The Folly (4 page)

“No,” said Charles slowly. “I am too old for any of the Beverleys in any case. Is Lady Beverley not at home?”

“My mistress is indisposed. Lady Beverley is often indisposed.”

“I was going to invite the Beverleys to Mannerling, but if Lady Beverley is unwell…”

A gleam of mischief shone in the governess’s eyes. “Should you issue such an invitation, then it would go a long way to restoring her ladyship to health.”

Charles smiled. “Shall we say tomorrow? You could all come to Mannerling in the carriage with the children.”

“I am sure they will accept. If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I shall go to see if Lady Beverley considers herself fit.”

“Fine lady, that,” said the general when the door closed behind Miss Trumble.

“Very fine,” agreed his son. “Too fine to be a governess. Miss Trumble has the air of a duchess.”

“And what must we think of the girls now?”

“Harmless. Only dangerous if my heart was in danger, and you alone know that is hardly ever to be the case again.”

“Poor Sarah,” said the general. Sarah was the late Mrs. Blackwood. “She seemed such a merry little thing.”

“Too merry to confine her attentions to her husband,” said Charles harshly.

“Well, well, I always did have a soft spot for little Sarah. And she is dead now. Water under the bridge.”

Charles reflected that “water under the bridge” was too trite a phrase to describe his fury and heartache when he found his wife had been unfaithful to him with the first footman.

“Shh,” he admonished. “I hear our governess returning.” Both men stood up.

Miss Trumble entered and said demurely that Lady Beverley thanked them for their invitation and would be pleased to attend.

“Restored to health, hey?” demanded the general with a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh, yes, your kind invitation was very beneficial.”

“I say,” said the general as they moved to the door, “come as well.”

Miss Trumble curtsied with grace. “You are too kind.”

“There now,” said the general in high good humour, “got to keep my grandchildren in line, what?”

Miss Trumble smiled and led the way out to the garden.

Charles paused for a moment on the threshold. Rachel was throwing a ball to Mark. Her fair hair gleamed in the sunlight. It had escaped from its pins and was tumbling about her shoulders. Her face was pink and her large blue eyes shone with laughter. He felt a tug at his heart and then gave a rueful smile. He hoped he was not going to start lusting after young girls at his age!

The next day Miss Trumble found herself left to school and entertain the Blackwood children on her own. The Beverley sisters were preparing for their visit to Mannerling. It saddened her that they should betray so much hectic excitement. Would that wretched house which appeared to have a malignant life of its own ever let them go?

Now that Mark and Beth were at ease with her after their first day of drawing and games, she began formal lessons, enjoying the quick intelligence they showed.

“You have done very well,” she said at last. “Now I will read you a story.”

“Not one with ghosts in it,” said Mark.

“No ghosts. You are not afraid of ghosts, are you, Mark?”

His expressive little face turned a trifle pale, and he nodded.

“Come here and sit by me. You have seen a ghost?”

Again that little nod.

“At Mannerling?”

His small hand slid into hers for comfort. He gulped and nodded again.

“And what did this ghost look like?” Miss Trumble never jeered at the fears of children.

“Foxy,” whispered Mark. “Sandy hair and green eyes.”

Miss Trumble felt cold. Judd had looked like that. “There is a picture of a man in the Long Gallery who looks like that.”

“He was in my room,” said Mark in a low voice.

Miss Trumble’s gaze sharpened. “Do you mean he was clear, like a real person?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Have you told your father of this?”

“No, miss, I have not been in the way of talking to him.”

“I think we both should say something. Now, I will read you a story about pirates.”

His face brightened and he went to sit beside his sister again. As Miss Trumble read the words of the story, her mind raced. She remembered her own fear when that chandelier on which Judd had hanged himself had started to revolve slowly, just as if there were a body hanging from it, and there had been no wind that day. And yet a real-life ghost that this little boy had been able to see and to describe! She could not believe it.

She finished reading, promising to read more the following day, and sent the children out to play in the garden. Then she went in search of Barry Wort.

“Such excitement,” said Barry, tossing a bunch of weeds into a wheelbarrow. “You would think they had Mannerling back again, the way they are going on.”

