Banishment (Daughters of Mannerling 1) (3 page)

She wanted to say that she thought Irish peers never had any money at all but did not because it would be impolite. When they arrived at the stables, she had a clear view of the house, a fairly modern mansion; she remembered hearing that it had been built in 1750. It was solid and square without ornament or even creeper to soften its lines, but it looked sturdy and well-built.

The viscount had brought servants from Ireland, particularly stable staff, and he was amused at the effect on them of the beauty of Isabella Beverley. His head groom stood open-mouthed and had to be gently called to order. A tall, rangy-looking hunter was brought out for Isabella’s inspection. ‘His name is Satan,’ said the viscount. ‘Do you think you can handle him?’

The pride of the Beverleys came to Isabella’s rescue. ‘Of course,’ she said haughtily.

Her side-saddle was taken off the mare and put on the hunter, which was led out to the mounting-block. She was helped up into the saddle. The ground seemed an awful long way below her. ‘Ready?’ asked the viscount and she nodded.

They set off and then the viscount turned off down a bridle-path lined with trees. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s see how fast we can go.’

Her heart in her mouth, Isabella spurred Satan to a gallop. He went off like the wind. At first it was terrifying, then it was exhilarating, then she felt like singing for joy as the great horse flew like a bird straight down the path and then across open fields. She finally reined in beside the viscount at the top of a rise, her eyes shining and her face flushed. ‘Well done, Miss Beverley,’ he said with a touch of surprise in his voice.

‘You play a dangerous game, my lord,’ she said lightly. ‘What would you have done had I not been able to handle the brute?’

‘You forget, I am an Irishman. I could tell by the very way you sat on Satan as we rode out from the stables that you could hold him. Besides, he’s safe enough. Neither a biter nor a bolter.’

‘I would like to buy him,’ said Isabella.

‘My regrets, lady, he is not for sale.’

‘I would give you a good price.’

‘That is one of my favourite horses and I would not part with him for money . . . or for love.’ His blue eyes glinted at her. ‘Anyway, there are things that are not for sale, O rich Miss Beverley.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as warmth and loyalty and friendship. Most of my servants would opt to work for me without wages should I fall on hard times.’

‘As would ours, I hope,’ said Isabella.

‘Would they now? Care for them, do you? Look after them when they’re sick?’

‘We have an excellent butler and housekeeper. The welfare of the servants is their business.’

‘I have heard it said in the county that Sir William expects the servants to make themselves scarce when he approaches, or to turn their faces to the wall. You know, that sort of master does not often command loyalty, and one never knows when one will need loyalty.’

‘My father is a fair master and pays the wages promptly each quarter-day.’

‘Money again. I fear you love only material things, Miss Beverley. Your soul is made up of bricks and mortar and money – oh, and woods and trees, too, if carefully domesticated and put into pleasing vistas.’

‘Really, my lord, I wonder you care for my company as you are so highly critical of me!’

‘You forget your exceptional beauty.’

‘I am tired,’ said Isabella abruptly, ‘and wish to return.’

‘We shall take tea with my aunt first. She will enjoy your company.’

‘Perhaps another time . . .’

‘I told her to expect you, and old ladies are not to be disappointed.’

And so Isabella, after they had returned to the stables and dismounted, found herself meekly accompanying him into his home.

She was pleased, for she had taken him in dislike because of his criticisms, to notice that his house was not particularly richly furnished. In the drawing room the paintings were all dark hunting scenes or landscapes, badly in need of cleaning. It was then that she remembered her father taking all the jewels to London. How very odd. But then her attention was taken by a small square lady with a round red face who had risen to meet her. ‘Aunt, may I present Miss Beverley, our neighbour,’ said the viscount. ‘Miss Beverley, my Aunt Mary, Mrs Kennedy.’

‘Sure and it’s the beauty you are,’ said Mrs Kennedy, beaming up at Isabella. ‘Come sit yourself down and give me your crack.’

How terribly vulgar she is, thought Isabella, feeling more superior by the minute. She sat next to Mrs Kennedy on the sofa and accepted a cup of tea. Mrs Kennedy blew noisily on her tea before drinking it with noisy slurps.

