Deception (Daughters of Mannerling 3) (10 page)

When Rachel awoke the next morning, she began to feel nervous. Harry was due home and she had not really thought much about him when he had been away. She had thought only of the wedding, of her pretty gown, of having her family all about her. It was nothing to do with Mannerling, and yet there had been a little feeling of triumph inside her that she had succeeded where her sisters had failed. Now that she was back at Mannerling, she felt as if she had never left the place. She belonged. If only that belonging was not to be spoiled by having to marry Harry Devers.

She heard the sound of carriage wheels on the drive and went to the window and looked down. Harry Devers had come home. He had grown a splendid pair of side-whiskers, that much she could see. Then he took off his hat and looked up. Rachel drew back behind the curtains. Harry did not look like the handsome, fair-haired man she had last seen. His hair was thick with bear’s-grease, making it look darker, and his face was swollen and red.

I must make him shave off those whiskers, she thought. He looks like a stranger. She felt she should run down and welcome him but put off the moment. She would see him at dinner that evening. She went for a walk in the gardens that afternoon with her sisters, trying to appear as cheerful and happy as she had been before seeing Harry. But Abigail was not deceived. After the walk she followed Rachel into her room and asked abruptly, ‘What is wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ retorted Rachel defensively. Then she said with a reluctant little laugh, ‘Oh, well, a touch of bride nerves, I assume. Harry is back. I saw him from the window and barely recognized him. He is sprouting a pair of whiskers.’

Abigail sat down in a chair by the window and removed her bonnet. ‘Perhaps you should go and see him now, Rachel, and not wait until this evening.’

‘I am sure he has much to tell his mother and father,’ said Rachel. ‘I will wait until dinner.’

When the sisters entered the drawing room that evening, Harry stepped forward, seized Abigail’s hand and kissed it, saying, ‘You look more beautiful than ever, my love.’

Abigail extricated her hand. ‘Wrong lady,’ she said. ‘You mean my sister, Rachel.’

‘Eh, what? Oh, yes,’ said Harry. ‘Fact is, you both look so alike, I find it hard to tell you apart.’

Wishful thinking before his arrival had begun to persuade the Beverley sisters that Harry really loved Rachel and was a reformed character. They had forgotten that it was hardly a loverlike trait to be unable to tell the twins apart. Abigail could not help noticing those bristling side-whiskers, the flushed face, and the thickened body. Nor could she fail to remark that when they all sat down to dinner, that only lemonade and seltzer were being served.

‘What is this?’ demanded Harry loudly, staring at the jugs. ‘A children’s party? Where’s the wine, demme?’

‘A word with you, my son,’ said Mr Devers.

He drew Harry out of the room and said in a savage whisper, ‘You will drink nothing stronger than lemonade until after the wedding. Do I make myself clear? The cellars are locked and bolted until then. If you want me to buy you out of the army, you will think on that!’

They returned to the dinner table. Harry threw everyone a weak smile. He tried to maintain an easy flow of conversation during dinner but gradually relapsed into a sulky silence.

We are not having wine because his parents are frightened he will get drunk, thought Abigail in alarm. They are frightened he will betray himself.

Fortunately for Rachel, the old magic of Mannerling gripped a sober Harry. During the next few days, he was as she remembered. He took her out driving, he walked with her in the grounds, and although she often found his conversation boring, she was reassured. Everything would be all right. Husbands were not expected to be witty.

Two days before the wedding, the guests who were to stay began to arrive, among them Lady Evans, Miss Trumble, and Lord Burfield.

Lizzie could not help noticing the way Lord Burfield went straight up to Abigail, bowed over her hand, and said, ‘It is a pleasure to meet you again, Miss Abigail.’ Such as Lord Burfield, thought Lizzie, would never mistake one twin for the other.

Lord Burfield drew Abigail aside that afternoon and said, ‘Will you walk in the gardens with me, Miss Abigail?’

Abigail nodded her assent. Once outside, she gave a little sigh, glad to be away from the mixture of worry and pity in Miss Trumble’s eyes, and the preening of her mother, who was already ordering the servants about as if she, and not Mrs Devers, were mistress of Mannerling.

‘So how does it feel to be back, Miss Abigail?’ asked Lord Burfield.

‘It feels as if we had never left,’ said Abigail reluctantly.

‘And you approve of this wedding?’

