Banishment (Daughters of Mannerling 1) (5 page)

She basked a little in her sisters’ awed admiration before she set out. Walking! Dear heavens!

Barry was waiting for her, already to Isabella a sturdy and reassuring figure.

They set out along the road, Barry walking a few paces behind, a stout cudgel in his hand in case any footpads should venture out in the daylight to accost them.

There were fresh bodies on the gibbet at the crossroads that day. Isabella averted her eyes.

After another mile, she said, ‘Pray walk with me, Barry. I become weary of my own company.’

He fell into step beside her. ‘I trust you are not over-fatigued, miss.’

‘I am a trifle tired, I must admit, but we are nearly at Mannerling.’

‘Yes, miss. As to that, I know another road which will get us to Perival just as quick and yet avoid going near Mannerling.’

‘Why should we do that?’

‘I thought it might be painful for you, miss, in the circumstances.’

She stopped and looked at him in surprise, noticing the concern in his eyes. ‘How kind of you,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘How very kind. But I would like a look, you know, just down the drive.’

‘Very well, miss. Let it be as you wish. But sometimes, I reckon, one has to let go of things.’

The next bend of the road took them to the great iron gates of Mannerling. Barry stood back as Isabella walked slowly up to the closed gates and leaned against them, staring hungrily down the long straight drive to the home which had so recently been her family’s.

She gave a choked little sob and turned away.

‘Come along, miss,’ urged Barry. ‘Come away. ’Twon’t be long now. A dish of tea will set you to rights.’

Mrs Kennedy looked out of the window of her drawing room and let out a loud squawk of dismay.

‘What’s amiss?’ asked the viscount.

‘Fan me ye winds,’ she cried, ‘if it isn’t that poor lamb come all the way here on foot and with only a rough country fellow to escort her.’

With surprising speed in such a plump lady, she hurtled out of the drawing room, down the stairs, out of the front drive and ran to meet Isabella, gathering the startled girl in her arms and giving her a warm hug.

‘There now,’ said Mrs Kennedy. ‘You must be so tired. You should have asked us to send a carriage.’

‘I enjoyed the walk,’ said Isabella, gently disengaging herself. ‘Besides, I had Barry here to protect me.’

Mrs Kennedy looked at the squat burly figure of Barry. ‘You’re an odd fellow for a footman.’

‘Barry Wort at your service,’ he said, giving a low bow. ‘I am odd man to the Beverley family, being recently engaged.’

Of course the poor Beverleys could no longer afford footmen, thought Mrs Kennedy, leading Isabella towards the house. She turned to Barry on the doorstep. ‘If you go to the kitchens, my man, you will find a good jug of ale.’

The viscount came down the stairs to meet them. For the first time Isabella really took in the fact that he was an extremely handsome man. It was such a pity he was Irish.

In the drawing room, the viscount and his aunt confined their conversation to polite generalities about the weather, crops, and the general state of the nation.

At last Mrs Kennedy asked how Isabella was settling down in her new home.

Isabella, who had had a temporary setback in that her old pride had reasserted itself, remembered the purpose of her visit and that she could not afford pride any more.

‘We are experiencing certain difficulties,’ she said, ‘because of the speed with which we had to set up house at Brookfield. The servants, such as we have, are untrained, and the cook-housekeeper does not know how to cook. Neither my mother nor my sisters or I have the necessary training in housework to school them.’

‘I have,’ said Mrs Kennedy. She turned to her nephew. ‘Be so good as to order the carridge immediately.’

‘Please, ma’am,’ begged Isabella, startled at the speed with which help was being offered and not sure now that she wanted it, ‘I am sure we can manage.’

‘Poor lamb. I am sure you cannot. Don’t come with us, Guy. This is woman’s work, and men are sore out o’ place in the kitchen.’

And ladies, thought Isabella haughtily, and then chided herself and wondered if she would ever come to terms with being the poor Miss Beverley.

So when the carriage was brought round, she meekly went out with Mrs Kennedy, whose eyes were flashing with an almost religious zeal.

‘And what is the name of this cratur who is holding sway in your kitchen?’ she asked.

‘A Mrs Pearce.’

‘Right you are, m’dear. You leave her to me.’

Isabella kept glancing sideways at the bulk of Mrs Kennedy as they were driven to Brookfield House. What a quiz of a bonnet! How her sisters would giggle. Thank goodness her parents were too cast down to be chilly.

