Deception (Daughters of Mannerling 3) Read online

  ‘But who will look after us when we are ill?’ wailed Lizzie. ‘Oh, Miss Trumble, you promised to stay with me till I wed!’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Miss Trumble quietly. ‘I have no choice in the matter.’

  ‘But where will you go?’ asked Belinda. ‘I shall go as companion to Lady Evans.’

  Lady Beverley’s pale gaze fastened on the governess’s face. ‘And when was this arranged, pray?’

  ‘What I do or do not do is no longer any business of yours,’ said Miss Trumble with hauteur.

  Abigail said, ‘I do not know what we will do without you, who we will lean on. It is too bad of you, Mama. I know what it is! Miss Trumble was wearing a finer gown than yours and you took a pet and it is all your own fault, for you could have ordered a new dress for yourself.’

  ‘Silence!’ commanded Lady Beverley. ‘Miss Trumble is leaving tomorrow, and that is that!’

  The next day the sisters arose late. When they gathered downstairs it was to find that the gentlemen they had danced with the night before had sent cards, which meant they would not be calling in person, and only Lizzie noticed that Lord Burfield alone had not sent his card.

  Miss Trumble’s trunks were packed, corded, and standing in the hall. The day was grey and cold, with a chill wind from the north-east. Lady Beverley was staying in her room, so it was left to the sisters to say goodbye to their governess. How they had often resented her lessons and homilies, and yet how bereft they felt as her slim figure climbed into the carriage beside a gloomy Barry Wort.

  ‘We cannot really manage without you,’ said Abigail. ‘Will you come back and see us?’

  ‘I doubt if your mama would allow that,’ said Miss Trumble, smiling down at their sorrowful faces. ‘But I will write to you.’

  ‘You are only going as far as Lady Evans’s home. We could call on you,’ said Lizzie eagerly.

  ‘I am afraid that would not be suitable,’ replied Miss Trumble. ‘Goodbye, my chucks, be good.’ Clustered outside the door, they watched sadly as Barry clicked his tongue and the little open carriage moved off down the short drive.

  There was a short silence and then Barry said, ‘I reckon I’ll write to Miss Isabella, I mean Lady Fitzpatrick, and tell her I will join her lord’s household in Ireland.’

  ‘Oh, no, you must not do that, Barry.’

  ‘But you will be gone.’

  Miss Trumble gave a little smile. ‘Only for a little, Barry. Only for a little.’

  Lord Burfield drove past Barry and Miss Trumble on his way to Brookfield House. He recognized the governess and touched his hat. He saw the trunks piled up in the rumble. Lady Evans had told him before he left that she had engaged the Beverleys’ governess as companion.

  He was surprised when he reached Brookfield House to find it a trim mansion with well-kept gardens. Barry had done much to bring the house and grounds into good repair. From the stories about the Beverleys, he had expected to find them living in shabby circumstances.

  The fact that he was not expected, that no callers had been expected, was evident, firstly, in the flustered mien of the little maid who answered the door to him. He was led into a chilly, little-used drawing room while another maid struggled to make up the fire. The maid then went upstairs and scratched on the door of Lady Beverley’s bedroom and then entered.

  ‘Beg pardon, my lady,’ she whispered to the figure on the bed, ‘but Lord Burfield is called.’

  ‘I cannot see him,’ wailed Lady Beverley. ‘I have the headache. Send Miss Trumble to me.’

  ‘Miss Trumble has left.’

  Lady Beverley groaned. ‘Miss Trumble often made me a posset. Ask Josiah to make me one the same and bring it to me and present my apologies to Lord Burfield.’

  The maid, Betty, anxious to please her mistress above all else, went first to the kitchen, where Josiah told her that Miss Trumble had made all possets, tisanes, and medicines herself and he did not have the recipes. That intelligence was immediately conveyed to her ladyship, who groaned again.

  Lord Burfield sat on in the chilly drawing room and wondered if anyone intended to acknowledge his presence. At last he knelt down in front of the fire, which had gone out and set about relighting it until there was a comfortable blaze. He was rubbing his hands fastidiously with a cambric handkerchief edged with lace when the door opened and Abigail came in.

