The Folly

by M C Beaton

  “I should really take you back,” she said after a while. “I do not want to be caught trespassing.”

  “Oh, just a little longer,” pleaded Mark. “We are not in the way of having fun, you see.”

  Rachel smiled. “In that case, I will gladly risk disgrace. A little longer.”

  The children seemed content to sit there, side by side, facing her as she rowed backwards and forwards across the lake.

  And then she saw a look of fear in Mark’s face and saw the way he grasped his little sister’s hand tightly. “What is it?” she asked sharply.

  “Papa is arrived,” he said in a whisper, “and Miss Terry.”

  Rachel began to row towards the jetty, feeling fury boiling up inside her. The children looked so scared and vulnerable.

  As she approached she saw a tall man standing on the jetty, with a thin, bitter-looking woman beside him. Charles Blackwood and Miss Terry.

  Charles Blackwood was dressed for riding in a black coat, leather breeches, and top-boots. He had thick black hair, fashionably cut, with silver wings at the sides, where his hair had turned white. He had odd slanting eyes of grass-green in a strong, handsome face. He had a tall, powerful figure.

  Miss Terry had a crumpled little face, as if years of spite had withered it like a fallen apple. Her eyes were a pale, washed-out blue. Her thin shoulders were bent as though in false humility, but there was nothing humble in her glaring eyes.

  Rachel helped the children out onto the jetty and then climbed up after them, aware, despite her temper, of her flushed face and tumbled hair. She realized she had left her hat in the boat.

  “You bad, bad children,” exclaimed the governess. “How dare you escape me! You know what this means?”

  They stood before her, heads bowed, hands clasped.

  Rachel forgot about Mannerling, forgot about her trespass, and threw back her head, her blue eyes blazing.

  “I am Miss Rachel Beverley of Brookfield House,” she said haughtily, “and yes, the children know what you mean. You will beat them as you have no doubt done many times before.” She rounded on Charles Blackwood. “Oh, it is not unusual for children to be beaten, but it goes to my heart to see them so white and frightened. Shame on you, sir, for your most abysmal neglect of them. They are charming children and deserve better. They deserve parental love and kindness. Good day to you, sir.”

  She marched off, her head high. Temper carried her straight to the drive and down it between the bordering lime-trees, where new leaves as green as Charles Blackwood’s eyes fluttered in the wind, to the lodge where the lodge-keeper stared at her in surprise as she opened the little gate at the side of the great gates and stepped out onto the road.

  Rachel was too upset to feel dismayed when, as she approached home, she saw her own governess, Miss Trumble, walking to meet her.

  “Why, Rachel!” exclaimed the governess. “What are you doing, walking unescorted and without your hat?”

  So Rachel told her about the children and about what she had said to Charles Blackwood and then waited for a lecture. But, to her surprise, Miss Trumble gave a gentle laugh and said, “Why, I declare you are become a woman of principle at last. We will say no more about it.”

  Rachel decided to write to Abigail and say that she would go to London. The hold Mannerling had held on her had gone. It belonged to a family now, another family, and the fact that it was an unhappy family had nothing to do with her.

  But in the morning when she went out to find Barry Wort, the odd man, to give him the letter, she experienced a strange reluctance to hand it over. She tucked it in the pocket of her apron instead. Barry was weeding a vegetable bed, sturdy, dependable ex-soldier Barry, whose common sense had proved of such value in the past.

  “Good morning, Barry,” said Rachel. He straightened up and leaned on his hoe and smiled at her.

  “We’ve been getting some uncommon fine weather, Miss Rachel.”

  “I went to Mannerling yesterday, Barry,” said Rachel abruptly.

  “Well, now, miss, there do be a strange thing. I would have thought you cured of wanting the place.”

  “I went for just one last visit.”

  “Reckon that place is like gambling, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, miss. It’s always one last time.”

  “I meant it this time. But wait until you hear of my adventure.”

