?”

  “Your daughter,” said the lady called Miss Trumble, “is indisposed.”

  “What? What’s up with her?”

  “A nervous crisis caused by the news of your visit,” said Miss Trumble severely. “Miss Moon feels she has failed you.”

  He goggled at her.

  “Yes, failed you,” went on Miss Trumble. “I gather that you expected her to marry Severnshire.”

  Put like that, it now seemed like the height of impertinence. Farmer Moon began to bluster while the sweat of embarrassment ran down his red face. “Look’ee here,” he said desperately, “I don’t know what my Tiffin has been telling you, but all I wanted to do was to stop her chasing after—you will beg my pardon, Your Grace—your secretary.”

  “And what is your objection to my secretary?” demanded the duke awfully. “Mr. Bond is of the Cambridgeshire Bonds.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Mr. Moon wretchedly. “I mean, he’s only a secretary.”

  “You must not discuss Mr. Bond as if he were not in the room,” said Miss Trumble.

  Farmer Moon mulishly stood his ground. “He’s a servant and can’t marry.”

  “He is my right-hand man,” said the duke, “and when he marries, he will have a house on my estate and a reasonable competence.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Mr. Moon weakly.

  “I am sure you really did not expect me to pay my addresses to your daughter, charming as she is,” went on the duke.

  Miss Trumble felt a pang of sympathy for this farmer. She almost felt like saying, “Why not? Miss Moon is an exceptionable young lady.” The farmer was a bully and yet, as Miss Trumble knew, any parent with a pretty daughter could be slightly unbalanced in this wicked age of social climbing and snobbery. But she continued to look at him accusingly.

  The farmer’s brain was trying to assimilate what the duke had said about his secretary. It now appeared that if his Tiffin married this secretary, she would after all be a lady of consequence, and since the duke appeared to value this young man so highly, then he, Farmer Moon, would be on calling terms with a duke.

  “I seem to have been hasty and rash in my judgement. ‘pologize,” he said.

  He looked directly at Peter. “Do you want to marry my daughter?”

  Peter walked forward. “I would like your permission to pay my addresses to her.”

  By now, the farmer would have done anything to please this terrifying, autocratic duke and this stately old lady whose bright eyes made him feel such a fool.

  “Oh, very well,” he said. “You have my blessing, my boy.”

  The frigid atmosphere in the room visibly thawed. Miss Trumble smiled, a charming smile, and said, “You will join us for tea,” and rang the bell.

  The duke then pulled a chair up next to the one on which the farmer was perched and began to talk knowledgeably of crops and fertilizers. Gradually, Mr. Moon began to relax. At last he asked humbly, “May I see my daughter?”

  Miss Trumble rose. “I will see how she fares.”

  By the time Miss Trumble led Tiffin into the drawing-room, Mr. Moon was chatting easily with the duke and Peter, now saving up every morsel of this grand visit to tell his neighbours.

  After clumsily embracing his daughter, he said, “I have given Mr. Bond my blessing.”

  And poor Tiffin, who had no idea that Peter had any serious intentions towards her, suddenly looked so radiant that in that one moment a pretty girl turned into a very beautiful young woman.

  “I think Miss Trumble and I will take you somewhere else and leave your daughter and Mr. Bond for a few moments,” said the duke.

  The farmer was led off into an even grander saloon while Tiffin shyly faced Peter. “You did not do this just to save me from my father’s wrath?” she asked.

  Peter took her hand. “No, I did it because I have fallen in love with you.”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her gently. Then he said, “I made a very sad mistake bringing Miss Walters here, but I met you, and that makes up for everything. Thanks to my master’s engagement to Miss Beverley, our guests will soon be gone and we can be comfortable again.”

  After matters had been explained to Aunt Bertha, she crossly said she was suddenly well and wished to go home and take Tiffin with her. But she was told that Tiffin, with her father’s permission, was to remain and be chaperoned by Miss Trumble. Miss Trumble heaved a sigh of relief. The Chumleys were leaving; Mr. and Mrs. Parkes, who had been told of their son’s behaviour, were setting out with all speed to try to find him; Verity, Celia, and their parents were to depart that day as well; which only left Squire Walters and his family, and the squire showed no signs of being dislodged.

  And then Miss Trumble, after she had waved goodbye to the farmer and his cross sister, saw the little Beverley carriage coming up the drive.

  Barry had returned.

  She waited while he drove up. “How goes it, Barry?” she asked. “I have missed your company and your good sense.” She turned to a waiting groom. “Be so good as to take Mr. Wort’s carriage to the stables.” She turned to Barry. “Come indoors and we shall have a comfortable coze.”

