by M C Beaton
“I should never have let you entertain me in a private parlour,” she said, as they went outside. “I fear my reputation is quite ruined.”
“My actions are above reproach,” said the duke loftily.
“Oh, you are so arrogant.” Lizzie stamped her foot. “It will be all over Hedgefield, and our servant, Barry, will be shortly returned from Bath. He will get to hear of it and he will tell your aunt.”
“I am not interested in the tittle-tattle of a bunch of peasants.”
“Do you never stop to think of my position? What if some gentleman should be interested in me and get to hear that I spent some time in a private parlour with the Duke of Severnshire.”
“I do not, and have never had, the reputation of a rake, Miss Lizzie.”
“You have now,” said Lizzie gloomily, “and I am the whore of Babylon.”
“I see what it is,” he said, his eyes cold. “I had forgot about the Beverley ambition. You are trying to force me to propose to you.”
Lizzie’s face flamed with anger. “You are insufferable. I do not want to marry a creaking old fool like you!”
“You are insolent!”
“And you are so rigidly armoured in arrogance and self-consequence that you are nigh inhuman!”
Their horses were brought round. The duke threw Lizzie up into the saddle with such force that she had to grasp the pommel to save herself from tumbling over the other side.
Her words burnt and hurt. He would like to have ridden away from her but the mist was thick and he felt sure he could not find the way back to Mannerling on his own.
And then it began to rain heavily. Lizzie stopped and dismounted under a stand of trees and he joined her. “I am not dressed for this weather,” she said crossly, “and my new riding habit will be ruined.”
“It looks set for the day,” he said bleakly.
She gave a tired sigh. “Well, I don’t want to be trapped here with you all day.” A little sob was wrenched from her and one large tear slid down her cheek.
“Lizzie,” he said, wondering. “Miss Beverley!” He took off his riding gloves. One long finger reached out to that tear.
“Leave me alone!” Lizzie jerked her face away.
“I have distressed you, indeed,” he said contritely. “Come, let us be friends and put this sorry misunderstanding behind us. You worry too much about that private parlour. Believe me, people will think nothing of it.”
She gave him a watery smile. “I fear you really do not understand the gossip that is rife in a country place. Let us go. Miss Trumble will be becoming anxious.”
He put his arms at her waist to throw her up into the saddle. He looked down into her face. She was still upset and her lips trembled. He gently kissed her on the lips. They felt warm and sweet. He suddenly wanted to stay where he was and go on kissing her, but with a great effort he helped her up into the saddle and then mounted himself. They rode off into the rain.
By the time they reached the long drive which led up to Mannerling, Lizzie was soaked to the skin, but she felt no physical discomfort because her mind was in such a turmoil.
The duke had dried himself and changed when a footman called to say that Miss Trumble and Lady Evans wished to speak to him as soon as possible.
“Where are they?”
“In the Green Saloon, your grace.”
The duke entered the Green Saloon. As both elderly ladies rose and curtsied to him, he looked at their severe and disapproving faces and felt like a boy who has been caught stealing apples.
“Sit down, Gervase,” said Miss Trumble. “Lady Evans is called with some shocking intelligence.”
“I trust nothing ill has happened to your family?” The duke flipped up his coattails and sat down.
“I believe you engaged a private parlour at the Green Man and there you entertained Lizzie,” said Miss Trumble.
He raised his thin eyebrows. “Yes?”
“Had you no care for the girl’s reputation?” barked Lady Evans.
“We wished some refreshment and I could hardly entertain her in the tap,” said the duke.
“The inn servants will gossip,” said Miss Trumble, “and that gossip will spread out throughout the county.”
“I did nothing wrong and I do not like to be interrogated like this,” said the duke. “Now if that is all…?”
“No, it is not all,” said Miss Trumble in an exasperated voice. “What are we to do to repair Lizzie’s reputation?”
“You will next be suggesting that I marry her,” said the duke.
