Banishment (Daughters of Mannerling 1) (10 page)

The rain had not stopped, although the thunder had ceased to roll. He climbed down from the carriage, telling his servants to wait.

He walked from the carriage, which he had ordered to stop at the gates, up the short drive. He saw that the lamps in the downstairs parlour had been lit, and through a gap in the curtains, which were not quite drawn across, he saw the Beverley family. The sash window was raised at the bottom, for the night was muggy and close. He heard his name. Instead of knocking at the door, he edged along to that window and listened.

‘No sign yet of Mr Judd.’ That was Isabella’s clear voice. ‘I do really think that perhaps Barry should go to Hedgefield after all and find out what happened to him.’

‘I think,’ said the youngest sister, Lizzie, ‘that there is no excuse for Mr Judd’s behaviour. He could have sent someone out from Hedgefield to rescue Isabella even if he could not go himself.
I
think he is a shabby fellow and not a patch on Lord Fitzpatrick.’

Now Lady Beverley’s voice, cold and haughty. ‘You forget. Isabella is to reclaim Mannerling for us.’

‘By marrying such a man?’ Lizzie’s voice was sharp.

‘Oh, do not go on, Lizzie,’ said Isabella. ‘I am supposed to marry someone, so it may as well be Mr Judd.’

‘May as well be Mr Judd!’ echoed Lady Beverley scornfully. ‘It is Isabella’s duty to sacrifice herself. Something must be done to stop the wretched man from ruining Mannerling with his vulgar ruins and horrible alterations.’

Mr Judd retreated from the window and stood gnawing at his knuckles. And to think he had rather fancied that Isabella bitch! And yet she was so very beautiful. He had imagined taking her to London and being the envy of all the fellows. Black anger was rising up in him, but he put on his gambler’s poker face and went and knocked at the door.

Betty answered it but he did not wait for her to announce him, pushing rudely past the girl and walking straight into the parlour.

How well they did it, what an act, he thought as they clustered about him without one word of recrimination, all asking questions about his welfare.

‘I regret to say that a bolt of lightning struck me,’ he said, holding on to a chairback for support. ‘I was knocked unconscious. The physician said it was a miracle I was not struck dead. Imagine my horror when I regained my senses to remember with my first waking thought poor Miss Isabella. “Do not move,” they cried, but I was determined. I rode hell for leather back to the field and found Miss Isabella gone. I came straight here.’

‘Do sit down, Mr Judd. Betty, fetch the brandy,’ said Lady Beverley. The sisters, with the exception of Isabella, murmured little sympathetic noises. But the storm did not break until after I had been in that field for hours, thought Isabella. And if he rushed straight here, then how is it he has changed his clothes?

Her heart felt heavy and she became aware that the rest were darting anxious little looks in her direction. She forced herself to ask solicitously after his welfare. They all fussed about him, placing him in the best chair by the fire, finding him a footstool for his feet, and putting a silk cushion behind his head.

‘So how did you get home, Miss Isabella?’ he finally asked, those odd light-green eyes of his fixed on her face.

‘Lord Fitzpatrick came by and drove me here,’ said Isabella.

‘Fitzpatrick, hey? I sent him an invitation to call, which he refused. Who does he think he is, hey? But he’ll come to my ball. They’ll all come to Mannerling for a ball.’

Lady Beverley gave a little preliminary cough. ‘I would like to offer my services to you, Mr Judd. We have given many balls at Mannerling and I am accounted a fine hostess.’

‘No need for that,’ he said, ‘Miss Isabella here can give me any advice I need.’ He was beginning to enjoy the comedy, to enjoy the triumphant exchange of glances that this last statement had caused.

‘I should consider myself honoured,’ said Isabella politely.

Mr Judd said he could do with some help in drawing up the invitation list. He had meant to ask Mr Ducket, but they had told him at the inn at Hedgefield that Mr Ducket had left. ‘We can start now,’ said Isabella. She produced sheets of paper and a lead pencil and then Lady Beverley began to tell her which names to write down. To Mr Judd’s malicious and secret glee, Lady Beverley began to forget that it was not she who was giving the ball and said things like, ‘I suppose we shall have to ask the Tomneys, although they are really quite common and the daughter is a hoyden; and put down the Franks, unexceptionable, although I believe she drinks.’