  ‘I heard the crackling of the fire and wondered who was here,’ she said cheerfully. ‘How good of you to call. We did not expect you, don’t you know, because we are not considered marriageable because of our reduced circumstances, and so gentlemen send cards instead. I shall call the others. No, on second thoughts, why do you not join us in the parlour? We do not entertain much – well, not at all, to be honest with you – and the parlour is much more comfortable. This drawing room has not been fired this age and is damp.’

  He followed her out and into a cheerful little parlour. The other three sisters were grouped around the fire. They rose at his entrance and curtsied prettily.

  The room was cheerful and filled with books and sewing. Bowls of pot-pourri scented the air. The chairs were worn but comfortable and he took a large armchair by the fire. Cushions were placed at his back and the maids were sent scurrying to fetch cakes and tea.

  ‘It is too cold to leave the door standing ajar,’ said Abigail. ‘But then you are not alone with one of us, Lord Burfield, and so we shall all chaperon each other.’

  Abigail was wearing an old blue woollen gown, a trifle short on her, but showing she had excellent ankles. The blue of the gown highlighted the intense blue of her eyes and the creaminess of her skin. She perched unselfconsciously on the arm of his chair and smiled down at him with open friendliness.

  ‘You are to be our Scheherazade on this dreary afternoon,’ said Abigail. ‘We expect lots of stories.’

  Lizzie sat on a footstool at his feet, Belinda and Rachel sat on a sofa opposite him, not a fashionable backless sofa but a comfortably well-stuffed one, covered in rose-patterned chintz.

  ‘I only meant to call for the regulation ten minutes,’ said Lord Burfield, stretching out his booted feet to the cheerful blaze of the fire. ‘But perhaps, when I have had tea, I will tell you some stories.’

  So tea was brought in and placed on a low table in front of the fire. Abigail rose to make the tea, taking the place of mistress of the house. Tea-making was too delicate a ritual to be left to the maids.

  Once Lord Burfield had been served with tea and cakes, they all looked at him with the bright inquisitiveness of birds. He gave a reluctant laugh. ‘What sort of stories would you like to hear?’

  ‘About your battles,’ said Lizzie, who had heard at the ball that he had been a soldier.

  He was about to protest that such stories were not for delicate ears but then he recalled how well-informed Abigail had appeared to be and so he began, half-humorously at first and then more seriously as he lost himself in the past. The afternoon wore on. More candles and lamps were lit and he realized with a little start of surprise that he had never talked so much about himself in his life before, and to a roomful of young misses, too.

  He felt at home and at ease and when Lizzie, at the end of his tales, suggested a game of Pope Joan, he found himself agreeing and then moved into the dining room with them to share a modest but well cooked dinner. Every time he thought of returning to Lady Evans and Prudence Makepeace, he experienced a feeling of boredom. He had not enjoyed himself so much in such a long time, nor had he felt so much at home. Prudence had not been awake when he had left, so he had whispered to Lizzie he did not know the reason for her odd action.

  Miss Trumble had been an interested audience to Prudence’s explanation that she had been suffering from the headache and had taken that bottle of laudanum from her mother’s room to help the pain. Mrs Makepeace’s pained inquiries as to why she had chosen to take the stuff and pour it into a glass of lemonade which Lord Burfield had brought her and Prudence’s subsequent and petulant inquiries as
to what could possibly be keeping Lord Burfield at the Beverleys led the shrewd Miss Trumble to believe that Prudence had meant to drug Lord Burfield to prevent him calling on the Beverleys and had drunk the stuff herself by accident. Prudence, on being initially introduced to Miss Trumble, had haughtily given that lady two fingers to shake and then had cut her dead. Then she became aware that Lady Evans appeared inordinately fond of this new companion of hers and so, after her ‘confession’ was over, she began to study Miss Trumble. Miss Trumble had been the Beverleys’ governess and therefore would be a good source of information about them.

  She therefore decided to befriend this old creature, thinking that the condescension of a few friendly words would be enough, but found all her initial approaches being met with the stately haughtiness of a duchess.

  A note was brought in just before dinner and handed to Lady Evans, who read it and said, ‘We must not wait dinner for Lord Burfield. He is dining out this evening.’

