The Folly (7 page)

Rachel did not want to arrive late but her mother did, Lady Beverley liking to make an entrance. She fondly imagined the general and his son being bored by the dismal country company and how their eyes would light up at the sight of the Beverley family.

Mary Judd was pinning up a stray lock of hair in the anteroom provided for the ladies when they arrived. Miss Trumble, resplendent in gold silk and with a Turkish turban to match on her pomaded curls, noticed that Mary’s little black eyes were shining with malice and wondered why.

“Just arrived?” asked Rachel.

“No, I have been here this age,” said Mary. “So passé to arrive late, do you not think?”

“I wouldn’t know the ways of the world, any more than you,” retorted Rachel. “Out with it, Mary. Your eyes are full of secrets. Is the party from Mannerling here?”

“You will see for yourself.” Mary flitted out.

“I suppose Mr. Charles Blackwood has turned up with a beautiful lady and she thinks we will be disappointed,” said Lizzie, and they all laughed at the joke.

They could hear the jolly strains of the local band playing a country dance. The air was full of the smells of scent and pomade, wood-smoke, wine and beer. They pushed open the double doors which opened into the assembly room.

It was a long room at the side of the inn, with a fire burning at either end. The band played in a little gallery which overlooked the room. At first Rachel saw only familiar faces and then the crowd of watchers in front of her parted and she could see the whole ballroom.

In the centre of the room, his height topping the dancers, was Charles Blackwood, partnered by a very tall, very beautiful woman. Her hair was as fair as Rachel’s and her eyes of a very intense blue. She had high cheek-bones, a long straight nose, and a statuesque figure, slim but deep-breasted, and she was nearly as tall as Charles Blackwood. She was wearing a gown of silver gauze over an underslip of white satin. Diamonds sparkled in her hair and round her perfect white neck.

Rachel stood there, feeling small and diminished. This Amazon was a sort of grander Rachel, taller, more assured, with bluer eyes and a sophisticated, commanding presence.

“Oh, dear,” whispered Lizzie. “Who can she be?”

“I fear that is our Mr. Blackwood’s house guest,” said Rachel. “Perhaps her husband is here.”

“From the way she is looking at Mr. Blackwood and he at her,” said Belinda, “I fear there is no husband.”

The general had seen them and came bustling up. “Capital,” he exclaimed. “You are looking very fine tonight, Miss Trumble.” Lady Beverley glared daggers. “And you, too, dear lady,” said the general hastily. “Ah, the dance is finishing. You must make the acquaintanceship of our guests.”

They followed him in a little group to where Charles was bowing before his partner at the end of the dance. “Charles, my boy,” cried the general. “They are come at last.”

Charles smiled at them. “Lady Beverley, may I present my friend, Miss Minerva Santerton. Ah, and here is George, Mr. Santerton, Miss Santerton’s brother.” He introduced brother and sister to the Beverleys and Miss Trumble. George Santerton was
as tall as his sister, with the same fair hair, but his eyes were a washed-out blue and held a vacuous look and his chin receded into his high, starched cravat.

“Charmed,” he drawled. “Didn’t expect so many beauties at a little country dance.”

Minerva smiled, a small, curved smile. “But you must have heard of the famous Beverley sisters,” she said. “Even I have heard of them. Your fame is known in London.”

Her voice hesitated a little before the word “fame,” as if she had been about to say “notoriety.”

Rachel felt a tug at her arm and found Mark looking up at her. “May I have the next dance, Miss Rachel?”

Minerva smiled indulgently. “Shall we find some refreshment, Charles, and leave the children to their dance?”

She put a proprietorial hand on his arm. A flash of irritation crossed Charles’s green eyes, but he bowed and led her away.

Rachel performed a dance, another country one, with Mark, trying to remind herself that children always came to dances at these country assemblies, but feeling gauche and awkward and wishing she had a handsome partner to restore some of her wounded vanity. She and her sisters had been used to being the most beautiful women at any country affair and she felt their lustre had been sadly dimmed by this visiting goddess.

