by M C Beaton
“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 woul
d 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.
“You still look very upset after Mr. Cater’s shocking behaviour,” said Lizzie. “That is why you are so upset, is it not?”
“Yes,” said Rachel, a bleak little monosyllable. She could not bring herself to tell her sisters of her night-time expedition to Mannerling or how Charles had proposed, although she had told Miss Trumble. She thought of her own abandoned and passionate behaviour with a blush. Perhaps he had decided she had loose morals and was not suitable to be his bride. Miss Trumble had told her that his late wife had been considered flighty. Perhaps he thought her the same!
Then she heard the sound of carriage wheels. The colour rose in her face and she ran down the drive to the gate, her eyes shining.
But it was only the general. Lizzie and Belinda joined Rachel as the old man descended stiffly from the carriage. “No sign of that villain Cater,” he said. “Charles has just returned and is going to bed. He is exhausted.”
Rachel wanted to weep. He had obviously not thought to call at Brookfield House first to see her, to give her any news…to propose.
Then she realized the general was saying, “I am come to see your Miss Trumble. Is she available?”
“I will see,” said Rachel, and went slowly into the house.
She found Miss Trumble in her room and told her that General Blackwood wished to see her.
“Oh dear,” murmured the governess, getting to her feet. “I may as well get it over with.”
“I hope nothing ails the children,” said Rachel, her voice sharp with alarm.
“No, it is something else.”
“Charles is returned to Mannerling. I thought…I thought he would call here first.”
“And propose all muddy and exhausted? No, my child, do not fret. He will be here in the morning.”
Miss Trumble went slowly down the stairs to where the little maid, Betty, was waiting at the bottom.
“I’ve put the general in the drawing-room, miss,” whispered Betty.
“Very good. Give me ten minutes and then bring in the tea-tray and some of Josiah’s seed-cake.”
Miss Trumble went into the drawing-room. Betty went off to the kitchen to tell Josiah to prepare the tea-tray. As she came back into the hall, she found her mistress just descending the stairs.
“Was that a carriage I heard arriving?” demanded Lady Beverley.
“Yes, my lady. General Blackwood is called.”
“Where is he?”
“In the drawing-room, my lady, but—”
Lady Beverley swept past the maid and opened the door of the drawing-room.
And stood stock-still.
General Blackwood was down on one knee before the governess, his hand on his heart.
Lady Beverley backed away quickly and nearly collided with Rachel.
“I have nourished a viper in the bosom of my family,” she cried.
Rachel saw her mother’s pale eyes were beginning to bulge, the way they always did before a bout of hysterics.
“Hush, Mama. Come into the parlour and tell us what ails you.”
Lady Beverley wrestled with the desire to spoil the romantic scene in the drawing-room or allow herself the relief of unburdening her shock to her daughter. The unburdening won and she followed Rachel into the parlour.
“The general is proposing to Miss Trumble.”
“It is not so strange,” commented Rachel. “He has shown himself to be a great admirer of hers.”
“I never noticed!”
No, you would not, thought Rachel. She wondered whether to tell her mother about Charles’s proposal. But what if he had changed his mind?
“I shall send that serpent packing as soon as the general leaves,” Lady Beverley was saying.
“Oh, I would not do that.” Rachel realized her mother did not know anything about the proposed sale of Mannerling.
“And why not, pray?”
“I would have thought you would be more inclined to be very courteous to Miss Trumble.”
“And why on earth should I be?”
“Because Miss Trumble will be the mistress of Mannerling, and if you make an enemy of her, none of us will ever see Mannerling again.”
Lady Beverley opened and shut her mouth like a landed carp while she digested this idea.
“In any case,” went on Rachel smoothly, “we must not jump to conclusions. Perhaps your eyes tricked you.”
“We will see,” said Lady Beverley grimly.
“If you think about it, General,” Miss Trumble was saying gently, “you will find you really don’t want to marry me at all. A mere governess, indeed! You must remember what is due to your position.”
The general, now seated in an armchair, said sadly, “I thought we should suit very well, two old people like us.”
“But you are not in love with me.”
The general turned red. “Really, Miss Trumble, we are both too old for such emotions.”
Miss Trumble gave a little sigh. “Perhaps you are right, sir. Why I said that was to underline the fact that your heart is not broken. No one shall know of your proposal.”
The general brightened. He had begun to feel ashamed of having proposed to a servant only to be rejected. Then his face fell. “But Lady Beverley saw me.”
“And so she did. And so we will tell her that you have decided to amuse the children by having amateur
theatricals at Mannerling. You are monstrous fond of theatricals and you were showing me just how well you could play the part of the gallant.”
The general looked at her with all the old appreciation. “Demme, ma’am, but you are a pearl above price.”
She gave an amused little nod as Betty entered the room bearing the tea-tray, followed by Lady Beverley.
“I am not interrupting anything, I hope?” demanded Lady Beverley with a thin smile.
“Not at all, my lady,” said Miss Trumble, rising to her feet and dropping a curtsy. “General Blackwood came to consult me about the amateur theatricals he means to hold at Mannerling for the amusement of the children. He acts the part of swain very well, as you witnessed.”
“Amateur theatricals!” Lady Beverley sat down and waved one thin white hand to indicate that Miss Trumble should serve tea. “How amusing. Do you know, General, you are so convincing that for one mad moment I thought you were proposing marriage to Miss Trumble.” And Lady Beverley gave a silvery peal of laughter.
The general stood up abruptly. “If you will excuse me, ladies, I do not think I will stay for tea after all. My son is returned from the search for Cater extremely exhausted, and I feel I should be with him.”
“As you will.” Lady Beverley looked somewhat huffy. She walked with him to his carriage, telling him that he really ought to have consulted her on the matter of theatricals—“for poor old Miss Trumble does not have our experience of the social scene, General.”
The general bowed without replying and entered the carriage and rapped on the roof for the coachman to drive on. He did not lower the glass to say any goodbyes. He had also forgotten to suggest to Miss Trumble that she might like to join the Blackwood household as governess.
“Such an odd creature,” murmured Lady Beverley to herself. “But I shall have him yet!”
Rachel awoke very early the next morning and spent a long time choosing what to wear. At last she selected a muslin gown embroidered with little sprigs of lavender with deep flounces at the hem and little puffed sleeves. Then she went down to the parlour and sat by the window to wait.
The sun rose higher in the sky. She was joined about noon by Belinda and Lizzie, demanding to know if what Betty had told them was true—that the general had proposed to Miss Trumble.