  Miss Trumble rose quickly to her feet and hurried out. Prudence murmured an excuse herself and rapidly followed her. Her light slippers making no sound on the stairs, Prudence scurried after Miss Trumble. She saw that lady move quickly out of the front door and heard her call sharply, ‘Barry!’

  Prudence went as far as the open doorway and looked out. By the light of an oil-lamp over the door she could see Miss Trumble talking to a servant, and not a liveried servant either.

  ‘Barry,’ Miss Trumble was saying, although the frustrated Prudence could not hear the words, ‘how are things?’

  ‘Gloomy after you left, miss,’ said Barry, ‘and my lady in bed with the headache and none of your cures to soothe her. Lord Burfield is being vastly entertained by the young ladies and is staying for dinner.’

  ‘He took Abigail into supper last night,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘That looks hopeful. He is an eminently suitable man.’

  Barry grinned. ‘Anyone other than Harry Devers.’

  ‘Anyone other than him,’ agreed Miss Trumble.

  ‘Don’t turn round now, miss,’ said Barry, ‘but there is a young lady hiding in the shadows of the doorway watching us but she is too far away to hear what we are saying.’

  ‘That will be a Miss Prudence Makepeace,’ said Miss Trumble equably. ‘She followed me down. She is anxious to secure Lord Burfield for herself.’

  ‘Do you think she will?’

  ‘Perhaps. She appears most determined. In fact, I believe she attempted to drug Lord Burfield with laudanum at the ball last night so that he would be unable to call on the Beverleys today.’

  ‘Do be careful, miss, she might put something in your drink.’

  ‘I shall be careful. Do let me know if anything untoward occurs at Brookfield House, Barry.’

  Miss Trumble drew back. Barry touched his hat and drove off. Miss Trumble turned back to the house, feeling somewhat dejected. She missed the girls.

  When she walked back into the house, there was no sign of Prudence, that young lady having run ahead of her and up the stairs.

  Prudence was all too anxious to convey the intelligence to Lady Evans that her new companion had sneaked downstairs to talk to a low servant.

  She found an opportunity after dinner. Lady Evans listened to her carefully and then said, ‘The note was brought from Brookfield House, where Miss Trumble was so recently employed. It is natural in her to want to know how the family is faring without her. What is not natural, Miss Makepeace, is that you should spy on her.’

  Prudence turned scarlet. ‘I was not spying on her!’ she exclaimed. ‘I felt over-warm and merely stepped outside before dinner for a breath of fresh air and happened to come across her.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lady Evans cynically. ‘Heed a word of advice from an old lady, child. You will not secure the attentions of Lord Burfield by plotting and scheming. Try to be more natural.’

  ‘I was not . . .’ began Prudence, but Lady Evans walked away as she was protesting and joined Miss Trumble on the sofa.

  ‘I cannot like that young lady,’ murmured Miss Trumble.

  ‘Prudence will do very well for Burfield,’ said Lady Evans. ‘I know you would like to see the Beverley girls settled, but Burfield’s parents would not thank me for finding him a penniless parti.’

  ‘I am not at all sure that the Beverleys are penniless,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘Because of their recent ruin, Lady Beverley has become a trifle parsimonious.’

  ‘Then who would want such as she as a mother-in-law?’ demanded Lady Evans.

  Miss Trumble bit back a sigh. It would be better to forget about the Beverleys for a little. If it was meant by the fates that Abigail should marry Lord Burfield, then that would happen. And if Lord Burfield chose to ally himself with such as Prudence Makepeace, then he was not good enough for Abigail.

  It was unfortunate for Abigail that her mother recovered enough to join them after dinner. She immediately declared herself amazed that Lord Burfield should have stayed for dinner when her daughters were not chaperoned. She complained loudly of her headache, she complained that she had not been informed that Lord Burfield had decided to stay longer than any gentleman making a call should.

  And so Lord Burfield bowed his way out, as glad to make his escape as he had been earlier glad to stay. On the road home, he remembered all the tales he had heard of the Beverleys and once again saw in his mind’s eye Abigail standing outside the gates of Mannerling. He knew friends who had made disastrous marriages into bad families because they had been seduced by beauty, rather than character. He was suddenly anxious to return to his own home, his own lands, and forget any ideas of marriage for the time being.