‘Ah, that’s better, sure it is,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Nothing like a dish of tay. Did you enjoy your ride, Miss Bever1ey.’

‘Yes, I thank you, ma’am.’

‘And try the fruit-cake, do. I made it meself wit’ me own hands. Do you bake, Miss Beverley?’

Isabella gave a little laugh. ‘I leave such things to the servants, Mrs Kennedy.’

‘Ah, but to be a good mistress you should be able to do everything your servants can do and better. Is that not the truth now, Guy?’

‘Not this generation, Aunt Mary,’ said the viscount. ‘You are sadly out of touch with fashionable ladies. A fashionable lady never even opens the door for herself.’

‘Now that’s a crying shame,’ said Mrs Kennedy.

‘I see no reason for an unnecessary training in house-keeping,’ said Isabella firmly.

‘You might not always have servants . . .’ began Mrs Kennedy, and to Isabella’s surprise the old lady promptly fell silent after a warning look from her nephew. But the viscount had surely warned his aunt that she was in danger of being impertinent. Isabella began to talk easily about the ball at Mannerling, of the courses served at supper, of the music, of how everyone had fallen in love with Mannerling.

‘There are six of you,’ said Mrs Kennedy. ‘The six beautiful daughters of Mannerling. Did nobody fall in love with any of you? Or was the love all for the house?’

God spare me from the Irish, thought Isabella, feeling cross again. She rose to her feet and said, ‘I really must leave. My sisters and mother will be wondering what has become of me.’

‘Then you must call again, m’dear,’ said Mrs Kennedy warmly. ‘You know the way.’

Her mare was once more saddled up and she and the viscount made their staid way to Mannerling. He again pointed out various repairs that were taking place, and how he planned to drain the six acre, idle, harmless country chit-chat which made Isabella feel quite in charity with him.

She made her goodbyes. He refused her polite invitation to step indoors for some refreshment. He bowed, said he would call on her quite soon, and swung his athletic body up into the saddle.

Isabella went to join her sisters and mother in the drawing room. She gave a very funny description of Mrs Kennedy which set them all laughing, and wondered why she began to feel quite small and mean and diminished.

She changed the subject abruptly by asking, ‘Why did Papa find it necessary to take all the jewellery to London to be cleaned, Mama? Most of mine was cleaned before the beginning of the Season.’

‘I really don’t know, my dear,’ said Lady Beverley. ‘But be sure your father knows what he is doing.’

Later that day, Isabella went to the study where the secretary was working over some estate papers. ‘Mr Ducket,’ she said, ‘that mare of mine is a trifle tame. I wish to buy a horse with more speed and power.’

To her surprise he looked awkward and embarrassed. ‘It is not for me to say, Miss Beverley, whether you should have a new horse or not. I beg you to apply to Sir William when he returns.’

‘But that is not necessary,’ said Isabella. ‘I do not know any horse dealers. I wish you to arrange it. Have a selection of horses brought to the stables for my inspection.’

‘I must insist that you wait for your father’s return, Miss Beverley.’

‘I find your attitude most odd, Mr Ducket. We have always applied to you in the past for things when Papa has been absent.’

‘I am sorry, but those are my instructions,’ he said.

‘From Papa? How strange,’ said Isabella huffily. ‘I am sure you are mistaken and he will be most cross with you on his return.’

She felt quite taken aback. She had never been refused anything before.

Eating the bitter bread of banishment

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Any lady of less arrogance and pride than Isabella Beverley would have thought often of the handsome viscount, but as a week went past, Isabella almost forgot about him, until on the following Monday he sent a footman over with a request that she should go out on a drive with him. The weather during the preceding week had been rainy and unseasonably cold, but the sun had started to shine again and Isabella, after consulting her mother, decided that a further acquaintance with the viscount could be used to advantage. ‘Perhaps I have been too stiff and cold with the gentlemen I have met,’ said Isabella earnestly. ‘I could practise my social manners on this viscount.’

And so, attired in a carriage gown and smart hat, Isabella smiled at the viscount as he assisted her into his curricle and called to the Mannerling groom to stand away from the horses’ heads.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Isabella. She did hope they were not going to visit his aunt.

‘To Hedgefield.’