  Barry listened carefully to the story of the children and the confrontation. “You did well,” he said, not betraying that he had already heard the story from Miss Trumble. “There are beatings and beatings and those motherless children could do with a bit of kindness. What was this Mr. Blackwood like?”

  “He is a very fine-looking man,” said Rachel slowly. “I had heard he was nearly forty and had expected—well, a middle-aged-looking gentleman.”

  “Mr. Blackwood already has a good reputation in Hedgefield,” said Barry. “But any gentleman who settles his bills promptly gets a good reputation. He’s caused quite a flurry in the district among the ladies.”

  “The widows?”

  “No, miss, all the young ladies do be setting their caps at him. He is reputed to be a fine-looking fellow, he has Mannerling and, they do say, a fortune as well.”

  The thought flicked briefly through Rachel’s mind that she too might set her cap at the master of Mannerling, but then she remembered that grim face and the unhappy children. “I will not be of their number,” she said lightly. She turned and walked away, and it was only some time later that she realized she still had that letter to Abigail in her pocket.

  “You never talk to us any more.” Belinda and Lizzie confronted Rachel later that day. “Are you going to London? For if you do, you must ask Abigail to invite us as well.”

  “I have not made up my mind,” said Rachel loftily. “And I do talk to you. I am talking to you now.”

  “Where were you yesterday morning? You just disappeared and Miss Trumble went out looking for you,” said Lizzie.

  “I simply went for a little walk across the fields. Good heavens,” exclaimed Rachel. “Must I report to you every minute of the day?”

  “But what of Mannerling and what of this new owner?”

  “You know as much as I do. He is nearly forty, a widower with two children.”

  “Do you think he means to entertain?”

  “I don’t know,” snapped Rachel. “We promised Miss Trumble, if you remember, that we would put all ambitions of regaining Mannerling out of our heads. Why? Would you have me entertain romantic thoughts of a man nearly in his dotage?”

  “I suppose it is silly,” said Lizzie. “But it would be wonderful just to go to Mannerling again.”

  Rachel looked at her uneasily. The loss of their home had affected Lizzie more than her sisters, so much so that she had once tried to drown herself. She remembered the little boy, Mark, saying that the house was haunted, and wondered if there was something supernatural about Mannerling that kept them all in its spell.

  Betty, the little maid, piped up from the bottom of the stairs, “A carriage from Mannerling.”

  They ran to the window. Their former coachman was driving a carriage. There were two footmen on the backstrap and Rachel recognized in one of them the unlovely features of John, who had once worked for the Beverleys.

  “You had best go downstairs,” urged Lizzie, “for Mama is indisposed.”

  “I shall change my gown,” decided Rachel. “Send Betty to me quickly.”

  Miss Trumble received Charles Blackwood in the little parlour, regretting, not for the first time, her mistress’s parsimony in leaving the drawing-room unheated.

  “I am sorry Lady Beverley is ill,” said Miss Trumble after studying his card. “I am Miss Trumble, governess to the Beverley sisters.”

  His harsh face lightened as he looked down at her from his great height and Miss Trumble wondered rather sadly whether her poor old heart would ever learn to stop beating faster at the sight of an attractive man.

  “Then you are
the very person I need to see,” he said.

  “Indeed? Pray be seated, sir.”

  He sat down in an armchair by the fire and looked around him with pleasure. The room was full of feminine clutter—bits of sewing, books, and magazines. There was a large bowl of spring flowers by the window on a round table.

  “Were you aware,” began Charles, stretching out his long legs, “that I met one of your charges yesterday? She left her hat. I brought it back and gave it to the maid.”

  “Yes, Rachel. She told me about it. She should not have been trespassing, but she misses her old home.”

  “I was grateful to her for bringing to my attention the fact that my children had been subject to harsh attention from their governess. Excuse me, Miss Trumble, but there is something faintly familiar about you. Are you sure we have not met before?”

  “Oh, no, sir. A governess such as myself, immured in the country as I am, hardly moves in the same circles as such as yourself.”

  “Still, there is something…Never mind. The reason I am come…”

  The door opened and Rachel came in, followed by Lizzie and Belinda.

