Banishment (Daughters of Mannerling 1) (2 page)

The Beverleys had decided that the duke must be a recluse and eccentric at that, for who in the rest of the county did not crave an invitation to Mannerling!

Isabella felt dusty and hot and, leaning down, cupped some water from the little stream and splashed her hot face.

Then she rose to her feet and began to make her way home across the fields, well aware that the coachman would have reported her strange behaviour to her parents. For a while, as she walked under the summer sun, past fields of wheat turning and shining in the breeze, she felt tired and somehow free. She wondered what it would be like to be Miss Beverley of Nowhere.

And yet, as she finally walked up the long drive and saw the magnificence of her family home spread in front of her, she felt a tug at her heart as if approaching a lover. She realized for the first time that she must look like a guy with her gown all white dust and her hair tumbling about her shoulders. Her lady’s-maid, Maria, ran out to meet her, chiding and exclaiming. Then her mother followed her up the staircase, saying in her flat cold voice that the doctor had been sent for. The coachman had reported that Miss Beverley was suffering from a touch of the sun.

In vain did Isabella protest. She was firmly put to bed, a towel soaked in cologne was placed on her forehead, and then the doctor came and prescribed a purge. Isabella waited until he had left, dismissed her maid, and poured the mixture out of the window. She had endured this doctor’s purges before and did not want another.

She tried to insist later that she was well enough to rise for dinner, but the Beverleys, that is, mother, father and sisters, were too shocked by her behaviour to risk more of it and so she had to content herself with invalid food on a tray in her room.

By next day Isabella, looking back on her own behaviour, came to believe that she had indeed had a touch of the sun. Restored once more to elegant beauty, exquisitely gowned and coiffed, walking through the elegant rooms of her home, under the painted ceilings where gods and goddesses disported themselves in a way that meant nothing to the virginal Isabella, she felt once more in her proper place and at peace with herself. Was it her fault that she was too good and too beautiful for any man in London? There must have been a poor crop at the Season. She had been unlucky, that was all.

In the time leading up to the ball, Sir William was increasingly absent from home, saying he had pressing business matters to attend to in London. But these were masculine things, surely, and of little interest to the daughters of Mannerling, who discussed endlessly what they would wear and how the rooms should be decorated.

Lady Beverley had never concerned herself with such vulgar matters as the price of anything. Swathes of silk to decorate the walls of the saloons were ordered from the mercers of Ludgate Hill, and new gowns for her daughters from the finest dressmaker; Gunter, the confectioner, was to be brought all the way from London at great expense to cater for the guests; and Neil Gow and his band, who played at Almack’s during the Season, were hired to entertain the guests.

After a discreet lapse of time, the bills for all this splendour would come flooding in, to be coped with by Sir William’s secretary, James Ducket. Extra servants were hired for the great evening, although Mannerling already had a large staff. As a last extravagance, Lady Beverley had ordered new livery for the footmen and gold dress swords to ornament them further.

Although the Beverley sisters did not work at all to help with the preparations – such a thought never entered their heads – they all confessed wearily that they would be glad when the great night arrived, for so much bustle and fuss was exhausting.

And yet it was Isabella who began to feel slightly uneasy about all the expense, particularly when she found a few days before the ball that her mother had ordered all the bed hangings to be changed for new ones. Now that she had attended balls and parties in great houses, she knew that even the grandest did not go on in such a lavish style, with the possible exception of the Prince Regent.

The sisters were to be gowned in various pastel shades of muslin. It was unfashionable for young ladies to wear expensive jewels, a simple strand of pearls or a coral necklace being the fashion. But Sir William liked to see his daughters bedecked and glittering with the finest jewels, although Isabella had conformed to fashion while in London.

The sisters bent their heads over the guest list, groaning a little over familiar names of gentlemen. That one lisped, this one was too poor, that one was too old, until they came to a late entry, Viscount Fitzpatrick. Mr Ducket, the secretary, was pressed for details. Lord Fitzpatrick, he said, was an Irish peer who had recently bought a property in Severnshire. ‘Oh, an
Irish
peer,’ they said in dismay, Irish peers being not bon ton, and dismissed the viscount from their minds.