‘To the town? But there is a fair on today, is there not?’

‘Do you not like fairs?’

‘I have only been to one. Are they not rather noisy and vulgar?’

‘Great fun, I assure you, Miss Beverley.’

Isabella thought that if she protested, then he might decide to take her to see his aunt. So she gave a little smile and said it might be amusing.

He reached a crossroads where dead and rotting bodies swung over their heads on a gibbet and then took the left turn, which led to the town of Hedgefield.

As they entered the town, Isabella began to wish she had stated firmly that she did not want to go. So many people, so many
common
people, so many booths and flags and bunting, so much noise. She felt the quiet, cool rooms of Mannerling calling her home, calling her back.

He drove into the yard of the central inn, the Green Man. ‘Would you like some refreshment first?’ he asked as he helped her down and then threw a coin to an ostler who had come to take the horses to the stables.

But Isabella shook her head. A few moments at the fair and then she would plead a headache and ask to be taken home. They left the inn-yard and began to move among the booths, Isabella holding in her skirts, as if brushing them against the common herd would contaminate her in some way.

‘This conjuror is very good,’ said the viscount, stopping outside a booth. To Isabella’s horror, he bought two tickets and ushered her into the greenish gloom of the tent behind.

I shall
never
forgive him for this, thought Isabella as she sat on a hard bench at the very front. The fact that everyone was exclaiming and staring at her beauty went unnoticed by her. For all her faults, she was not vain about her looks and assumed everyone was staring at her because she was a stranger and because of the richness of her clothes. A large farmer’s wife carrying a basket sat down next to her, children were running and screaming around and under the benches, and the air was full of the smell of oranges, which some of the audience had bought from a seller outside.

Isabella had just decided to feign a headache and ask to be taken home when the conjuror appeared. He seemed a nervous young man and he was wearing a plain black morning coat and knee-breeches and a high cravat. He looked sadly round the audience and then solemnly appeared to take a coloured ball out of his ear. He looked at it in comic surprise. Then he took another from the back of his neck and another materialized from the top of his head, and so he went on until he had eight small coloured balls which he proceeded to juggle. Then he gave a little sigh and threw them all up in the air . . . and they magically disappeared.

And from that moment, Miss Isabella Beverley promptly forgot her surroundings and sat, fascinated, on the edge of the bench. When he finished his act by producing a whole bowl of live goldfish from under the tails of his coat, she clapped as loudly and rapturously as anyone else. And somehow, as they emerged blinking into the sunlight, Isabella became part of the fair, part of the crowds. She demanded to see the two-headed pig, the Morality play, and the painted lady. She searched through the booths which sold scarves, trinkets, and fans, cakes and jam, exclaiming at how inexpensive everything was, which surprised the viscount, who was amazed to learn that she knew the price of anything.

It was when they were drinking lemonade in the inn that a shadow began to fall across Isabella’s bright day. She said, ‘My ride on your Satan has quite spoiled me for my quiet mare. Papa is in London. I asked our secretary to see about purchasing me a proper mount and he said I must wait for Papa’s return.’

‘That seems sensible,’ remarked the viscount.

‘But Mr Ducket, that’s the secretary, has always handled things like that in Papa’s absence.’

‘A good hunter like Satan costs quite a deal of money. Have you considered that?’

Isabella gave him an amused smile. ‘That is one of the problems the Beverley family does not have, my lord.’

He put down his glass and looked at her seriously. ‘Things in life can change. Even families as rich as yours can come upon hard times.’

‘What can you mean? Such an idea is unthinkable.’

‘Just a word of caution. In any case, why worry? You can send a servant over to collect Satan and go for a ride any time you want.’

‘Thank you,’ said Isabella. ‘But it was most odd of you to hint that something might happen to our fortunes. You were hinting, were you not?’

But he appeared not to hear her. ‘If we leave now,’ he said, ‘we can avoid the crush of carriages on the road when the fair finishes.’

She suddenly wanted to tell him about those jewels. But he might voice the worry that had been growing and growing in her mind – that Papa meant to sell them, that something had happened to her golden world. But then the thought that he might confirm her worry in some way frightened her even more. Papa would be back soon and all would be well again.