“I am beginning to regret not moving to Mannerling to look after those children.”

“You, miss? You would never desert us!”

“It is tempting. Let me tell you. The boy, Mark, swears he has seen the ghost of Judd.”

“Could it be, miss, because the boy was frightened and unhappy with that governess? Children do be very fanciful.”

“No, Barry, I do not think it is fancy in this case. If he had talked of a spectral figure or anything that
sounded like a Gothic romance, I would have put it down to imagination. But he saw a real figure. Do you think perhaps that someone is playing a nasty trick on him?”

“With your permission, miss, and that of Mr. Blackwood, I would suggest that maybe I spend a few nights with the boy, on guard, so to speak.”

Miss Trumble smiled. “What would I do without you?” Barry coloured with pleasure. “You are always so sensible. I will discuss the matter with Mr. Blackwood.”

Two carriages from Mannerling arrived. Miss Trumble and the children went in the smaller one and Lady Beverley and her daughters in the larger. Lady Beverley was showing no signs of illness and was dressed in a modish gown of blue silk with darker-blue velvet stripes and a bonnet embellished with dyed ostrich plumes. Rachel noticed that her mother had adopted the haughty, grand manner she had shown when she was mistress of Mannerling and wondered uneasily if Lady Beverley considered Charles Blackwood as a possible husband for one of her daughters.

Rachel was wearing a blue muslin gown which matched the colour of her eyes. It was high-waisted and puff-sleeved and had three deep flounces at the hem. But she considered that Belinda with her black curls and pink gown looked prettier and wondered whether Belinda really meant to set her cap at Charles Blackwood and in the same moment persuaded herself she did not care.

Soon they arrived at the tall iron gates of Mannerling. The lodge-keeper sprang to open them. He
was a new face to the Beverleys. Lady Beverley insisted on telling the carriage to stop while she lowered the glass and quizzed the lodge-keeper in a high autocratic voice as to whether he was happy in his new employ. Rachel’s heart sank. She privately hoped this would turn out to be the first of many visits, but if Lady Beverley started ordering around the Mannerling servants and criticizing any changes to the house, as she had done in the past, then Rachel feared this might prove to be their first and last visit.

She felt a tug at her heart as the great house came into view, its graceful wings springing out, as they had always done, from the central block of warm stone.

Then down from the carriage and into the hall, where the great chandelier glittered above their heads, and up the double staircase behind the stiff back of a correct butler.

“Remember your place, Miss Trumble,” hissed Lady Beverley, “and sit in a corner of the room.”

Miss Trumble smiled vaguely but made no reply.

The general and his son rose at their entrance. Rachel was struck afresh by how handsome Charles looked with his black hair and odd green eyes. His legs were superb. She suddenly blushed as if he could read her naughty thoughts.

Miss Trumble curtsied and moved to a chair by the window.

“Miss Trumble,” cried the general. “‘Pon rep, you must not hide yourself. Come and sit by me.” He patted the cushion on the sofa beside him.

Lady Beverley’s pale eyes shone with an unlovely light but she refrained from saying anything.

“So what do you think of the place, hey?” the general asked Miss Trumble. “Many changes since your day?”

Lady Beverley found her voice. “Miss Trumble was never at Mannerling,” she said. “She came to us after The Fall.” By this she somehow implied that Miss Trumble was part of the Beverleys’ loss of fortune and face.

“The Fall?” asked the general curiously.

“We were once one of the most powerful families in the land,” said Lady Beverley. “My poor husband incurred debts and so we were driven from Mannerling, from our rightful home.” She took a wisp of handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.

There followed an awkward silence. Then Belinda said brightly and loudly, “I see the pianoforte there and Lizzie has come along in her studies. Do play us something, Lizzie.”

Lizzie rose obediently, having been schooled by Miss Trumble that when asked to play, she should do so without forcing anyone to persuade her.

Soon Lizzie’s fingers were rippling expertly over the keys. When she had finished playing a brisk rondo, the general begged her to play the tune of a popular ballad. Miss Trumble’s end of the sofa where she was seated was next to Charles Blackwood’s armchair. She leaned forward and said gently, “I would like a word with you in private, sir.”