As if in answer to her wishes for a handsome partner, no sooner was the dance over and the supper dance announced than a gentleman was bowing before her. Rachel hesitated just a moment.

She had expected to be led into supper after this dance by Charles. Perhaps, she thought furiously, if Mama had not arrived so late, there would have been time for Charles to have asked her. She realized the gentleman in front of her was looking at her quizzically and waiting for her reply.

She dropped a low curtsy and said, “I am delighted, sir.”

And then she took a proper look at him. He was a stranger to the neighbourhood; she had not seen him before. He was of medium height with thick brown hair fashionably cut, which gleamed in the candle-light with red glints. His square, regular face was deeply tanned.

Suddenly mindful of the conventions, Rachel said, as he led her to the floor, “We have not been introduced, sir.”

“I thought such conventions were only for London balls.”

“No, I assure you.”

He led her to the Master of Ceremonies, Squire Blaine, and said, “Pray introduce me to this beautiful lady.”

“Certainly,” said the squire. “Miss Beverley, may I present Mr. Hercules Cater, whom I met earlier today. Mr. Cater is a sugar planter from the Indies. Mr. Cater, the star of our county, Miss Rachel Beverley of Brookfield House.”

“There we are,” he said gaily, leading her to the centre of the floor. “Now we are all that is respectable.”

The dance was a quadrille, which many people in the county still did not know how to perform, and so there was only one set: Rachel and Mr. Cater,
Charles and Minerva, the general and Lady Beverley, and Belinda and George Santerton.

It gladdened Rachel’s heart to notice how ungracefully Minerva danced. Her own partner, Mr. Cater, danced with ease and grace, drawing applause from the audience by performing an entrechat, quite in the manner of the bon ton who employed ballet masters to teach them elaborate steps.

Miss Trumble watched the dancers. She was glad the general was dancing with Lady Beverley. For had the general chosen her, Miss Trumble, for the supper dance, then, the governess knew, her mistress would have done everything in her power to ruin the evening for everyone else.

And then she noticed Lady Evans sitting in a quiet corner and made her way there.

“Ah, Letitia,” said Lady Evans, who was wearing an enormous turban instead of one of her usual giant caps. “Come and sit by me, for I am become bored.”

“You must not call me Letitia in public,” admonished Miss Trumble, sitting down beside her. “If it bores you so much, why do you come?”

“Curiosity. I was anxious to see Miss Santerton with my own eyes. I have heard so much about her.”

“Indeed! I am so out of the world, I have heard nothing at all. How old is she, would you say?”

“I know her exact age. She is one of the Sussex Santertons. Good family. Minerva is twenty-eight.”

“So old, so beautiful, and not married! No money?”

“The Santertons are as rich as Croesus.”

“So what is the problem?”

“Minerva Santerton is a widow.”

“Then why is she called Santerton?”

“It is a dark story. She married Sir Giles Santerton, a first cousin. They were married only a little over a year when Sir Giles was found drowned in a pond on his estate. Now, he had been heard quarrelling with Minerva—evidently they fought like cat and dog—on the morning of the day he died. Also, when his body was pulled from the water, he had a lump the size of an egg on his head. There were a few nasty rumours.”

“Such as?”

“Such as that his wife had hit him on the head and pushed him to his death. But Giles’s father was and is the local magistrate and shuddered at the idea of scandal, and he had not been overfond of his son in any case, and so nothing more was said about the whole business and the rumours died away. My friend, Mrs. Tullock, who knows the family and is of Sussex, went to the funeral and said Minerva cried most affectingly and even fainted at the graveside.”

“But she was introduced to the Beverleys as
Miss
Santerton!”

“The death took place four years ago. After a period of mourning, Miss Santerton appeared once more on the social scene. She seems determined to be regarded as a débutante.”

“At her age, and apparently never having been married, she is in danger of being damned as an ape-leader.” Spinsters were still believed to be damned when they died to lead apes in hell.