  Charles Blackwood got to his feet and bowed. Rachel was very beautiful and seemed even more so than the first time he had seen her, her fair looks contrasting with Belinda’s dark-haired beauty and Lizzie’s waiflike appeal.

  They all sat down.

  Charles turned to Rachel. “I was just beginning to explain to your governess that after your visit yesterday I told Miss Terry, my children’s governess, to leave immediately. I am looking for a suitable lady to tutor them and am come to you for help.”

  “I think I can help you,” said Miss Trumble, adjusting the folds of a very modish silk gown. Rachel looked at that gown. It was one of Miss Trumble’s best, almost as if she had been expecting such a call. “My girls’ schooling has been cut back to a mere two hours in the afternoon, and time lies heavy on my hands. With Lady Beverley’s permission, of course, I could offer to tutor your children if they were brought over here every day. My girls could help in their education, and company younger than mine would benefit them.”

  “I would be most grateful. Are you sure Lady Beverley will allow you to do this?”

  Miss Trumble rose to her feet. “I will ask her now.”

  She left the room with her graceful gliding walk.

  “An exceptional lady,” said Charles to Rachel after the door had closed behind the governess. “Where did your mother come by such a treasure?”

  Rachel laughed. “Our Miss Trumble has certainly made an impression on such a brief acquaintance. What makes you think her a treasure?”

  “She has great style and dignity. And I am sure I have met her somewhere before.”

  “There is a mystery about Miss Trumble,” said Rachel. “She appeared one day, without references, references which she swears she will produce if she can ever find them. But she so quickly made herself an indispensable part of the household that none of us can bear to think of her leaving. I trust you will not lure her away from us, sir.”

  “Please don’t,” put in Lizzie. “Miss Trumble swore she would stay with us until I am married.”

  “And when will that be?” asked Charles. His odd green eyes were full of laughter. Rachel looked at him in surprise. He was certainly changed from the grim-visaged man of the day before.

  “I will need to be very lucky,” said Lizzie solemnly. “You see, none of us has much of a dowry.”

  “Lizzie!” hissed Rachel furiously.

  “It’s true,” said Lizzie defiantly. “The whole district knows it to be true and Mr. Blackwood will hear it sooner or later.”

  “It is not ladylike to discuss money,” pointed out Belinda.

  “We talk of nothing else in this house,” muttered Lizzie rebelliously.

  Meanwhile Miss Trumble was saying evenly to Lady Beverley, who was reclining on a day-bed in her darkened bedchamber, “As you say, my lady, I am employed by you. But only see the advantages in my helping Mr. Blackwood with his children. While he is paying me for my services, you need not. Of course, it would probably mean your being invited to Mannerling again and that might distress you. I shall leave you now and tell Mr. Blackwood that I cannot help him—unless I decide to leave you and move to Mannerling. Perhaps that might be a good idea.”

  Lady Beverley’s face was a study. She was well aware that this elderly and dignified governess not only lent her status but ran her household. She forgot, too, that she had neglected to pay Miss Trumble any salary last quarter-day and said faintly, “Stay. My poor head. You must realize I am not well and am unable to deal with decisions. But if your heart is set on it, yes, I agree.”

  Miss Trumble curtsied and quickly left the room before her employer could change her mind.

  When she returned to the parlour, Charles Blackwood looked cheerful and relaxed and Rachel was telling him about an assembly to be held in two weeks’ time in the Green Man. “But perhaps a country hop is too undignified for you, Mr. Blackwood.”

  “I have not really engaged in many social entertainments since the death of my poor wife,” he said. “But yes, I shall probably attend. I hope I can remember how to dance. Ah, Miss Trumble, good news, I hope?”

  “Yes, sir. If it is convenient, I think you should bring the children tomorrow morning and we can start as soon as possible.”

  He rose to his feet and bowed all around. To his secret amusement, it was Miss Trumble who walked out with him to his carriage, quite like the lady of the house, he thought.

  “Perhaps nine o’clock?” said Miss Trumble.

