by M C Beaton
Lizzie’s face brightened. “You are really to stay with us?”
“I gave you my promise, did I not? Now, is it necessary for me to give you a jaw-me-dead over your remark to the duke?”
“No, Miss Trumble. I am deeply ashamed. But he humiliated me.”
“Meaning he found you in Mannerling where you had no right to be and told you to go away?”
“Yes, but he was so contemptuous, so haughty and cold.”
“He finds a young trespasser who looks like a schoolgirl and who is wandering about his home without an invitation. What would you do if you found someone in Brookfield House, walking about the rooms and looking at everything without a by your leave?”
Lizzie hung her head. Miss Trumble put a hand under the girl’s chin and lifted up her face.
Wide green eyes stared at her. Lizzie’s eyes were pure green without any trace of brown and framed with thick black lashes. That red hair of hers, damned as unfashionable, was thick and with a slight curl and shone with health.
“Yes,” said Miss Trumble, half to herself, “you might do. But come indoors and let me arrange your hair. It is time to try out a new style.”
“I told Barry who you really are,” said Lizzie.
Miss Trumble paused on the threshold. “Indeed! Then go to your room, Lizzie, and look out curling tongs and pins and I will be with you quite soon.”
Miss Trumble turned and hurried back round the side of the house. Barry was just emerging from the stable. He bowed low when he saw her.
“Well, Barry,” said Miss Trumble, “are we still friends?”
“You are no longer a servant, my lady.”
“I am until I finish my work here, Barry. And as I have explained to Lizzie, until that time, Lady Letitia Revine does not exist. I am Miss Trumble and still a servant like you.”
“I never really thought of you as a servant. But what made you stoop so low?”
“I considered it a step up from being an unwanted maiden aunt. I enjoy teaching. It gives me a purpose in life. Lizzie must be married before I go.”
“Miss Lizzie told me she had been rude to the duke.”
“Very rude, Barry.” Miss Trumble sighed. “At least it might do him some good. No one is ever rude to Gervase. As a result, he is too wrapped up in his own consequence. He wishes to find a bride and it amuses him to invite prospects to Mannerling. Mannerling is his latest toy.”
“He will have no difficulty, him being a great duke.”
“No, he will not, and that will be very bad for him.”
Barry scratched his head. “Reckon Miss Lizzie is too young for him.”
“Oh, much too young.”
“And yet her sisters married men older than themselves.”
“True, but Gervase is set in his ways and arrogance. I would see Lizzie with someone nearer her own age. But he is to entertain and I have made sure that Lizzie and Lady Beverley are to be invited. I shall call on him in a few days’ time and persuade him to invite some suitable young man.”
“So how is Lady Beverley taking the news of your status?”
“I do not know. I have not yet spoken to her.”
“She will not know how to go on.”
“I think she will forget very quickly who I really am. Otherwise she might have to concern herself with the welfare of her own daughter, and also with the running of the house. Now, I must go to Lizzie.”
“I’m right glad you are still to be with us, miss.”
“Oh, you will not lose me, Barry. Do not tell anyone my real identity.”
Barry stood and watched her as she crossed the lawn. Then he began to whistle cheerfully as he returned to his work.
The Duke of Severnshire’s secretary, Mr. Peter Bond, stood respectfully to attention beside his master’s desk three days later while the duke mused over several names he had written down. Peter was a tall, thin, awkward man who came from a good but impoverished family. He had not been able to believe his luck when he obtained the post as secretary to the duke only a year ago, the previous secretary having left to take holy orders. But sometimes he felt it was like working for a machine. The duke never seemed aware of him as a person.
“There are two here I might begin with,” said the duke. “Lady Verity and Miss Celia Charter. We will write and invite the young ladies and their parents for a visit. Well, Lady Verity is past the first blush of youth, but the family is good, as is her dowry. Miss Celia Charter is young but that has the advantage that she can be schooled in our ways. As to the others, the Chumleys, and…What is it, Palk?”