  “You make me feel like a gentleman,” said Barry with a grin. “You should have seen that groom’s face—being ordered to attend to a mere servant’s carriage.”

  “I confess I am rather weary of social ranks after this morning,” said Miss Trumble as they walked indoors and up the stairs. “We will go to my private sitting-room, where we will not be disturbed. I have so much to tell you.”

  She waited until they were comfortably ensconced and then asked, “And how goes Lady Beverley?”

  “My lady is quite animated,” said Barry. “If I may be so bold as to say so, miss, she is toadied to quite dreadfully by Mrs. Judd and it appears to have raised her spirits wonderfully. My lady was quite happy to have me act as footman, but she becam
e friendly with a certain Mrs. Handley who asked her why I was so oddly shaped for a footman, not being tall or slim, and my lady became ashamed of me and ordered me home.”

  “And glad I am that you are here again,” said Miss Trumble.

  She told him everything that had happened.

  “Do you think that the engagement will really be broken after a few months?” asked Barry when she had finished.

  “I do not know, Barry,” said Miss Trumble on a sigh. “They are acting as if they are fond of each other. But the difference in age and temperament is great.”

  “Her sisters all married men older than they,” Barry pointed out.

  “I do not know Gervase very well,” said Miss Trumble. “Lizzie is so young and passionate and Gervase appears a cold fish by comparison.”

  “Is my lady to be told of the deception?”

  “Lady Beverley? No. She will make such a scene. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”

  Lizzie dressed with great care, wondering all the time what her mother’s reaction to the announcement of her engagement would be. She felt like a fraud and was weary of this charade of an engagement. She would tell the duke to let her end it as soon as possible and then she would go and stay with one of her sisters, but shuddered at the idea of a Season. So much expense just to find a suitable mate! Better to remain single like Miss Trumble. But Miss Trumble was not Miss Trumble but the duke’s aunt and surely could not work as a governess for much longer.

  At least I am not plotting to really marry him to get Mannerling, thought Lizzie. I hate this place now. It warps people’s minds and brings nothing but misery. It is a pity that I and the duke do not really suit, for Mannerling is simply another residence to him.

  She suddenly shivered. She could feel menace surrounding her, an air of malignant threat. The house is plotting something, she thought. Mannerling will never leave us in peace.

  Squire Walters was feeling exhausted and was settling down to enjoy a bottle of the duke’s best port to reward himself. He had shouted at his daughter, but to little effect. Sarah had retreated into a really splendid dream. Lizzie Beverley was dying of consumption. She, Sarah, had nursed her rival faithfully, but Lizzie was about to expire. Sarah and the duke faced each other across Lizzie’s recumbent body. “I do not know how to thank you for your selfless devotion to my fiancée,” said the duke, staring at her with burning eyes. “My darling, you must be exhausted.”

  “You must not call me that!” exclaimed dream Sarah.

  “I cannot stop myself I have grown to love you.” And so on. And somewhere outside this dream, her father’s nagging, berating voice was simply an irritating buzz, like a summer fly trapped against a window pane.

  The squire had then slapped and punched his wife, saying it was all her fault they had such a widgeon for a daughter. Mrs. Walters had curled herself up into a ball like a hedgehog and prayed for his death.

  He had left her weeping and settled down to enjoy the port.

  He had drunk almost the whole bottle and his wife’s irritating weeping from the next room had stopped at last when he heard his name called from a distance. “Squire Walters!”

  It was a light, silvery voice and yet a compelling voice.

  He got to his feet and went to the door and opened it.

  There it was again, echoing faintly in the corridor. “Squire Walters.”

  The port had been rich and heavy. He staggered slightly and clung on to the doorjamb. But the voice called again, more insistent this time.

  He walked out into the corridor. The drunkenness seemed to leave him and he felt quite young and light.

  He moved towards the sound of that voice until he found himself on the landing, overlooking the Great Hall.

  “Squire Walters! Squire Walters! Look down!”

  The voice held a mocking edge now.

  He leaned over the balustrade.

  “I am here—underneath, waiting for you,” challenged the voice. “Look down! Look down!”

  And then drunkenness closed around him like a black cloud. He felt dizzy and faint. He clutched tightly on to the mahogany rail of the balustrade. It seemed to melt under his hands. He let out a great scream of fear.

  A servant crossing the hall cried out as the body of the squire hurtled down, hit the tiles with a sickening thud and lay still.

  One by one the servants crept into the hall and formed a circle around the dead man. A thin trickle of blood began to flow from his head across the tiles.

  “What’s amiss?”

  The duke’s voice sounded down into the hall.

  A footman found his voice. “It’s the squire, Your Grace. He’s dead.”