“Yes.” That one quiet word from Miss Trumble dropped into the quietness of the room like a stone.
Rain dripped monotonously from the eaves, a log shifted in the fire, and the clocks of Mannerling ticked and chattered and tocked, racing away the minutes and hours.
The Beverleys should not have such a prize, thought Lady Evans. “Now, now, Letitia is joking,” said Lady Evans. “I am sure there is no need to go to such extremes. I suggest Lizzie be sent away to one of her sisters, preferably the one in Ireland, until everyone has forgotten the gossip. She is too young and heedless for you, Duke, and I am sure your aunt will forgive me for pointing out that the Beverleys are not up to your weight.”
“Lizzie is too generous and warm-hearted to be forced into a marriage she does not want,” said Miss Trumble. “But I would suggest an engagement, to be terminated after a few months.”
The duke was about to contemptuously dismiss this suggestion, but then in a flash he realized it had advantages. He would be free of the expectations of the other guests and their families. Lizzie was bright and amusing. He was sure the idea of an engagement would intrigue her. She would see the funny side of it.
“Very well,” said the duke. “If Miss Lizzie will agree to a few months’ engagement, so be it.”
“If you will take my advice,” said Lady Evans heavily, “you will get her to sign something. Have you met Lady Beverley? That family will have you in court for breach of promise, I assure you.”
“That is going too far,” protested Miss Trumble. “I will guarantee Lizzie’s integrity.”
“Let’s put it to her,” said Lady Evans cynically.
When Lizzie entered, she looked curiously at the three of them. “Sit down, child,” said Miss Trumble.
Lizzie sat down. Lady Evans surveyed her sourly. That red hair! It practically lit up the room! And those odd green eyes sparkling in that thin face.
“Lizzie,” began Miss Trumble gently, “we fear His Grace has damaged your reputation.”
Those green eyes of Lizzie’s flickered towards the duke. “It was only a kiss, and no one saw us.”
Lady Evans and Miss Trumble glared at the duke who, for once in his life, looked nonplussed.
“This is worse than we thought,” exclaimed Lady Evans.
“I did not know of any kiss,” said Miss Trumble. “Are your affections seriously engaged after all, Gervase?”
“I have become… fond… of the child, that is all,” said the duke stiffly.
“The fact remains that you entertained her in a private parlour and your great rank, instead of protecting her name, can only do the opposite. Your assignation with Lizzie—and that is how it will appear—was cause of a great deal of harmful gossip to her reputation. To that end, I have a suggestion. Lizzie, you and Gervase will announce your engagement, and after a few months, when the scandal has died down, you will break that engagement.”
Lizzie’s first furious thought was: How dare he kiss me and then say he was only fond of me? How dare he call me a child?
“I do not want to be engaged to His Grace,” she said primly, although her eyes had a dangerous sparkle. “What if some suitable young man should take my fancy? No one will believe I have rejected a duke. All will say that he terminated the engagement.”
“I shall look suitably heartbroken,” said the duke drily.
“You must be guided by me,” said Miss Trumble. “Have I ever guided you wron
g, Lizzie?”
Lizzie stared at her shoes.
Then she raised her eyes and looked at the duke. “This suits you very well, does it not? In this way, you will be rid of your guests.”
“Agreed. May I point out, Miss Lizzie,” said the duke, “that your apparent securing of my affections can do your social consequence nothing but good?”
“I think,” said Lizzie coldly, “that that must be about the most pompous, arrogant statement I have ever heard.”
“Manners!” cried Lady Evans, shocked.
“I do think, Gervase,” said Miss Trumble, “that you are being high-handed over this. Lady Evans and I will leave you alone for ten minutes and I suggest you put your proposal in a more… friendly… manner.”
Both ladies rose and left, Lady Evans with obvious reluctance.
Lizzie and the duke eyed each other like adversaries.