His butler had entered. “A Miss Trumble is called, Your Grace. She is only governess to the Beverleys, so I told her you would not be available.”
To Peter’s surprise, the duke said, “On the contrary, Palk, I am always available when Miss Trumble calls. Show her up. That will be all, Mr. Bond.”
Peter bowed and made his way out, but was longing to stay and see what this governess had to say to his master.
“Aunt Letitia,” said the duke, rising. “Pray be seated. Tea, some wine?”
“Tea, I think,” said Miss Trumble, drawing off her gloves. The duke rang the bell and ordered tea. They talked of general matters until the tea was served and the servants had retired.
“How go your plans to wed?” asked Miss Trumble.
“I have selected two initially to see how they go on. Lady Verity and Miss Celia Charter.”
Miss Trumble searched in the files of her capacious memory. “Lady Verity is not yet wed, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Hernshire; matches you, Gervase, in pride and arrogance. Well enough in looks, as you probably know.”
“I have never met either lady.”
“You amaze me! Did you not see them at a Season?”
“I do not visit the Season. I have spent many years travelling.”
“Miss Celia Charter made her first come-out this year. She is fair and flighty.”
“From my researches I gather she has a good dowry.”
“And what is that to you, rich as you are?”
“It saves me from the perils of being trapped by a fortune-hunter. I do not want to be married for my money.”
“Really, Gervase! And yet you cold-bloodedly select two ladies because you know they are comfortably endowered!”
“May I remind you, Aunt, you are not my governess.”
“And more’s the pity. I would have schooled you better.”
“As you schooled Lizzie? I should be sitting in drawing-rooms by this time making impertinent remarks to my betters.”
“Lizzie probably does not see you as her better, but she is suitably contrite. I wish you to invite Lady Beverley and Lizzie tomorrow to take tea.”
“This is ridiculous. Oh, very well.” He rang the bell and asked the footman who answered it to find his secretary. Peter came in and stood humbly to attention.
“Mr. Bond, be so good as to send a footman to Brookfield House directly inviting Lady Beverley and Miss Lizzie Beverley to tea on the morrow at four o’clock.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Peter bowed low and went out.
“I hope that young man eats enough,” said Miss Trumble sharply. “And he does not look happy.”
“He does his job well, Aunt, so what is it to me if he is unhappy or not?”
“Are you never moved by ordinary human kindness, Gervase?”
“I pay my servants well and they are housed and fed. Your descent to the common state has made you common, Aunt.”
Miss Trumble raised her brows and studied him.
“I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly.
“It is not only my Lizzie, you see, who has a wayward tongue.”
“Will you accompany the Beverleys?”
“Of course. I am also chaperone to Lizzie.”
“May I point out that such a chit as Lizzie Beverley needs no chaperone with me around?”
She smiled. “Nonetheless, I shall come. Which brings me to the
second reason for my visit. When you invite your guests, could you include a suitable young man of good family for my Lizzie?”
He sighed but rang the bell and summoned his secretary again.
“Mr. Bond,” he said, “be so good when you invite the others to include an invitation to some suitable young man. We are desirous of finding a husband for Miss Lizzie Beverley. Does she have a dowry?”
“She will have a fair one,” said Miss Trumble, privately thinking that she would do all in her power to shake a good one out of the cheese-paring Lady Beverley.
“Then see to it, Mr. Bond.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
“Mr. Bond!” Miss Trumble summoned him back as he was about to bow his way out of the room.
“Madam?”
“We wish someone of spirit and intelligence and good humour.”
“Very good, Miss Trumble.”
“You know who I am?”
“I made it my business to find out everyone who resides in the neighbourhood of Mannerling, madam.”
“You are an excellent young man. Do you eat enough?”
Peter blushed and looked towards his master but the duke had crossed to the window and was staring out. “Yes, madam. His Grace has the best chef in the country.”
“Do not eat too much rich food, Mr. Bond,” said Miss Trumble, “and go for walks in the fresh air.”