“Gladly. Come with me.” They both rose and, under the curious eyes of the others, left the room together. He led her into the small drawing-room, used by the Beverley sisters on rainy days when Mannerling had been their home.

“Now what is this all about?” he asked.

“I am worried about Mark.”

“What’s amiss? Is he slow to learn?”

“Not at all. He has a quick intelligence.”

“Then what can it be?”

“He has seen a ghost—a ghost at Mannerling.”

“I hope I have not been mistaken in you, Miss Trumble,” said Charles gravely. “All children usually have such fancies, and they should not be encouraged in indulging them.”

“I am not in the way of indulging children’s fancies,” said Miss Trumble so sharply and with such an air of hauteur that Charles immediately felt like a naughty child himself.

“Forgive me. Explain.”

“Mark has given me a graphic description of Mr. Judd, one of the previous owners who hanged himself. He claims to have seen him. Had I really believed he had seen a ghost, or rather, had I thought that the boy thought he had really seen a ghost, I would have done all in my power to reassure him and to talk him out of his fancies. The thing that troubles me is that I have an uneasy feeling that Mark may have seen a real person.”

He looked at her in amazement and then said, “But why? Why would anyone try to frighten a child? We have no enemies.”

“I really do not know. I may be wrong. But to make sure, our odd man, Barry Wort, has offered to guard the boy’s room. He is a strong and honest man. He is not of the Mannerling staff. With your permission, I will smuggle him up the back stairs this evening. I told him to call.”

“Very well.” He looked at her doubtfully. “And how long is this experiment to go on?”

“A few nights, that is all.”

“I will have a truckle-bed set up in Mark’s room.”

“Not by your servants,” said Miss Trumble quickly.

“You suspect my servants? They would not dare.”

“Humour me, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Oh, very well. I will attend to the matter myself.” He rang the bell. John, the footman, answered the summons. “Fetch my son here,” ordered Charles.

After a few minutes, Mark appeared.

Charles studied the boy’s expressive and sensitive face, feeling a pang that he had never really tried to get to know his own son.

“Sit down, Mark,” he said gently.

“A moment.” Miss Trumble moved quickly to the door and jerked it open. John was standing outside.

“Go about your business,” said Miss Trumble.

“I was simply waiting at hand to see whether the master wished any refreshments,” said John huffily.

“The master does not. Go away.”

She waited until John had gone off down the stairs, his liveried back stiff with outrage.

She closed the heavy door and then sat down.

“Mark,” began Charles, “what is all this about a ghost?”

The boy threw a reproachful look at Miss Trumble.

“I am not usually in the way of betraying confidences,” said the governess. “But I think this ghost of yours is something to be taken seriously. Your father will not laugh at you.”

“Tell me about it,” said Charles.

“It happens sometimes during the night,” said
Mark in a rush. “He stands at the end of my bed and he is a foxy man with sandy hair and green eyes.”

“If it was night-time and dark, how were you able to see him so clearly?” asked Charles.

“The first time it was just a black figure,” said Mark. “So I left a candle burning after that. Miss Terry found out and whipped me for burning the candle, but I was more afraid of the ghost than I was of her.”

“See here, Mark,” said his father, “we are going to play a game. Do you know…er…what is the name of the Brookfield servant?”

“Barry Wort.”

“Oh, I know him. He is capital. He taught me how to make a sling.”

“Now this is to be our secret, Mark,” said Charles. “This Barry Wort is going to sleep in your room for a few nights. You are not to tell anyone about this arrangement, not the servants, not anyone.”

The boy’s eyes shone. “No ghost would dare to appear if Barry were there.”

“We shall see. I shall call on you before you go to sleep. Is there still a truckle-bed in the powder-closet in your room?”

Mark nodded.

“So take some sheets and blankets from the linenpress when the servants are not around and make a bed for Barry.”

“In the powder-closet?”

“No, that would not serve. In the corner of your room. You may leave now.”

Mark rose and bowed and walked to the door. Then he turned and ran back and threw his arms around the startled Miss Trumble’s neck and
deposited a wet kiss on her cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered. And then he ran out.