  On the following day, Prudence struck him as being so amiable and compliant and her parents so staid and respectable that he found himself issuing an invitation to them to visit him the following month at his home. Lady Evans was pleased. The invitation was virtually to a proposal of marriage.

  ‘He is not in love with her and never will be,’ said Miss Trumble sadly.

  Lady Evans snorted with contempt. ‘What has love got to do with marriage, Letitia? Look what misery love brought you!’

  And Miss Trumble bowed her head and did not reply.

  Harry Devers was bored. He knew he was being socially shunned by the county and he did not like it one bit. He had suggested giving a party, for he was becoming increasingly obsessed with the grandeur of Mannerling and wished to show the house off, but his father had pointed out that few would attend. He was still in bad odour. In order to get rid of his feelings of frustration and anger, he went out riding one frosty afternoon, driving his horse hard over hedges and ditches until, near Brookfield House, the tired animal could take no more and stopped dead at a fence. Harry shot over its head, struck his head on a stone and lay still.

  Abigail and Rachel were out walking in the frosty countryside. There was a chill wind carrying a metallic smell which threatened snow to come. Behind them walked the maid Betty, who was feeling tired and grumpy. She did not share the girl’s enthusiasm for long walks. At times, she was elevated to the grand position of lady’s-maid, but mostly she was treated by Lady Beverley as a maid of all work. Betty missed Miss Trumble’s encouragement and calm good sense. The household was not the same. To her relief, she heard Abigail say to Rachel, ‘I think we should turn back now.’

  Rachel looked up at the lowering sky and agreed, ‘It is getting dark and I think it may snow before nightfall.’

  ‘Listen!’ said Abigail, stopping short. ‘What is that sound? Like moaning.’

  ‘The wind,’ suggested Rachel.

  ‘No, there it is again. From over there. Probably some poor animal caught in a trap.’

  Betty shivered. ‘That’ll be one of farmer Currie’s traps. Let’s go home, ladies. ’Tis mortal cold.’

  Abigail shook her head. ‘There may be something we can do. Follow me.’

  Betty suppressed a groan as the ever-energetic Abigail hitched up her skirts and petticoats and began to climb over the
fence. Rachel followed and then Betty. They stumbled across a ploughed field towards a spinney at the far side. The moaning was louder now. ‘That is not an animal,’ said Abigail. ‘That is a man.’

  They hurried into the spinney and stopped short at the side of Harry Devers, sitting on the ground and clutching a bloody head.

  ‘Mr Devers!’ cried Abigail. ‘You are hurt.’ She thought quickly. Their home was much nearer than Mannerling. ‘Betty, run home and fetch Barry and the carriage. We will convey him home and send for the physician!’

  Harry Devers looked up at the twins, at first thinking he was seeing double. They were dressed alike – same gowns, same bonnets, same fair hair and blue eyes.

  He groaned again. ‘Hush,’ said Abigail, kneeling down beside him. ‘Help is on the way.’

  ‘My cursed horse.’ He looked about him.

  ‘Probably gone back to the stables,’ said Rachel. She took off her shawl and wrapped it about him. ‘You must keep warm. No, do not try to move.’

  But Harry tried to stand up, put his hand to his head, and fell back unconscious again.

  They helplessly slapped his hands and rubbed them, praying all the time that Barry would arrive.

  When they heard the rumble of carriage wheels from the road, Abigail ran out of the spinney crying, ‘Over here, Barry. Come quickly.’

  Barry had called at the farm first and came across the fields with farmer Currie and two of his men. They were carrying an old door on which they placed the unconscious body of Harry. Then he was laid in the carriage while farmer Currie said that he himself would ride to Mannerling and tell Mr and Mrs Devers what had happened to their son while one of his men had already been sent to fetch the physician.

  How the girls wished that Miss Trumble were still with them as they clustered outside the bedroom door, talking in hushed whispers while the physician examined Harry.

  At last he emerged and smiled at the anxious faces. ‘A severe concussion. He must not be moved. I will call tomorrow to see how he goes on.’

  Betty darted up the stairs to whisper that Mr and Mrs Devers had arrived.