The Folly (17 page)

“I will wait until a little after that and then ask your mother for your hand in marriage.”

“Mama does not know you plan to sell Mannerling,” said Rachel. “Do not tell her until later.”

“Will it matter very much to you if we do not live here?”

Rachel took a little breath and said firmly, “I would like to live as far away from Mannerling as possible.”

He kissed her again and caressed her breasts through the thin stuff of her gown until she groaned against his mouth.

At last he said raggedly, “Let me take you home before I forget myself.” Holding her hand, he led her back across the lawns to the stables. “Quietly,” he warned. “I’ll saddle up a horse. I do not want the servants to see you.”

Soon, holding her tightly in front of him, he rode out of the Mannerling estate.

When they reached Brookfield House, he dismounted and then lifted her tenderly down from the saddle, kissing her again.

“One more day, my heart, and all will be resolved,” he murmured.

“Oh, Charles, there is one more difficulty.”

“Yes?”

“I fear Mama expects the general to propose to her.”

“Then Lady Beverley is in for a shock. My father is going to propose marriage to your Miss Trumble.”

“Oh, how wonderful. Her future will be secured.”

“If she accepts him. Go in now, Rachel, and dream of me.”

He stood with a smile on his lips as she ran lightly up the short drive and quietly opened the door and let herself in. He waited until he saw the glimmer of a candle in one of the upstairs rooms.

How would Cater take the rejection? he wondered as he rode home.

Barry walked into Hedgefield in the late morning. Miss Trumble had said she needed the carriage to drive to Hursley Park. He had no real business in Hedgefield, but it was market-day and he liked to talk to some of the locals and enjoy a pint of ale at the Green Man.

He walked among the stalls, chatting to various people he knew. He bought a pasty and a mug of salop and stood enjoying the colour and bustle of market-day.

At last he wiped his mouth and decided to go to
the Green Man for that pint of ale and then make his way home.

He stood on the threshold of the tap, blinking in the sudden gloom. He sat down at one of the tables and looked around for the waiter.

A man rose from a table in the corner and made his way rapidly to the door, averting his face as he passed Barry.

And all at once Barry was sure the burly man was Miss Trumble’s assailant. He got to his feet and hurried to the door. “Hey, you, fellow!” he cried.

The man glanced over his shoulder and Barry recognized him. He had last seen that face in the brook at home.

The man began to run, with Barry in pursuit. Through the market they raced, Barry shouting, “Stop! Murderer!” at the top of his voice. Others joined in the chase. Out of Hedgefield ran the man and then veered off the road into the woods. Barry and the other pursuers fanned out, Barry hard behind the fleeing figure. The man was thickset but fleet of foot and might have escaped had he not caught his foot in a rabbit hole and fallen headlong.

In a trice, Barry was on top of him, pummelling him and shouting to the others.

“Now,” he said, as the man was dragged to his feet and held firmly, “who are you?”

The man looked at him defiantly and then spat on the ground.

Barry punched him full on the nose, and as the man yelped with pain, said grimly, “That is for a start. Let’s begin again. Who are you?”

“Jem Pully.”

“So why did you attack Miss Trumble?”

“Who her?”

Barry drew back his fist again.

“No,” shouted the man, and then mumbled, “He told me there would be five golden boys in it fer me an’ I whacked ‘er.”

“Who told you?” demanded Barry with a sudden feeling of dread, a feeling that he already knew the answer.

“Come on,” he urged. “You can save yourself from the gibbet.”

“Cater,” said the man. “He said there was this old creature out at Brookfield House, to go and watch and wait and see if I could get ’er on ’er own, like. I went to look out the lie of the land and I sees ’er in the garden.”

“Let’s take this one along to the roundhouse,” said Barry, “and then we’ll get hold of Cater.”

But when Jem Pully had been secured in the roundhouse and Barry went to the Green Man, he was told by the landlord that Mr. Cater had ridden out to Brookfield House to propose to Miss Rachel Beverley and had bought drinks for everyone in the tap before he left.

Barry set out for Brookfield House at the head of a crowd of townspeople, hoping he would be in time before something disastrous happened.

Miss Trumble was staring in dismay at two letters which Lady Evans had handed to her.