  The duke ran down the stairs and the servants parted to let him through. He felt the squire’s pulse. There was a faint flicker of life. “Get the physician,” he shouted. “He’s not dead yet.”

  The squire’s lips were moving. The duke knelt down on the floor beside him.

  “The voice was calling me,” said the squire in a faint whisper. “The banister melted under my hands.”

  “Try not to speak,” urged the duke. “Help will be here shortly.”

  “Too late,” came the weak whisper. Then there was a rattle in the back of the squire’s throat. The duke felt his pulse again but there was no life at all. “He’s dead now.” The duke rose and then looked up.

  Lizzie was standing on the landing, looking down. Her face was paper-white. The duke ran up the stairs again and gathered her shaking body in his arms.

  “Do not be afraid,” he said, kissing her hair. “Come away. There is nothing you can do.”

  “Was it the house that killed him?” asked Lizzie, but her face was pressed against his chest and he did not hear her.

  Miss Trumble, later that day, entered Mrs. Walters’s room. The widow sat motionless in a chair staring at the empty fireplace.

  Miss Trumble quietly sat down. Neither woman spoke until Mrs. Walters said quietly, “I will go to hell.”

  “I doubt that very much, my dear,” said Miss Trumble. “What great crime have you committed that you should be punished so?”

  “It is all my fault,” said Mrs. Walters.

  “You did not push him to his death. The servant who saw him fall said he was alone on the landing.”

  “I prayed that he would die,” said Mrs. Walters in a harsh whisper.

  Miss Trumble leaned forward and took her hand in a firm grip. “If God killed all the people we wished dead, then the world would be a poorly populated place. Did he bully you?”

  “He beat me. He beat me this morning.”

  “Will you be comfortably off now he is dead?”

  “Yes; because we have no son, everything comes to me.”

  Miss Trumble pressed her hand harder. “When the fright and shock and guilt have all gone, you will slowly begin to appreciate your new circumstances. You will rise of a morning and give the day’s commands to the servants with no one to countermand your instructions, you will be able to read novels and go for walks. You will be able to entertain friends. And perhaps your daughter, Sarah, will not need to hide out in dreams. Think about it, and gather your courage.”

  Sarah Walters was sitting in her room, her face suffused with the glow of love. For the duke had called on her to offer his sympathies. She had thrown herself at him, crying and saying she had been a bad daughter, and he had spoken soothing words to her before putting her from him.

  She played that affecting scene over and over in her mind. The duke had been trying to tell her it was she he loved. He must be released from this engagement. Something would need to happen to Lizzie.

  Her brain was now quite turned by her father’s death. Sarah was deeply involved in her fantasy world.

  The banisters on the landing were low. One quick push and all would believe that Lizzie, too, had become dizzy and fallen to her death. But she would need to act quickly. Arrangements were already being made for her father’s body to be taken home, and she an
d her mother with it. The duke was offering his outriders and footmen to augment their own servants—a sign of love and affection if there ever was one! They were to leave the following day. But her great love for the duke would make things happen as they were meant to happen. She felt all-powerful.

  * * *

  Miss Trumble had persuaded the duke to allow Barry to stay. She felt uneasy, and longed for the moment when she could wave goodbye to Mrs. Walters and Sarah. The duke and Lizzie had dropped any pretence of being fond of each other and were politely formal, but Miss Trumble knew that both were still shocked over the death of the squire. She had hoped the tragedy would bring them closer together, but instead it seemed to have driven them apart.

  Lizzie had been hurt that the duke had not found it necessary to ask her how she was coping with the terrible shock of seeing the dead squire and had decided that the engagement was, after all, in name only. Mannerling was a house of mourning. The squire’s body had been laid out, a coffin was being brought from Hedgefield that day in which he would be conveyed home, and that dead figure seemed etched on her brain. She had gone to pay her respects to the dead man.

  He had been lying still and small in death, candles at either side of the bed. Mrs. Walters had been kneeling, praying, and Sarah had been sitting on a chair in the room, an odd little smile on her lips which unnerved Lizzie more than the dead squire.

  She collected a gown which had a torn hem, along with her work-basket, and went along to the drawing-room. Tiffin, radiant with happiness, rose to meet her.

  “How goes Miss Walters?”

  “I do not quite know,” said Lizzie with a sigh. “She looks quite odd but that is to be expected. It was a most strange accident.”

  “Peter said he smelt most strongly of drink and the banister on the landing is quite low.”

  “Have you seen our host?”

  “I overheard one of the servants say he had gone riding.”

  He might have offered to take me with him, thought Lizzie moodily. It would be wonderful to ride away from this house of death.

  Peter Bond came in. Tiffin blushed and curtsied. He murmured something to her and then said, “Excuse us,” and led Tiffin from the room.