The Folly Page 7

  “I suppose Mr. Cater will be deemed suitable for Rachel,” she said as Barry straightened up from weeding a flower-bed. “I suppose one cannot expect all the Beverley girls to marry for love.”

  “He seems a pleasant-enough young man, miss. Sugar plantations, I believe.”

  “Rachel is troubled by the fact that he keeps slaves.”

  “They all do, in them parts. One young miss can’t change the way things are done.”

  “No, but she would either need to become hardened to the situation, which I would not like, or become distressed by it. I cannot think Mr. Cater is suitable, and yet he is surely better than some elderly gentleman with a great deal of money, for I cannot see Lady Beverley balking at anyone at all who is in funds.”

  “It amazes me, miss,” said Barry, “that she is not throwing Miss Rachel at Mr. Blackwood’s head.”

  “Ah, that is because my lady plans to wed the general and so secure Mannerling.”

  “Any hope there?”

  “I should not think so. Lady Beverley was once a very great beauty but I do not think she ever had the arts to charm. She probably relied on her beauty and fortune and felt she did not have to do much else.”

  “I did hear tell that Miss Santerton is of outstanding beauty and people are already saying a match is expected.”

  “Perhaps. She is certainly amazingly handsome. But tall, very tall. I always feel such a lady is to be admired from a distance, like a statue. She lacks human qualities. I have written to an old friend for the full story of the Santertons. I will let you know when her reply arrives, although it should be some days because I wrote the letter last night and cannot post it until tomorrow.”

  Barry gave her a sly grin. “It always amazes me, if I may say so, miss, that a lady like yourself would gossip with an old servant like me.”

  “That is because I am an old servant myself.” Miss Trumble gathered her shawl about her shoulders, nodded to him, and walked away.

  As she approached the house, she could hear a burst of laughter from the dining-room. Mr. Cater appeared to be keeping the company well-entertained.

  Only Rachel wondered at Mr. Cater’s conversation. He spoke of Barbados, of the climate, of the flora and fauna, of the tedium of the long sea voyage home, of the plays he had seen in London before travelling to the country, and yet he revealed nothing of his private life, of his family, or of where he originally came from and what had taken him to the other side of the world in the first place.

  But Rachel chided herself on looking for flaws. To marry such a man would mean being well set up for life, of getting away from Mama, of having a household of her own. It would be adventurous to go to the Indies.

  But after the meal, when Mr. Cater asked her to show him the garden, Rachel irritated her mother by promptly suggesting that Belinda and Lizzie should accompany them. She described plants and bushes and all the while her errant thoughts kept straying to Mannerling. Had Charles considered his children if he was thinking of marriage again?

  At that moment, Minerva was entering the drawing-room, holding Mark by one hand and Beth by the other. “We have had such sport,” she cried. “I quite dote on the children. Playing with them makes me feel like a child myself.”

  “Come here to me,” said Charles to the children. “What have you been doing?”

  “Playing with stick and ball,” said Mark in a low voice. Minerva had asked them whether they did not miss their mother, and he had replied, truthfully, that he could remember very little of his mother, for he had barely seen her. Minerva had then told him that he must always put his father’s happiness before any selfish thoughts, and should his father decide to find them a new mother, then he and Beth must do all in their power to make that lady welcome.

  And Mark did not like Minerva. Her intense blue gaze unnerved him. But he did not want his father to retreat back into becoming the sad-eyed, withdrawn man he had been so recently and so Mark forced himself to look pleased with Minerva. He longed for Sunday to be over so that he and Beth could return to Miss Trumble and the safety of Brookfield House.

  The Santertons slept late. On Monday morning, Charles surprised his father as he was getting into the carriage to go to Brookfield House with the children.

  “Feel a bit dull,” said the general. “Thought I’d talk to that Trumble female. Very sensible.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Charles suddenly. He did not know what it was about Mannerling that had suddenly begun to oppress him. Perhaps it was Minerva, and yet, had he been a superstitious man, he could have believed the house itself was turning against him. He could sense a malignancy lurking in its quiet rooms, but decided he was becoming fanciful and that the haunting of his son was putting him on his guard, for whoever had played such an evil trick had not been discovered.

  When they arrived, Miss Trumble said that as the day was fine and warm, she would give the children their lessons in the garden. Lady Beverley urged the general and Charles to step into the house but, to her irritation, the general said he would like to sit in the garden as well.

  The girls joined them. Miss Trumble started by reading items of news from the Morning Post, explaining before she did so that she liked the children to be au fait with current affairs. Then an article caught her eye and she began to laugh.

  “What amuses you, Miss Trumble?” asked the general.

  “I just read a few sentences. It appears to be a very good description of a Bond Street Lounger.”

  “Read it to us,” urged the general.

  “Come now, General,” protested Lady Beverley. “You would not like to see the education of your grandchildren neglected.”

  “I think Mark should know all about Bond Street Loungers. Go ahead, Miss Trumble.”

  Miss Trumble looked inquiringly at her mistress.

  “Very well,” said Lady Beverley huffily.