“Yes, madam.”
“When is your day off?”
“I get one day off every quarter-day, madam.”
“Tisk. You must find time for yourself.”
He bowed out again.
The duke swung round angrily. “You forget yourself, Aunt. He is my servant and he will work any hours that I choose.”
“He does not look strong,” she said mildly. She drew on her gloves and picked up her reticule. “Until tomorrow, Gervase.”
Lady Beverley accepted the invitation to tea as her due. She had decided that Miss Trumble must have committed some grave scandal to have reduced her to her present lowly position and therefore there was no need to treat her any differently.
To Miss Trumble’s relief, Lizzie showed no joy at the prospect of a visit to Mannerling. The governess was always frightened that the old Beverley obsession with getting Mannerling back would rise again in Lizzie.
But Miss Trumble was irritated, when they climbed into the small carriage driven by Barry, that Lady Beverley did not even seem to notice her daughter’s new modish appearance. The day was sunny and warm. Great clouds like galleons under full sail moved in stately procession across a blue sky. Lizzie’s red hair was dressed in one of the new Roman fashions and curled and pomaded so that it almost seemed to shine with purple lights. She was wearing a lightleaf-green muslin gown with a broad green silk sash. A little straw hat was perched at a jaunty angle on her curls.
Lizzie felt strange and not quite like herself. Clothes were a comfort, she thought. In such a modish gown and with her smart new hairstyle, she was sure she would behave like a lady. “When in doubt, only speak when spoken to,” Miss Trumble had warned her.
So Lizzie was determined to behave. There would only be herself, Lady Beverley, Miss Trumble, and the duke. Her mother would prose on about the great days of Mannerling when the Beverleys were in residence and Miss Trumble would supply her usual tactful conversation. There would be nothing for her to do but listen and nod from time to time.
But at that moment, the Duke of Severnshire was ringing for his secretary.
When Peter came in, the duke leaned back in his chair and surveyed the young man as if seeing him for the first time. Thin sensitive face, clear grey eyes, fair wispy hair, he was correctly and neatly dressed in black coat and black knee-breeches and square-toed shoes with modest metal buckles.
“Mr. Bond,” began the duke, “as you are aware, the Beverleys are expected, and Miss Trumble.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Miss Lizzie is a tiresome little minx and apt to open her mouth and say the first thing that comes into her head. Very fatiguing. You are to join us and entertain Miss Lizzie. You are to take her away and show her the gardens.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
“And you may get some of that fresh air Miss Trumble thinks you need so badly.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I will do my best to entertain Miss Beverley.”
“Ah, so good to be home again!” cried Lady Beverley, sailing into the drawing-room at Mannerling.
“I was under the impression it was my home,” said the duke drily.
“You must forgive me,” Said Lady Beverley, settling herself on the sofa and looking about her with a complacent air. “Such happy memories.”
The duke introduced his secretary. He had been a little taken aback by Lizzie’s appearance. Quite the little fashion plate, he thought in surprise. “Perhaps Miss Lizzie would care to see the gardens, Mr. Bond?”
“Certainly,” said the secretary.
The day had become warm and Lizzie would have liked a cup of tea but she saw the warning flash in Miss Trumble’s eyes and rose obediently to her feet.
She and Peter walked down the great staircase. Lizzie looked up at the chandelier.
“Does it still move?” she asked curiously.
“Move, Miss Beverley?”
“A previous owner, a Mr. Judd, hanged himself there. Sometimes the chandelier would move and the crystals would tinkle although there was no wind or even a draught.”
“Not that I have heard, Miss Beverley.”
“Strange,” mused Lizzie. “There is no atmosphere anymore. This house used to feel like a live thing, and sometimes when I entered it seemed to welcome me and from time to time the very walls exuded an air of menace. Now I feel nothing.”
Peter remembered his master’s remark that Miss Lizzie came out with whatever happened to be passing through her mind, but he said politely, “His Grace is so very grand that perhaps his presence has tamed the house.”