Look at ’em, marvelled Mr Judd, lost their house and lost their lands and pretty much all of their possessions and yet as proud and haughty as ever.

Well, well, pride could be lost, too, and he, Ajax Judd, was going to see to that!

Better be courted and jilted

Than never be courted at all

THOMAS CAMPBELL

Isabella looked foward to her ride with the viscount. There was nothing to worry her there. She could be herself, be easy and friendly, not try to pretend to like a man she secretly despised. For she was now honest enough to admit to herself that she did not particularly like Mr Judd. But she lived in a world where ladies of the ton married men every day whom they did not particularly like – because families or lawyers or both had arranged the match, or simply because a lady just
had
to get married. And as the eldest sister, she felt the pressure from the others to get them back their home.

Mrs Kennedy arrived with the viscount in separate carriages, with Satan tied to the viscount’s curricle, which was a signal for Lady Beverley to retire to her bedchamber with a headache. Secretly she blamed her husband for all the indignities that had been heaped on her head, and Lady Beverley considered the affection with which even Jessica had begun to greet the arrival of Mrs Kennedy just one of those indignities.

She did not object to Isabella’s riding out with the viscount. She felt that perhaps Mr Judd might be spurred to warmer behaviour if he thought he had a rival.

The day was fresh and windy, with great white clouds tumbling across the sky. Isabella praised Mrs Kennedy’s needlework to her nephew and the viscount laughed and said if they ever lost all their money, he was sure his aunt could support him by turning professional dressmaker. Then he said, ‘And what of Judd? What had befallen him?’

‘Mr Judd said he had been struck by lightning and passed out.’

‘But you had been there for ages when I found you and the storm had not yet started!’

‘That is what he says and I must believe him.’

‘Why?’

‘It would be impolite to do otherwise.’

‘And did Sir William and Lady Beverley give him his character for having abandoned their daughter?’

‘They could hardly do that when the contrite gentleman came straight to Brookfield to give his apologies and say he had been struck by lightning.’

‘His clothes all charred?’

‘He had his evening clothes on.’

‘Hardly the young Lochinvar riding directly to his lady’s side.’

‘Let us not talk about him. Have you received a call from our good vicar?’

‘Ah, Mr Stoppard and his daughter Mary. Yes, they called several times.’

‘They have not called on us once,’ said Isabella bitterly.

‘That was always the way of toad-eaters. Talking of toad-eaters, have you ever seen one of those mountebanks’ creatures actually eat a toad?’

‘Once, when I was small, when our nurse took us to the fair. She lost her employ with us because of it.’

Their horses were ambling slowly together under the trees. Isabella still vividly remembered that day. Mountebanks and their toad-eaters were popular figures. After the toad-eater had swallowed a toad and slumped to the boards of the mountebank’s stage, the mountebank or quack would force a cure-all through the supposedly dying lips of the toad-eater, who would then leap to his feet. The mountebank would then make his way through the crowd, selling his cure-all to the gullible. Isabella remembered standing in the crowd watching the performance, remembered how frightened they had all been of the noise and jostling of the fair, of the crowd of ballad singers, bear wards, geomancers, hocus-pocus men, jugglers, mandrake men, merry andrews, puppet masters, rope dancers, tooth drawers, and tumblers. How on their return to the cool elegance of Mannerling they had told their mother of the visit to the fair, how Lady Beverley’s thin lips had folded into an even thinner line, and how the old nurse had been sent packing. And she remembered the nurse’s tears and her own guilt, knowing somehow that the nurse had only sought to entertain them and that they should not have complained.

‘Why on earth did she lose her job with you?’ she realized the viscount was asking.

She gave a weak smile and said, ‘Visits to fairs were not approved of by my parents.’

‘And did you terrifying children subsequently get rid of any governess who did not please you?’

Isabella bit her lip. ‘Such governesses as we have had, and the one Lizzie and the twins had before we moved to Brookfield, were sad, respectable creatures. I sometimes fret that our schooling has been genteel rather than educational, but after what happened to Nurse, we all made sure we did not complain. What can such women do if they are turned off without a reference?’