By the time they reached home, she was heartily wishing she had never gone to appeal to Mrs Kennedy for help. Barry, who had travelled on the backstrap, helped them from the carriage.

‘Some tea or a glass of wine, perhaps?’

‘No, no, m’dear,’ said Mrs Kennedy, following her into the house. ‘Civilities later. Work first. Lead the way to the kitchen.’

Isabella reluctantly led the way through to the back quarters and pushed open the kitchen door. A small boy was washing dishes in the scullery. Mrs Pearce was sitting at the table with a glass of gin and hot.

‘What’s this?’ demanded Mrs Pearce, staggering to her feet.

‘I am Mrs Kennedy of Perival and I am here to train you in your job.’

‘I don’t need no training,’ said the cook drunkenly.

Mrs Kennedy put her hands on her hips and stared at the cook. ‘You are beyond training. Pack your traps and get out.’

‘You have no right . . .’ began Mrs Pearce, but Mrs Kennedy’s late husband had been an army officer and she had followed him on many a campaign and had adopted his military manner when necessary.

‘
OUT
!’ she shouted. ‘And be damned to ye for a useless hussy.’

When Mrs Pearce had cursed her way out, Isabella sat wearily down at the kitchen table. ‘What do we do now?’ she asked.

‘Who employed this Pearce cratur?’

‘Mr Ducket, Papa’s secretary. I saw his horse when we arrived.’

The Beverleys and Mr Ducket felt that Mrs Kennedy had descended on them like a whirlwind. Mrs Kennedy drove off with Mr Ducket into the town, placed a board outside the inn asking for the services of a cook-housekeeper, and then dealt briskly with the applicants and then, to Mr Ducket’s consternation, settled on a pensioned army sergeant with one leg who said he could do a deal of plain cooking and would be quick to learn the ‘fancy stuff.’ His name was Joshua Evans. He had grey hair, a thin, clever face, and an engaging smile.

His bags were collected and he was removed to the kitchen of Brookfield House, where Mrs Kennedy donned a voluminous apron and both got to work.

Mrs Kennedy refused to stay for dinner. She kissed Isabella on the cheek and said she would return on the morrow to further Joshua’s education and have a talk to the maids.

Dinner was simple but excellent. Joshua had told the maids to be as quiet as possible when serving the meal, not to rush, not to get flustered, and they managed very well. The Beverley sisters, with the exception of Isabella, entertained their mother and father with impersonations of Mrs Kennedy until Isabella told them sharply to stop.

‘Are we going to malign and sneer at the one person who has helped us?’ she cried.

‘Oh, we’ll talk about something else,’ said Jessica. ‘Papa, this Mr Judd. What kind of person is he?’

‘Nothing much,’ said Sir William. ‘Lucky at cards. Dedicated gambler. Foxy-looking fellow.’

‘And what is Mrs Judd like?’ asked Belinda.

Sir William leaned back in his chair. There was a little colour in his cheeks and he was quite sober. The organization of his servants by Mrs Kennedy had enlivened him, as had the good food. ‘There is no Mrs Judd,’ he said. ‘The fellow is a bachelor.’

Six pairs of eyes stared at him. The daughters of Mannerling digested this fascinating piece of information.

‘But, Papa,’ said Isabella slowly, ‘why did you not mention this before?’

‘I did not want to talk about the man. He took everything from me, but I have to admit, he won fair and square.’

Isabella clasped her hands and looked at him earnestly. ‘Whoever marries Mr Judd will be mistress of Mannerling.’

‘Oh, Isabella,’ cried Jessica, forgetting her sister’s monumental failure in the marriage stakes of London. ‘
You
could marry him and then we could all go home.’

‘Home,’ echoed the others. ‘Home.’

Your beautiful bit who hath all eyes upon her;

That her honesty sells for a hogo of honour;

Whose lightness and brightness doth cast such a splendour,

That none are thought fit but the stars to attend her,

Though now she seems pleasant and sweet to the seme, Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.

THOMAS JORDAN

‘You must use Lord Fitzpatrick to practise on,’ said Jessica.

The sisters were sitting on the grass outside their home on a fine day. Mrs Kennedy’s voice could occasionally be heard sounding from the house as she lectured the maids.

‘What makes you think I need practice?’ demanded Isabella huffily.

‘Because of your failure at the Season,’ remarked Lizzie quietly. The rest looked at her nervously. She had finally voiced what they had all been thinking.