The evening of the ball arrived. Isabella wondered what had happened to her as she stood at the top of the grand staircase with her parents. Her poise and equanimity were slowly deserting her again. Sir William had returned from London only that day and he appeared to have aged, but he stood with his wife and daughters and smiled and bowed as he greeted the guests. When Isabella finally moved into the ‘ballroom,’ which had been made from the chain of saloons, she realized that the mysterious Irish viscount had not put in an appearance. Her hand was instantly claimed for a dance by a Mr Tulley, who was not handsome at all and whose property was reputed to be falling into rack and ruin. Isabella stifled a sigh. The diamond tiara, which she had not worn in London, once more ornamented her hair, and a heavy diamond necklace, her neck. She had a brief little memory of what it had been like to run free across the fields but quickly banished it. Such thoughts were treacherous. She was the eldest sister and must set an example to the others. What of? ‘Failure,’ jeered a nasty new little niggling voice in her brain.

At the end of the dance, her father introduced her to Viscount Fitzpatrick. The viscount had just arrived. Isabella sank into an elegant curtsy – but not too low. One must remember he was an Irish peer. He was a tall man. It was not often Isabella had to look up to anyone in this age of short people, but the Irishman topped her by a head. He was impeccably dressed and he had well-coiffed thick black hair worn in the Windswept, but his blue eyes in his lightly tanned face were bright, intelligent, and mocking, almost as if he found the Beverleys and their ball a prime joke. Sir William and Lady Beverley exchanged glances and then went off, leaving the couple together. Isabella’s heart sank. From formerly being considered fit partner only for a duke, her parents might now have lowered their sights and thought an Irish peer good enough.

‘You are a beautiful ornament to a beautiful home,’ said the viscount.

‘I am very proud of my home.’ Isabella sounded complacent. ‘And my sisters,’ she added, smiling indulgently across the room to where the other five stood in conversation.

‘It’s like a museum,’ he said in awe, ‘and you and your sisters are like exhibits under glass.’

Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘That is impertinent.’

‘I am allowed an observation,’ he said with unimpaired good humour. ‘Pray walk with me and show me some of the beauties of your home.’

So Isabella led him back to the landing overlooking the main staircase and pointed out with pride the painted ceiling, a swirling baroque assembly of classical deities, and then her voice gained energy and warmth as she went on to describe some of the many treasures of the house: the remarkable walnut Queen Anne chairs in the drawing room; the delicately carved rococo chimney-piece and overmantel of the fireplace in the library; the chinoiserie mirrors in the Blue Saloon; the large musical clock in the Red Saloon, which played a different tune for every day of the week; and the two Boulle marriage chests in the morning room.

He gave a little shiver and his blue eyes danced. ‘Faith, it’s like being at an auction sale,’ he said.

‘I
beg
your pardon, my lord.’

‘It’s the way you give me an inventory of the contents. I am a superstitious man and would feel it was tempting fate if I itemized the contents of my home to a guest. “How much am I bid for this fine painting?” – that sort of thing. Now shall we dance?’

Isabella was tempted to snub him as she had snubbed so many in London but was taken aback when he said gently, ‘That is, if it is correct to ask a married lady such as yourself to dance.’

‘You jest. I am not married.’

‘Oh, but you are.’ He drew her arm through his own and led her back into the ballroom. ‘You are married to this house, to Mannerling. Such devotion, such passion is wasted on bricks and mortar and geegaws.’

She opened her mouth to protest but he drew her into the steps of a waltz. He chatted easily about his problems of getting his English estate in order and she began to relax. There was a warmth and friendliness about him that she found engaging. She liked to pigeon-hole people and so she put him down in her mind as an amusing rattle, not marriageable but entertaining, and in relaxing in his company and laughing at his sallies did not realize that animation was adding to her beauty.

He danced again with her that evening and after it was over led her up to her father and asked permission to go out riding with her. Lady Beverley, standing beside her husband, said, to Isabella’s embarrassment, ‘We expect our daughter to marry the highest in the land.’