‘Rachel is happy.’

‘Is she so much in love?’

‘That I do not know. But she is happy.’
Was
happy, mocked a treacherous little voice in Abigail’s brain. ‘I am glad to see Miss Trumble again,’ she said, ‘although I have not yet had much chance to talk to her.’

Nor tried very hard, thought Lord Burfield, who had noticed the way the sisters had avoided Miss Trumble.

‘I feel Miss Trumble does not approve of this marriage,’ said Lord Burfield. ‘There was some great scandal about Harry Devers and one of your sisters, was there not?’

‘That was in the past,’ said Abigail. ‘We must always forgive, and he seemed genuinely to have reformed.’

‘And yet your Miss Trumble would be the first to point out that rakes never reform.’

‘Miss Trumble, may I remind you, is a spinster and can hardly be said to be an authority on marriage.’

‘That lady is very shrewd.’ Lord Burfield fell silent, wondering if he might after all have proposed to Prudence had it not been for the cynical look in Miss Trumble’s eyes when Prudence rattled off at great speed another paragraph from the books she had studied to please him.

‘Never mind Miss Trumble.’ Abigail quickened her pace, her cheeks pink. ‘It will be a very grand wedding, and everyone will enjoy themselves.’

‘Where do they travel for their honeymoon?’

‘They are staying at Mannerling. Mr and Mrs Devers are to travel to stay with friends in Brighton and so leave the couple to start their married life.’

‘When does Harry plan to rejoin his regiment?’

‘I gather he is to sell out.’

‘And be master of Mannerling? What of his parents?’

‘I heard something to the effect that Mr and Mrs Devers plan to find a property for themselves and leave Mannerling to Harry. They do not like it here. Mrs Devers says it is haunted.’

‘And do you believe that?’

Abigail laughed. ‘I have not seen any ghost since I have been here. Mr Judd is said to walk the passages. He was the owner who hanged himself from the great chandelier in the hall.’

‘And does he moan and rattle his chains?’

‘Nothing like that. The servants sometimes see him on a moonlit night at the end of the Long Gallery, and Mrs Devers swore that the chandelier still turns and tinkles as if his body were hanging from it.’

‘Ah, here is the estimable Miss Trumble come to join us,’ he said. ‘I shall leave you.’

‘No, don’t . . .’ Abigail started to say, but he had already bowed and was striding away from her across the lawns.

‘A fine man, that,’ said Miss Trumble, coming up to Abigail.

‘Do not lecture me on Rachel’s wedding,’ said Abigail sharply. ‘I could not bear a jaw-me-dead on this sunny day.’

‘And why should you think I would not approve?’ asked Miss Trumble mildly.

‘Oh, I thought you would blame poor Rachel for marrying Harry only to regain Mannerling, but she is genuinely fond of him.’

To Abigail’s surprise, Miss Trumble merely smiled and said, ‘Well, we will see. Tell me, what have you heard from Isabella and Jessica?’

Relieved, Abigail began to tell her the news, and as they walked together in the gardens like old friends, she began to relax. Miss Trumble was back with them, however briefly, and nothing could go wrong.

Rachel, too, was relieved to receive later only polite felicitations from her old governess, not knowing that Miss Trumble had decided, with the wedding so imminent, there was nothing she could do but pray.

But that evening, Rachel could not sleep. The weather was still holding fine and it was a clear, balmy night. She looked out of the window. The garden lay silver under the moon. She had a sudden desire to go out of doors and walk by herself under the moonlight.

She got dressed and made her way quietly along the long passage outside her room which was lit by shafts of moonlight.

As she made her way down the stairs to the main landing which overlooked the hall, she suddenly stopped. The air was full of a tinkling sound. Slowly she walked on down and then stopped, her hand to her mouth. Although here was no draught, no breath of air, the great chandelier was turning, one half turn one way, then one half turn another. So must it have swung when the dead body of Judd was suspended from it.

She let out a stifled cry of fear and turned and ran headlong back to her room. She undressed quickly and climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her head tightly in case that sinister tinkling sound of the turning chandelier should reach her frightened ears.

Holy Deadlock

SIR ALAN PATRICK HERBERT

Two things happened the following day – the day before the wedding – to set a train of disastrous happenings in motion.