‘Oh, if I am such a failure,’ exclaimed Isabella, ‘perhaps one of the rest of you should go after this Mr Judd.’

‘It is your duty as the eldest and most beautiful,’ said Jessica firmly. ‘Besides, I noticed at the ball that you were much at your ease with Lord Fitzpatrick. If you behave with this Mr Judd as you behave with Lord Fitzpatrick, then there should be no trouble at all.’

‘What age is this Mr Judd?’ asked Lizzie.

‘In his thirties,’ remarked Abigail. ‘Betty, the new maid, is a relative of one of the maids at Mannerling and she told me.’

‘But this man is a hardened gamester,’ said Lizzie, ‘and yet Isabella must sacrifice herself for the sake of getting our old home back.’

‘Pooh, as to that, I would marry the devil himself if I could get Mannerling back,’ said Isabella. ‘But you are right in your strictures. I had been brought up to suppose that our wealth and rank could get us any man I wanted and so I was too stiff and formal. And I do not think it will further any friendship with Viscount Fitzpatrick if we sit here lazily while his aunt does the work that we should be doing.’

‘How can we?’ asked Abigail. ‘We know nothing of housework.’

Isabella rose gracefully to her feet. ‘Then it is time we all found out. I think Mrs Kennedy should instruct
us
.’

They looked at her with varying degrees of horror. ‘Why not?’ demanded Isabella. ‘Do we sit here uselessly with the whole day to pass?’

Her sisters followed her reluctantly indoors and explained to Mrs Kennedy that they would be most grateful if she could introduce them to the arts of housewifery. ‘To be sure I can,’ said the good lady, her round face beaming with pleasure. ‘I am just going to the kitchen to school that new cook of yours in some fancier dishes.’

At first the girls stood around sulkily, listening to Mrs Kennedy’s lectures on sauces, but when she turned her attention to them and began to instruct them on how to make pastry, they began at first reluctantly to work and then with increasing enthusiasm as pastry was rolled out for tarts. By the time little fruit tarts had been placed tenderly in the oven, they felt they could hardly wait to see the results.

Joshua Evans, the cook, limped about on his wooden leg and smiled at their enthusiasm and then, at Mrs Kennedy’s invitation, sat down with them at the kitchen table when the tarts were ready, to sample some of them. Isabella was so proud of her efforts that she ran outside to fetch Barry to join the party.

Lady Beverley opened the door of the kitchen and stood transfixed at the sight of her elegant daughters hob-nobbing with the servants. She then retreated but waited until Mrs Kennedy had left before she summoned the girls to the drawing room and gave them a blistering lecture on the folly of not knowing their place and encouraging familiarity among the servants.

‘It is all part of the plan,’ said Jessica. ‘Isabella is to practise flirting with the viscount so that she may learn how to woo this Mr Judd. Besides, Mama, it was rather fun. And we are to go to Perival tomorrow to learn how to make over gowns.’

‘Make over gowns!’ Lady Beverley raised her thin white hands in horror. ‘Why?’

‘Because the ones we have cannot last forever,’ said Lizzie.

‘But if Isabella is to marry Mr Judd, then we will be back at Mannerling and all will be as it was,’ wailed Lady Beverley.

Are we all mad? wondered Isabella suddenly. But she said aloud, ‘Even if I were to marry this Mr Judd, I could not possibly say to him, “I am moving my whole family back into residence and I want you to return all our jewellery and I want everything to be as it was.” ’

There was a sad little silence as they all digested this grim fact. Then Lizzie said, ‘Well, in any case, I think we should all go to Perival tomorrow. I enjoy doing things and not sitting idle.’

‘How are you to get there?’ demanded Lady Beverley.

‘Mrs Kennedy is sending a carriage,’ said Isabella.

‘You mean a
carridge
,’ pointed out Jessica and they all, with the exception of Isabella, giggled.

Lady Beverley sighed. ‘That one should have to associate with such people.’

‘People like Mrs Kennedy have warmth and kindness, so perhaps that is why such as she appears strange to us,’ said Isabella wrathfully. She swept from the room and banged the door behind her in a most unladylike way.

‘Dear me,’ said Lady Beverley, ‘I do hope this Mrs Kennedy is not going to be a lowering influence on the manners of our dear Isabella.’

‘Perhaps her manners will need to be lowered enough to chase after a gamester,’ said Lizzie quietly, but no one paid any attention to her.