“What is the matter, Letitia?” asked Lady Evans. “You have gone the colour of whey.”

“These letters tell of Mr. Cater,” said Miss Trumble in a thin voice.

“And?”

“And he is half-brother to Ajax Judd, the late owner of Mannerling who hanged himself. And listen to this. He won the plantation in Barbados in a card game with Lord Hexhamworth. Someone who knew him said that Judd had written to him often about Mannerling and he was determined to see the place sometime; in fact, he was about to go there when he learned of his half-brother’s death, of the subsequent sale of Mannerling, and at the same time won those plantations.”

“The family surely did not have that much money, apart from what they gained through gambling?”

“No, and the sale of a plantation and slaves might raise enough to buy Mannerling, but what did he plan to live on afterwards?”

“The estates are rich,” said Lady Evans. “He could raise the rents and milk quite a sum of money from them. But why would he want Rachel Beverley? Such a man would surely want an heiress.”

“Perhaps he has money from other sources.” Miss Trumble stood up. “I have not seen Rachel since yesterday evening. I must return.”

“But why do you look so frightened and worried? The man’s a gamester, that is all. Not uncommon these days.”

“Because I think he was behind the hauntings. I think he set out to frighten the Blackwoods away from Mannerling. I think he paid that footman to cause trouble, and, worse than that, I think he paid some thug to injure me or kill me, for he feared I would stop Rachel from marrying him.”

“He must be in love with the girl.”

“That is what puzzles me,” said Miss Trumble, heading for the door. “I don’t think he loves her one bit.”

Driving herself, she made her way quickly through Hedgefield, stopping only on the far side when she heard herself being hailed. She recognized Jenny Durton, a laundress, and called on the horse to stop.

“Oh, mum,” cried Jenny breathlessly, “such goings-on!”

“I am in a hurry to get home, Jenny,” said Miss Trumble.

“They done got that man who tried for to kill you,” gasped Jenny. “Got him and took him to the roundhouse, Barry and the men. They’ve all gone to Brookfield.”

“Why?” Miss Trumble clutched the reins tightly.

“Because the man, Jem Pully, he done say that Mr. Cater paid him to hit you, and Mr. Cater’s gone to Brookfield to propose to Miss Rachel!”

“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Miss Trumble, and cried to the horse to move on.

Rachel was feeling ill. She had told her mother that Mr. Cater was coming to propose to her, had told her the night before; and in the morning she had awoken her mother with the news that she was not going to marry Mr. Cater. But she could not impart the glad news that Charles Blackwood was to propose to her, for Lady Beverley went into strong hysterics and all Rachel could do was retreat. Miss Trumble was out. She would need to deal with Mr. Cater herself.

Mr. Cater arrived at Brookfield House in high spirits. His gambler’s soul told him that nothing could go wrong now. He remembered his half-brother’s last letter to him, in which Ajax Judd had blamed his fall on the humiliation of the Beverleys. “If only I had married one of those girls,” Mr. Judd had written, “then Mannerling would have stayed mine.”

Like all gamblers, Mr. Cater was highly superstitious. He was determined to have Mannerling and determined to have Rachel to make sure of keeping the place. Rachel would return with him to the Indies for only so long as it took to sell the place.

And yet, as he drove up the drive and looked at the house, he had a sudden feeling that something
had
gone wrong. There was an air of mourning about the house, no bustle, no chatter of voices, and the little maid who answered the door to him looked cast down.

“I will fetch Miss Rachel,” she said, dropping a curtsy. “My lady is indisposed.”

She showed Mr. Cater into the drawing-room. He paced up and down. Surely he was worrying about nothing. Lady Beverley was always ill with something or other.

He swung round as the door opened and Rachel came in.

Although she looked very serious, there was a glow about her, a warmth and colour he had not noticed before.

She was wearing a simple high-waisted muslin gown embroidered with blue cornflowers which matched the blue of her eyes. A nosegay of cornflowers
was tucked into the blue silk sash of her gown.

“I had expected to see your mother first,” said Mr. Cater heartily. “Do it right and proper.”

“Please sit down, Mr. Cater,” said Rachel quietly.

He flicked up the tails of his best blue morning coat with the brass buttons.