The first was that Rachel, after a restless night, looked feminine and vulnerable, the very thing to quicken Harry’s lecherous senses. The other was that a bottle of brandy appeared on his bedside table.

John, one of the footmen, who had worked for the Beverleys when they were at Mannerling, and had been rude and insolent from the moment he learned of their ruin, had felt sure that Rachel would find a way to have him dismissed as soon as possible after the wedding.

There seemed no doubt that the wedding would take place, as Harry was acting the perfect gentleman and the cellars had been locked up and all the servants had been told not to allow him anything strong to drink.

And so John had ridden into Hedgefield and bought that bottle of brandy and slipped into Harry’s room and placed it tenderly on the bedside table.

Harry was convinced that he only needed a few bracers to make him feel comfortable. But somehow he had drunk most of the bottle without really noticing anything other than the warm glow in his stomach. He decided to go downstairs and entertain the company. It was unfortunate that he met Rachel, on her own, also making her way downstairs. Her light muslin gown fluttered around her slim body, the low neckline showing the swell of her breasts. There were shadows under her eyes, making them look enormous.

‘A word with you, sweeting,’ said Harry. He took her arm and propelled her into the nearest room, which happened to be the one that had been allocated to Miss Trumble.

‘My sisters are waiting for me,’ said Rachel nervously.

‘It occurs to me,’ said Harry, leering at her, ‘that I haven’t even had a kiss to welcome me home.’

Rachel looked at him doubtfully but then decided a kiss was in order. She closed her eyes and puckered up her lips.

He gave a coarse laugh and jerked her into his arms. He forced his mouth down on hers. He reeked suffocatingly of brandy. His grasping, groping hands were going everywhere that innocent Rachel had never believed a man’s hands could go. Maddened and made strong with fear, she wrenched herself out of his arms, ran out the door and down the passage to her own room. Harry shrugged. After tomorrow, he wouldn’t need to behave himself. He went back to finish the brandy.

Abigail and the others finally went in search of Rachel when she did not put in an appearance. They found her lying on her bed weeping, a handkerchief held to her mouth.

‘Come now,’ said Abigail, alarmed. ‘What is this?’

‘It is Harry,’ said Rachel in a choked voice. ‘I cannot marry him.’

‘What has he done?’ asked Belinda.

‘He kissed me and he stank of brandy and it was disgusting. I hate him. I cannot go through with the wedding.’

The sisters looked at one another in alarm. It was as if the house reached out to them again, demanding their loyalty, demanding their return.

They clustered around Rachel on the bed, trying to find out what it was Harry had done that was so very terrible. A brandy-soaked kiss? All men drank.

‘His hands were everywhere,’ said Rachel, modesty stopping her from describing where his hands had been.

Lizzie said, ‘I will fetch Miss Trumble.’

‘No!’ cried Belinda and Abigail in unison. They were back in the grip of their obsession with Mannerling. They had been home again.

Rachel dried her eyes and sat up in bed. Her face was very white. ‘That is that. I must see Mama. I cannot marry Harry Devers.’

‘Oh, I could have handled him,’ said Abigail.

‘Then
you
marry him!’ Rachel flashed out. The twins, both angry now, glared at each other, one looking like the mirror image of the other.

Abigail suddenly gave a little laugh. ‘Why not?’

‘But he won’t turn round and propose to you,’ wailed Lizzie. ‘Another rejection. If he does not kill Rachel, it will be a wonder.’

Abigail waved an impatient hand for silence. ‘The day may yet be saved. Have you noticed how many times Harry has mistaken me for you, Rachel?’

Belinda stared at Abigail in amazement. ‘Are you thinking of taking Rachel’s place? It would not answer Mama—’

‘Mama,’ interrupted Abigail scornfully, ‘is the last to notice the difference.’

‘Miss Trumble,’ said Lizzie.

‘Ah, yes.’ Abigail rose to her feet and began to pace up and down the room. ‘Let me think. For a start, you were not going to wear a veil with your wedding gown, Rachel, for everyone thinks veils are quite exploded. But I shall wear that veil. Then, if you act a little bolder, Rachel, and I become meeker, and wear your clothes, and you wear mine, we will pass muster. Miss Trumble will not be expecting me to marry Harry and so she will think it is you.’

‘There is Lord Burfield,’ said Lizzie in a worried voice. ‘He always knows it’s you, Abigail.’