The thought that he would be free of his guests prompted the duke to adopt a conciliatory manner. “If you look at it this way,” he said, “it would not be all that bad a thing.”
“Have you any idea the effect such news will have on my mother?” asked Lizzie. “For a few months she will be in alt and then she will be cast down again when the engagement is broken.”
“Then we shall tell her of our arrangement.”
“She would never agree to such an arrangement. The way I see it,” said Lizzie, “is that there is no advantage to me.”
“According to my aunt, your reputation is ruined.”
“Fiddle. Now I come to think of it, I am well enough known to all in the countryside. I am a Beverley,” said Lizzie with a hauteur that matched the duke’s own.
He gave a slight shrug. “I am tired of arguing about this. If you do not wish the arrangement, so be it.”
Lady Evans and Miss Trumble were summoned. Miss Trumble’s fine eyes sparkled with anger. “You are being very silly, Lizzie. But you will soon find out the extent to which your reputation has been ruined. As for you, Gervase. As your intentions towards Lizzie seem all that is dishonourable, I would suggest you do not go out again with her alone or kiss her.”
“Gladly,” said the duke sourly.
“You are a silly little girl,” exclaimed Lady Evans.
Lizzie sank into a low curtsy and left the room, her head held high.
But the gossip about her spread out from Hedgefield to the Mannerling servants and so to the ears of the guests. “There you are!” cried Verity to Celia. “He had no real interest in the chit at all. Only dalliance. She is unsuitable to his rank.”
Sarah Walters turned the news over in her mind. Perhaps the duke had been trying to make her jealous! For now Sarah lived totally in fantasy. Every time the duke looked in her direction, Sarah saw burning passion.
Gerald Parkes was at first startled by the news and then delighted. His pursuit of Miss Moon had failed. But if Lizzie Beverley cared so little for her reputation, then it stood to reason that she was easy game.
Lizzie was aware of the charged atmosphere in the drawing-room that evening. Celia and Verity were giving her sly looks. They had been friendly for a brief period before, trying to get to know her better, trying to find out what there was about her that had attracted the duke, but now they felt infinitely superior to her. The Chumleys, that normally friendly and cheerful couple, did not answer Lizzie’s cheerful greeting, in fact they looked right through her. Colonel and Mrs. Parkes called Gerald sharply to their side when he would have joined Lizzie.
Peter Bond was absent and Lizzie felt quite friendless. Miss Trumble was of no help at all, seemingly blind to Lizzie’s plight.
Only Miss Moon tried to be friendly but in such a gentle, embarrassed way that her behaviour more than that of the others brought home to Lizzie the extent of her shame.
After dinner, she could bear the atmosphere no longer. She pleaded a headache and left the room.
The duke noticed that after a few moments, Gerald Parkes slid out of the room as well. It would be just like that young fool to decide that Lizzie could be had by anybody.
Colonel Parkes was talking to him about military matters. The duke listened courteously but he began to become very worried indeed.
Lizzie was sitting at her toilet-table brushing out her red hair when there came a scratching at her door. “Come in,” she called, expecting it to be Miss Trumble.
Gerald came in, a broad grin on his face.
Lizzie swung round, dropping the brush in her surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Gerald shut the door behind him and lounged forward. “Your hair is pretty.” He picked up a lock of it.
Lizzie angrily jerked her head away.
His hand fell to her shoulder and caressed it. “Don’t be so missish with me, sweeting,” he said. “Let’s sample a little of what you have been giving so freely to Severnshire.”
Lizzie jumped to her feet and pushed him away. She ran for the bell-rope by the fireplace but he grabbed her gown and jerked her back and caught her in his arms.
“Leave me alone,” shouted Lizzie.
The door swung open and the duke walked in. He seized Gerald by the collar and pulled him back, and then punched him full on the nose. “How dare you lay hands on my fiancée!” he shouted.
Gerald pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the blood streaming from his nose.