  Although she was only a governess, he found to his surprise that he was bowing over her hand.

  “Until then.”

  John, the footman, let down the carriage steps. Charles climbed inside. John raised the steps and shut the carriage door and turned and gave Miss Trumble a pale, curious, calculating look.

  If I gain any influence with Charles Blackwood, thought Miss Trumble, I will tell him to get rid of that gossiping, plotting footman. For she knew that John dreaded any Beverley getting a foothold in Mannerling again because he knew he would lose his job, for he had gone out of his way to be horrible to them.

  Inside the house, Rachel was facing her sisters’ angry questions. “You are become secretive, Rachel,” said Belinda. “Not to tell us you had been to Mannerling and had met the owner. And he is vastly handsome.”

  “But a widower with children and much too old,” said Rachel. “I have no desire to wed a man old enough to be my father.”

  Belinda twisted a lock of hair in her fingers and sent Rachel a sideways look. “I would not find such a man too old,” she said.

  Rachel looked at her, startled. Belinda had grown even more beautiful. Her black hair was dressed in one of the fashionable Roman styles which Miss Trumble could create with all the deftness of a top lady’s-maid. Her cheeks were smooth and pink and her wide eyes fringed with heavy lashes.

  What effect had such beauty on Charles Blackwood? Surely no man could look at Belinda and remain unmoved.

  “You are too young, Belinda,” she snapped.

  Belinda gave a quiet little smile. “We’ll see.”

  “But we promised Miss Trumble that we would put Mannerling from our minds,” protested Rachel. “Only look at the vulgar reputation we sisters gained in the country by trying to marry previous owners or sons of owners.”

  “One son,” corrected Belinda, thinking of the rake, Harry Devers, son of the previous owners, who had caused the Beverleys so much heartbreak. “Anyway,” she said with a little shrug, “if Mr. Blackwood has not heard the gossip about us, he soon will, and he will fight shy of us for fear one of the dreadful Beverley girls is going to ensnare him for the sake of his home.”

  “Such old gossip,” said Rachel. “I doubt if he will hear a word!”

  Chapter Two

  The strongest friendship yields to pride,

  Unless the odds be on our side.

 
—JONATHAN SWIFT

  CHARLES BLACKWOOD RODE over the next afternoon to pay a call on Lady Evans, an elderly widow, accompanied by his father. The old general had known Lady Evans for years and was pleased to learn she resided in the neighbourhood, in Hursley Park.

  Lady Evans, a formidable dowager with a crumpled old face under a gigantic, starched cap, welcomed them with enthusiasm. “General Blackwood,” she hailed Charles’s father. “I declare I have not seen you this age, and you are grown more handsome than ever.”

  The general, a genial gentleman with a portly figure and a high colour, bent gallantly over her hand and kissed her fingertips. “The minute I learned we were to be neighbours, Lady Evans, my poor old heart beat much faster.”

  “Silly boy,” she giggled, rapping his shoulder with her fan. “Now do be seated and I will ring for tea. How do you go on, Charles? So sad about your dear wife. You have two young children, I believe. Well, I hope?”

  “I am arranging matters better for them. I have been too distant from my children and it has only just been brought to my attention that their governess was dealing too harshly with them.”

  “Children must not be spoilt,” said Lady Evans. The tea-tray was carried in, the spirit stove lit. Lady Evans prepared the tea herself. “A good beating never harmed a child.”

  Charles smiled. “We must not quarrel on matters of discipline. But they are now in the hands of an estimable governess at Brookfield House.”

  “Miss Trumble,” exclaimed Lady Evans. “She is still there? Why does she not call on me?”

  The general looked at her in some surprise. Lady Evans was known to be very high in the instep and it was most unlike her to be pining for a call from a mere governess.

  “Miss Trumble was governess to the children of a friend of mine,” said Lady Evans quickly. “She is out of the common way.”

  “I agree,” said Charles.

  Her old eyes suddenly narrowed. “But why does she not reside at Mannerling? Why Brookfield House with those Beverleys?”