“Perhaps,” said Lizzie, as they went out together into the sunlight.
“Do you miss Mannerling very much?”
“I used to,” said Lizzie. “Yes, very much. But now I think I am quite reconciled to my new home, and it is about time.” Her green eyes flashed with amusement. “What are you supposed to do with me? Walk me about like a dog?”
Peter suppressed a smile. “Oh, no, His Grace is all kindness.”
“Do you think I look very fine?”
“Yes, Miss Beverley, very modish.”
Lizzie gave a sigh. “So let us walk in the gardens. Here is the little lawn at the side where we used to play battledore and shuttlecock.”
“I found bats and shuttlecock in the little cupboard in the Great Hall, and the net.”
“We could play,” said Lizzie eagerly. “See, the posts for the net are still here.”
“May I point out you are not dressed to play?”
“All I need to do is take off my hat. My kid slippers are perfectly suitable for running across the grass and the modern fashion for loose gowns means I am not constricted in any way.”
“Then we shall play, Miss Beverley.”
They returned to the house, where Peter summoned footmen to put up the net and carry the bats and shuttlecocks round to the side lawn.
Lizzie unpinned her little hat and stripped off her gloves.
“I must warn you, I am a very good player,” she said. “What about you?”
“Fair, Miss Beverley.”
“I think it would be perfectly in order for you to call me Lizzie when we are not in company since we are destined to be friends.”
Peter looked down at her elfin face and suddenly smiled. “You may call me Peter, but not in front of my master. He is very strict on protocol.”
“Pooh to your master. Let’s play.”
It became all too clear to the duke as Lady Beverley spoke on that she was still determined to get Mannerling back. “Such a pity a fine gentleman like yourself is unwed,” she sa
id coyly. “What you need is a young girl who knows the tenants and the neighbouring aristocracy and gentry.”
“Why a young girl?”
“You will wish to school her in your ways.”
“What a truly dreadful idea,” he said acidly.
“Indeed it is,” put in Miss Trumble maliciously. “I heard someone else say that just recently.”
“Do you not think we should summon Lizzie?” asked Lady Beverley. “I know you meant well, Your Grace, but a Beverley does not consort with a mere secretary.”
Miss Trumble raised her eyes to heaven.
“Peter Bond is from an excellent family,” said the duke harshly. Through an open window of the drawing-room which overlooked the side lawn came the sounds of shouts and laughter.
The duke frowned suddenly and went to the window and looked down. Hatless, her red hair glowing like a flame in the sunshine, Lizzie Beverley ran energetically hither and thither. “I am still better than you, Peter,” she cried gleefully.
And a new Peter, in his shirtsleeves, laughed back.
The duke had meant to punish Lizzie by banishing her from the tea-table. He had not for a moment expected her to look so free, so happy, to have forgotten the very existence of the great Duke of Severnshire. Nor had he expected her to get on such easy terms immediately with his secretary.
“Miss Lizzie, I am sure, would welcome some tea,” he said. He rang the bell and told a footman to tell the young lady that her presence was required.
Lady Beverley had begun to prose on again about Mannerling under the reign of the Beverleys. Miss Trumble watched her nephew curiously as he went back to the window.
The duke waited. He saw the footman call out to Mr. Bond. The couple stopped their game. He heard the footman say, “Your presence is requested by His Grace.”
He quite clearly heard Lizzie say, “Oh, fiddle, and just when I was beginning to have some fun,” saw the way his secretary’s face fell, how he quickly struggled into his black coat and smoothed down his hair.
The duke had never thought about his age before, always somehow thinking of himself as being still a young man. For the first time he felt old and cold and stuffy.
At last he heard them mount the staircase. Lizzie entered, her gloves once more on her hands and her hat on her head. Her face was flushed from the exercise and her eyes shone, but she went meekly to the sofa and sat down primly by her mother—who had not paused for breath—crossed her hands and bowed her head.