‘And yet turned off they were, for you said “governesses.” ’

‘Ah, well, as to that, Mama would meet someone at a rout or ball who would puff themselves up over the accomplishments of their daughters, accomplishments we did not excel in, such as water-colour painting or pianoforte playing, and so another governess had to be found to compete. But Mama always thought she was doing the best for us,’ added Isabella loyally.

‘You do not seem to have had a normal childhood. Did you not play in the stables or the hayloft or get up to any mischief?’

Isabella gave a little sigh. ‘I suppose we did not. It was always borne in us that we were ladies of fortune and rank and must always speak in low voices, never show vulgar animation, and yet we were happy. We had Mannerling, you see.’

And Mannerling, he thought, became substitute for human love and affection.

He felt he should begin to back away from her and not get too close. If he married her, then he would have the weight of the Beverley family around his neck. The first thing that selfish old charlatan, Sir William, would want him to do would be to buy back Mannerling from Judd, which of course he would not. Then he had to think more clearly about Isabella’s character and not be blinded by her beauty. Perhaps the damage had already been done and she could never love anyone better than she loved Mannerling.

‘Let’s gallop,’ he said abruptly. They spurred their horses and side by side raced down the bridle-path and out into the open country. Isabella felt a sudden rush of freedom and joy, as if she were flying away from all her cares – from Mr Judd, from the almost constant shadow of the Beverleys’s ruin.

The great horse surged under her as if infected by her gladness. With a feeling of triumph, she came abreast of the viscount and they hurtled out of the trees and across the fields, finally coming to a stop where the fields met the Hedgefield road.

‘Bravo!’ he cried. ‘You ride well.’

Isabella glowed with pleasure, her eyes meeting his in open friendship. ‘Let us ride on to the Green Man,’ he said, ‘and have something to drink.’

They cantered into Hedgefield and into the courtyard of the inn.

He lifted her down from the saddle and she lowered her eyelashes and turned slightly pink as she felt the pressure of his hands at her waist.

He looked at her quizzically as he led her into the inn, at her averted face.

But when they were seated and sharing a jug of lemonade, she appeared to recover her composure. She was beginning to chat happily about the fine points of Satan when the vicar and his daughter walked into the tap.

‘Oh, Miss Beverley,’ cooed Mary, stopping by their table and dropping a curtsy. ‘Have you seen Mr Judd?’

‘No,’ said Isabella. The landlord came into the tap at that moment and the vicar called to him, ‘Have you seen Mr Judd of Mannerling?’

‘Not since yesterday,’ said the landlord. ‘He was playing cards here all afternoon.’

‘You cannot mean Mr Judd,’ exclaimed Isabella. ‘He was struck by lightning, was he not?’

The landlord scratched his head. ‘Reckon I would ha’ heard of that, had it happened.’

‘What gave you such a
quaint
notion!’ declared Mary.

Stiff-necked pride stopped Isabella from saying that it was none other than Mr Judd himself who had told her so. The viscount, to her relief, remained silent. Mary’s black eyes darted from one to the other. Then she said, ‘We have received our invitations to the ball at Mannerling.’

Isabella felt another shock go through her. No invitations had arrived at Brookfield House. ‘Of course,’ Mary went on, ‘it will not be so
grand
as it was in Sir William’s day.’

‘Do not let us keep you,’ said the viscount in a flat voice.

‘Oh . . . yes, we will be on our way,’ said Mr Stoppard hurriedly. ‘I shall be calling on you soon, Lord Fitzpatrick.’

‘Pray do not. Mrs Kennedy, my aunt, is not in the best of health and we do not wish visitors.’

‘In that case, we will eagerly await her recovery,’ said the vicar, a red spot on each cheek. He recognized a snub, and so he should, thought Isabella bitterly. He had already had a long life of toadying and must have become used to it.

‘Dreadful people,’ murmured the viscount, and despite her distaste for them, Isabella was surprised at the extent of her own dislike. The toadying Stoppards had been so much part of the Mannerling life that until the Fall, as she called their ruin to herself, she had taken such grovelling adulation as her due. Again a picture of Mr Judd rose up in her mind. To go to such lengths for such a man! And then she was suddenly impatient with the viscount’s company, for it was surely his company which was making her lose sight of her objective.

The viscount watched amused as different emotions followed each other on Isabella’s face like cloud shadows crossing a field.