‘But of course,’ said Lord Fitzpatrick easily, seeming not in the least put out. ‘Shall I call for you, say, at two o’clock on Monday, Miss Isabella?’

‘Thank you,’ said Isabella. She could not quite believe that her stately and elegant mother had been so, well, blunt.

The ball proceeded to its elegant end. Guests who were staying went off to their respective rooms, guests who were leaving got into their carriages and bowled off down the long drive.

Isabella was glad to retire to her room and allow her sleepy maid to prepare her for bed. Most ladies chatted after a ball to their servants, but not Isabella. She had been surrounded by so many servants since the day she was born and considered them part of the furniture; and besides, had been influenced by a father who expected all servants to be seen and not heard and even to turn their faces to the wall as he passed. To her surprise there was a scratching at the door. She sent her maid to answer it, thinking it might be one of her sisters come for a chat, but it was a tired and worried Mr Ducket, the secretary, who walked into the room.

‘I crave your pardon for disturbing you so late, Miss Isabella,’ he said, ‘but Sir William is leaving directly for London and wishes to take all the jewels to be cleaned.’

Isabella looked at her tiara and necklace, still lying on the toilet-table where the maid had placed them when she had taken them off. ‘They were cleaned before the beginning of the Season, if you remember,’ she said. ‘Pray leave them.’

‘Sir William is anxious to depart and was most insistent that I collect all the jewels.’

‘Oh, very well,’ said Isabella.

Mr Ducket snapped his fingers. Two footmen entered carrying a large iron-bound box. They threw back the lid and Mr Ducket put the tiara and necklace into it.

‘And all the others,’ he said apologetically.

Isabella felt too tired to question him further. She nodded to her maid, who went to fetch Isabella’s jewel box. The contents were added to those in the chest.

But when they had gone, when a weary Isabella climbed into bed, a bright image of the jewels in the chest came into her mind. She remembered seeing Jessica’s ruby necklace, the twins’ pearl sets, bit and pieces of her mother’s collection poking up amongst the others. How odd that her father should decide to get them all cleaned at once.

The sisters all felt rather flat and low after the excitement of the ball. They talked of beaux but without much enthusiasm. Isabella’s invitation to go riding with the viscount did not interest them. The Beverleys did not judge men by looks and character but by fortune and rank. But Isabella found herself actually looking forward to the outing. It was all very safe. He knew the Beverleys considered him unmarriageable. The Beverleys were of higher rank because of lineage and wealth and they were
English
.

On the Monday when Isabella went out with the viscount she was mounted on a placid white mare with a broad back.

‘That must be like riding on a sofa,’ he commented, looking down at her from the height of his stallion. ‘Do you never wish to ride something speedier?’

Isabella patted the mare’s neck. ‘I thought we could ride about the grounds and I could show you some of the features of our estate.’

‘And I think we should ride to my place where I can find you a mount and then we can go for a proper ride.’

As he said this, they had ridden a certain distance from Mannerling and it was almost as if the spell the house normally cast on her was losing its hold as Isabella said, ‘Are you so sure, my lord, that I can ride anything more exciting?’

‘I think you would tell me you could not.’

‘Very well. But is it conventional to go to your estate?’

‘My aunt is in residence. We shall be going to the stables, perhaps to the house later.’

‘Then we will see whether I can manage your choice of mount.’

Isabella was wearing a pale-blue velvet riding dress frogged with gold. On her head was a jaunty little hat with a chiffon scarf wound round it, the ends being left to float out from the back. He was in a well-cut black jacket, doeskin breeches, and boots with brown tops.

They rode away from the Mannerling estate at a sedate canter, which was all Isabella’s mare could manage. As they approached the stables of Perival, the name of Lord Fitzpatrick’s estate, Isabella began to look curiously about her. There seemed to be a great deal of activity everywhere. Men were working on the roofs of cottages, men and women were working in the fields. She had expected everything to be run down and so it was, but energetic efforts appeared to be underway to put everything right.

‘I bought it cheaply,’ he said as if reading her thoughts, ‘although the repairs and work to be put in on the fields will come to quite a bit.’