“I did not know she was your fiancée,” he said when he could. “It’s all over the county that she’s your slut.”
“If it weren’t for the respect I have for your parents,” said the duke, “I would call you out. Get out of here and make your arrangements with your parents for a speedy departure.”
When Gerald had left, Lizzie sank down on a chair and buried her face in her hands.
“I was wrong,” said the duke stiffly. “Come, Lizzie, we must be engaged. The damage to your reputation must be repaired, and quickly, too.”
Lizzie uncovered her face and looked up at him miserably. “I suppose there is no alternative?”
“I am afraid not.”
“Then let it be so,” said Lizzie wearily. “But we must not tell Mama the truth of the matter. I could not bear the recriminations.”
“May I suggest that we try to look as if we are fond of each other?”
“I will try,” said Lizzie bleakly.
“How is your headache?”
“I didn’t have one. The atmosphere of shame and blame in the drawing-room was too much for me.”
He held out his hand. “Come. Let us shake on it, Lizzie Beverley.”
She put out her hand and he covered it in a warm clasp. Then he bent and kissed her on the forehead.
“Do not look so miserable,” he said. “It is not a death sentence.”
“It is this house,” said Lizzie. “It makes terrible things happen.”
“It is only a house.” But he remembered again that reflection in the mirror.
Lizzie shuddered. “I feel in my bones that something terrible is about to happen.”
“Your nerves are overset. Go to sleep. Things will look better in the morning. Mr. Bond will send off the announcement of our betrothal to the newspapers.”
Lizzie gave him a shaky smile. “We shall hear Mama screaming with delight all the way from Bath.”
“We shall announce our engagement before dinner tomorrow. I would suggest that we appear a loving couple and so quench all hope. Do you think you can manage that?”
“I will try,” said Lizzie, “but it will be difficult.”
“Am I such a monster?”
“Rather forbidding.”
“You did not think so when I kissed you.”
“I was taken by surprise. Oh, go away, Your Grace, and let me rest and get over the shock of all this.”
He bowed and left. She had looked very pretty with her hair down. He would need to be extremely warm and affectionate to her on the morrow so that the engagement would be believed. The thought of being warm and affectionate to Lizzie Bever
ley made his heart lift as he strode from the west wing.
Then he stopped. There was the sound of tinkling chandelier crystals. He stood on the landing and looked down into the Great Hall. The chandelier had not been replaced. Great candelabra now burnt in the corners of the hall. But the tinkling went on, mocking, almost challenging in its sound.
He decided to get the servants to investigate in the morning. Someone was playing tricks on him.
Farmer Moon glared at the letter which had arrived by hand from his daughter in reply to one he himself had sent the day before. In his letter, he had asked whether she had managed to attract the attention of the duke. In her reply his daughter had written that the duke was too far above her but that his secretary, Mr. Bond, had been all that was kind.
A mere secretary! The farmer decided that it was time he called on his daughter and told her what he thought of her lowly ambition. He wrote her a letter saying he would be calling on her on the morrow to give her a lecture. Was a daughter of his who had received the best education going to throw herself away on a secretary? If she did not make a push to secure the duke’s affections, then he would see to it she was kept on a diet of bread and water. He then sanded and sealed the letter and sent it back by hand.
Tiffin, on receiving this letter, was thrown into a panic. She could not show it to Peter Bond, for it would show her interest in him and he might be shocked. Tiffin also knew her aunt was perfectly well able now to make the journey home and was only pretending to be ill so as to prolong their visit.
She wandered dismally out into the gardens, now glistening under the morning sun.
Gerald, who was moodily striding up and down and beheading flowers with his cane and plotting revenge, saw her and walked quickly up to her. “You look so distressed, Miss Moon. If there is anything I can do to help you, I am your servant to command.”
“No one can help me,” said Tiffin in a dreary little voice. “My father is coming tomorrow to lecture me. He has run mad. He wants me to marry the duke.”