Rachel sat on a high-backed chair opposite him and clasped her hands together tightly. “I do not want you to think me flighty, Mr. Cater,” she said, “but I cannot marry you.”

“What is this? You promised, you gave me your promise.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Cater, but I cannot marry you.”

“But we belong together. You, me, and Mannerling.”

“As to that,” said Rachel, deciding to lie, “I do not believe the Blackwoods intend to sell Mannerling.”

His eyes blazed with fury and the veins stood out on his forehead. “That is your fault!” he cried. “If you marry me, then Mannerling will be ours.”

“I must repeat, I cannot marry you. I am to marry Mr. Charles Blackwood.”

“You trull. You will get Mannerling and leave me to rot on the other side of the world.”

Rachel stood up and said coldly, “It is time for you to go, sir.” She walked to the door and held it open.

But although he went to the door, he kicked it shut and locked it.

“Now, Miss Rachel Beverley,” he said, “you are going to marry me, and when I have finished with you, you will be glad to.”

Rachel darted across the room and put a chair
between them, her eyes wide with fright and with dawning knowledge.

“You’re mad,” she whispered. “It was you all along. You paid that footman to drive the Blackwoods out.”

“And a sad mess he made of it,” growled Mr. Cater. He took a step forward. “Come here.”

Rachel threw back her head and screamed.

Lizzie’s voice came from the other side of the door and then the knob rattled. “Rachel! Rachel!”

“Get Barry!” shouted Rachel. “Mr. Cater is going to kill me!”

Mr. Cater grabbed the protecting chair from her and threw it across the room. He seized Rachel and dragged her against him.

And then he heard the roar outside and stared over Rachel’s shoulder and through the window. Barry Wort was at the head of a mob marching up the drive.

Mr. Cater rushed for the door, unlocked it, savagely punched Josiah, the one-legged cook who had been trying to hammer the door down, ran through the back of the house and out of the kitchen door. Had he run off across the fields, they would have got him, but, made cunning by desperation, he dived into the hen-house and crouched down in the gloom, hearing the pursuit come through the house and out into the back garden, hearing it die away across the fields.

Miss Trumble was comforting Rachel, Lady Beverley was demanding right, left, and centre what had happened, when they heard the sound of horses’ hooves and ran to the window in time to see
Mr. Cater on horseback fleeing away from Brookfield House.

Charles Blackwood arrived to listen in horror to the story of the assault on Rachel. He immediately rode off in pursuit of Mr. Cater.

When Lady Beverley had calmed down, Miss Trumble carefully explained who Mr. Cater was and of Rachel’s escape from his clutches.

“I am sure there must be some mistake,” wailed Lady Beverley. “Are you sure?”

“There is no mistake, my lady. Mr. Blackwood has gone in pursuit of him.”

“The general is such a brave man.”

“Not the general. Mr. Charles Blackwood.”

“Oh, it is all such a coil,” sighed Lady Beverley. “More scandal for my poor girls. You should have warned me of this earlier.”

“I did beg you to wait.”

“It is your job to protect my girls, Miss Trumble, and you do not seem to be making a very good job of it.”

Miss Trumble primmed her lips and did not deign to reply.

For the rest of the day and the following night, Charles Blackwood, Barry and the townspeople, the militia and the constable searched for Mr. Cater without success. It was as if he had disappeared into thin air.

Rachel waited anxiously all the following day for Charles to call, but there was no sign of him. Miss Trumble comforted her, saying that he was probably still searching for Mr. Cater. Mark and Beth had been brought over by the general for their
lessons. The general seemed reluctant to leave until Lady Beverley appeared in the schoolroom, where he was seated with Miss Trumble and the children, and said she thought it would be “fun” for them if she took part in their lessons.

Miss Trumble surveyed her employer with a mixture of exasperation and worry. Sometimes, on one of her “good” days, it was evident that Lady Beverley had once been as beautiful as her daughters.

But as the general hurriedly said he had to take his leave, the lines of discontent once more marred Lady Beverley’s face and she flashed a venomous look at the governess, as if she were the reason for the general’s abrupt departure.

The carriage and a footman were sent at four in the afternoon to collect the children, but no Charles and no general.

Rachel, disconsolate, trailed about the garden, where she was joined by Belinda and Lizzie.