  Miss Trumble explained. “It begins with the necessary behaviour of a Bond Street Lounger in an hotel as he tries to establish his character as that of a man of fashion. ‘In short, find fault with every single article without exception, damn the waiter—’”

  “Miss Trumble!” exclaimed Lady Beverley.

  “Go on, do,” said the general with a laugh.

  “‘—the waiter at almost regular intervals, and never let him stand one moment still, but keep him eternally moving; having it in remembrance that he is only an unfortunate and wretched subordinate, of course, a stranger to feelings which are an ornament to Human Nature; with this recollection on your part that the more illiberal the abuse he has from you, the greater will be his admiration of your superior abilities, and Gentleman-like qualifications. Confirm him in the opinion he has so unjustly imbibed, by swearing the fish is not warm through; the poultry is as tough as your Grandmother; the pastry is made with butter, rank Irish; the cheese which they call Stilton is nothing but pale Suffolk; the malt liquor damnable, a mere infusion of malt, tobacco, and cocculus Indicus; the port musty; the sherry sour; and that the whole of the dinner and dessert were infernally infamous, and of course, not fit for the entertainment of a Gentleman; conclude the lecture with an oblique hint that, without better accommodations, and more ready attention, you shall be under the necessity of leaving the house for a more comfortable situation.

  “‘Having thus introduced you to, and fixed you, recruit-like, in good quarters, I consider it almost unnecessary to say, however bad you may imagine the wine, I doubt not your own prudence will point out the characteristic necessity of drinking enough, not only to afford you the credit of reeling to bed by aid of the banister, but the collateral comfort of calling yourself damned queer in the morning, owing entirely to the villainous adulteration of the wine, for when mild and genuine, you can take three bottles without winking or blinking. When rousing from your last somniferous reverie in the morning, ring the bell with no small degree of energy, which will serve to convince the whole family you are awake; upon the entrance of either chamberlain or chambermaid, voci
ferate half a dozen questions without waiting for a single reply. As, What morning is it? Is my breakfast ready? Has anybody inquired for me? Is my groom here? And so on and so forth. And here it becomes directly in point to observe that a groom is become so evidently necessary to the ton of the present day (particularly in the neighbourhood of Bond Street) that a great number of gentlemen keep a groom who cannot (except upon credit) keep a horse; but then, they are always on the look-out for horses, and, till they are obtained, the employment of the groom is the embellishment of his master, by first dressing his head, and then polishing his boots and shoes.’

  “And I really think that is enough of that,” said Miss Trumble, putting down the paper.

  “I think it is very funny,” voiced Mark.

  “Prime,” said the general. “Is there any more?”

  “If there is,” said Lady Beverley, “I pray you will restrain your language, Miss Trumble.”

  “Perhaps later…”

  “No, do go on,” said Rachel. “I have seen such gentlemen when we were in London and have never heard one better described.”

  Miss Trumble smiled and began to read again. “‘The trifling ceremonies of the morning gone through, you will sally forth in search of adventures, taking that great Mart of every virtue, Bond Street, in your way.

  “‘Here it will be impossible for you (between the hours of twelve and four) to remain, even for a few minutes, without falling in with various feathers of your wing, so true it is, in the language of Rowe, you herd together, that you cannot fear being long alone. So soon as three of you are met, link your arms so as to engross the whole breadth of the pavement; the fun of driving fine women and old dons into the gutter is exquisite and, of course, constitutes a laugh of the most humane sensibility. Never make these excursions without spurs, it will afford not only the presumptive proof of your really keeping a horse, but the lucky opportunity of hooking a fine girl by the gown, apron, or petticoat; and while she is under the distressing mortification of disentangling herself, you and your companions can add to her dilemma by some delicate innuendo, and, in the moment of extrication, walk off with an exulting exclamation of having cracked the muslin. Let it be a fixed rule never to be seen in the Lounge without a stick or cane, this, dangling on a string, may accidentally get between the feet of any female in passing; if she falls, in consequence, that can be no fault of yours, but the effect of her indiscretion.’

  “Now, that really is enough, General,” said Miss Trumble. “I am amusing you and everyone by this description, but at the moment such brutes, however satirized, are beyond the comprehension of little Beth.”

  “Yes, I find your ideas of teaching most strange, Miss Trumble.” Having delivered herself of that reproof, Lady Beverley smiled at the general and went on, “And how go the Santertons?”

  “Abed, I should think,” said the general gruffly. Mark and Beth had been summoned by Miss Trumble to sit at a table next to her under the shade of the cedar tree, Beth to write the letters of the alphabet in block letters and then script, and Mark to study his Latin declensions.

  “I regret I did not have the chance to dance with you on Saturday night,” Charles said to Rachel. “But every time I was free to approach you, I found you surrounded by courtiers. I believe your sister, Lady Fitzgerald, is soon to be in residence at Perival.”

  Rachel’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I am so looking forward to seeing her again. And her children. They are too young, alas, to be companions for Mark. The boy needs children of his own age.”

  “And what would you suggest I do to remedy that?”

  Rachel laughed. “You will begin to think I am always advising you as to what to do with your children when it is none of my affair.”

  “I would appreciate such advice.”

  “You could give a children’s party for Mark. Miss Trumble could furnish you with a list of suitable children in the neighbourhood.”

  “It is his birthday in a week’s time. Perhaps that is too soon?”

  “I am sure Miss Trumble will be able to arrange something.”

  The general had risen to his feet and was heading in the direction of where Miss Trumble sat with Mark and Beth.

  “Come now, General.” Lady Beverley’s voice called him back. “I am become stiff with sitting here. Let us take a promenade together.”

  The general returned to her side, throwing an anguished look in the direction of his son which went unnoticed by Charles, for Rachel was talking about Mr. Cater and Charles asked her, rather sharply, if she really knew anything at all about the man.

  “As to that,” said Rachel, “I know very little other than what he tells us about himself, that he is a sugar planter from Barbados and is here in England on quite a long visit.”

  “No doubt to find himself a wife.”

  “Perhaps. And yet Mannerling appears to be his goal.”

  “In what way?”

  “He heard it described to him by an old friend of my father’s and in such glowing terms that he decided to travel here and see the place for himself.”

  “Strange.”

  “How strange?”

  “Mostly gentlemen such as Mr. Cater come armed with letters of introduction.”

  “Perhaps he could not find anyone who knows you.”

  “I have a large acquaintance in London and I believe he spent some time there.”

  “It could be that he does not move in the same circles as you do yourself, sir.”

  “Any sugar planter who appears to be as rich as Mr. Cater, to judge from his clothes and carriage, could most certainly move in fashionable circles.”

  Some imp prompted Rachel to say, “Perhaps I will wed Mr. Cater and travel to the West Indies.”

  “I was not aware that you were so enchanted with him.”

  “If you have visited Lady Evans and also remember my sister Lizzie’s ill-timed and ill-judged remarks, you will know that I do not command much in the way of a dowry and so must take the best bidder.”

  His face darkened and his eyes glittered like green ice. “Does none of your sex ever marry out of affection?”

  She quailed before his gaze and said, “Yes, my three sisters, the ones who are already wed. Do not look so furiously at me, I pray. I was funning. I know little of Mr. Cater and have no ambitions in that direction.”

  But he still looked angry as his eyes went past her to where a carriage was turning into the short drive. Rachel swung round in time to see Minerva being helped down from the carriage by her brother. Minerva was wearing a muslin gown which clung to her form like the folds of drapery on a statue. Her hair was in a plait at the back, and falling in small ringlets around her face and shining with huile antique. On top of her head was a small round hat embellished on the front with three scarlet feathers which had been moulded to look like burning flames. She carried a parasol of white lace.

  George Santerton was wearing a long-tailed blue coat with gold buttons, a high starched cravat, and shirt-points so high that they dug into his cheeks. His waistcoat was canary yellow and hung with fobs and seals. He had lavender gloves and lavender shoes on his small feet. Rachel wondered if such a tall man could really have such small feet. Large feet were considered a social disgrace, as was a large mouth, and so many men thrust their tortured feet into shoes several sizes too small for them.

  The two fashion plates, brother and sister, had probably planned to make an entrance, but once they had arrived and were settled in chairs in the garden, the sheer formality of their attire seemed out of place.

  And Rachel became conscious that Minerva’s blue gaze was often fixed on her in an assessing, calculating way. It could not be that Minerva regarded her as a rival! But Rachel began to think that was the case and it made her look at Charles Blackwood in a different light. For the first time, she really saw him as an attractive man, not just handsome and wealthy, but a man to be desired.

  A flush mounted to her cheeks. Charles looked quickly at her and she dropped her eyes an
d twisted a handkerchief in her lap. And Minerva looked at both of them.

  Chapter Four

  At ev’ry word a reputation dies.

  —ALEXANDER POPE

  A WEEK LATER and Miss Trumble had gone to supervise the fairly impromptu party to be held for Mark at Mannerling and Rachel was being taken out on a drive by Mr. Cater. Her new sharp awareness of Charles Blackwood had made her completely indifferent to Mr. Cater’s company and she was annoyed that this drive had been organized by her mother, without consulting her first.

  Mr. Cater had been to Mannerling and was rhapsodizing about it. For the first time, Rachel found all these descriptions and eulogies of her former home tedious in the extreme. She interrupted a description of the glory of the painted ceilings by asking abruptly, “Where is your family from, Mr. Cater?”

  “We are from Suffolk.”

  “Indeed. And when did you go to Barbados?”

  “Five years ago.”

  “With your parents?”

  “No, Miss Rachel. My uncle bought me a passage. My parents died when I was a child.”

  “And did this uncle own the sugar plantation?”

  “No, he did not.”

  “So how…?”

  “Miss Rachel, I am here in England on this beautiful sunny day with a beautiful companion. For the moment, I wish to forget about the Indies.”

  “I am sorry if my curiosity offends you, sir.”

  “I miss England,” he said. “I miss the greenery. I miss the life. I am not comfortable in Barbados.”

  “But I was under the impression that…”

  “I loved the place? It is where I work. I am thinking of selling up.”

  “And where would you live? Suffolk?”

  “There is nothing for me there. Mannerling appears to have a sad history. You knew the subsequent owners, of course.”