“I think she is still in a way out for revenge on the dead Giles by acting as if the marriage never happened,” said Lady Evans.

“Why did she marry him if she hated him that much?”

“Her mother was dead and her father, considerably older than the mother, mark you, was an awful old tyrant. He arranged the marriage, he and Giles’s father.”

“But a first cousin…” protested Miss Trumble.

“Oh, they were married by a bishop, and one can always bribe a bishop. Now take that fellow dancing with Rachel. He is a Mr. Cater, a sugar planter, and said to be enormously wealthy. Good parti.”

“All these people arriving out of nowhere,” murmured Miss Trumble. “And I had the stage so nicely set.”

“What’s that, hey?”

“Nothing of importance,” said Miss Trumble sadly. “Nothing important at all.”

Rachel found Mr. Cater pleasant company at supper. She judged him to be in his mid-twenties, certainly nearer her age than Charles Blackwood. “And what brings you to Hedgefield?” she asked.

“Curiosity. I met someone out in the West Indies who spoke of the beauties of Mannerling, and finding time on my hands, I decided to travel into the country and perhaps see the place for myself.”

“Mannerling,” echoed Rachel, her face lighting up.

“You know the place well?”

“Of course; it was our family home until some years ago.” Her large eyes shone. “It must be the most beautiful place in the world.”

“I have already spoken to the present owner, Mr. Charles Blackwood. He has kindly allowed me to visit Mannerling and see for myself.”

“Oh, it is so wonderful. Such an air of peace and elegance. I miss it so much. We were happy there. Who told you of Mannerling?”

“An elderly gentleman, Lord Hexhamworth.”

“Ah, yes, he was a friend of my father and was always invited to our balls. We had wonderful balls.”

“Mr. Blackwood seems much taken with Miss Santerton.”

Rachel looked down the long table to where Charles sat with Minerva.

“Yes,” she agreed, but impatiently. For some reason she wanted to forget the existence of Charles Blackwood and the glorious Minerva, who made her feel small and provincial. “The last ball we had at Mannerling,” she went on, “was the finest. The walls were draped with silk, and a double row of footmen lined the grand staircase, each man carrying a gold sword.”

“That is extravagance to rival the Prince Regent!”

“It was so very fine.” She gave a little sigh. “But we have accepted our new life and are relatively happy.”

“Perhaps Mr. Blackwood can be persuaded to let
you
show me the delights of Mannerling.”

“That would not be fitting. Besides, I would feel like an interloper.”

“And yet your beauty in a beautiful house would surely be fitting.”

“Thank you, sir, for the compliment. Do you stay long in England?”

“Several months. I have not been home this age.”

“Tell me about your life in the Indies.”

At first she listened, fascinated, to the tales of
hurricanes and heat, of hard labour and the rewards of being a plantation owner. But when he began to complain of the laziness of his black slaves, Rachel began to feel uncomfortable. Miss Trumble had lectured them on the evils of slavery. And yet she had up until that point found the company of this easygoing Mr. Cater pleasant.

“You obviously do not believe in all this talk of freedom for slaves,” she said at last.

Something flickered through the depths of his eyes and he said with a light laugh, “It may seem brutal to you here, in your sheltered world of England. But you would soon change your views were you in the West Indies. Sugar must be harvested and white skins are not up to labouring in the sun.”

“Possibly,” agreed Rachel. “But slaves!”

He smiled indulgently. “You are a very modern young lady. But tell me more about Mannerling.”

And in her enthusiasm in describing her old home, Rachel forgot for the rest of the evening about those slaves.

Charles Blackwood had to admit to himself that he was becoming quickly fascinated by the beautiful Minerva. He had not invited either Minerva or her brother to stay; they had invited themselves. At first he had been irritated, for the acquaintanceship was slight and they had not asked if they could stay, had simply sent an express to say they would be arriving. George Santerton was a bore and a fool, but the glorious Minerva more than made up for her brother’s deficiencies.

The intense blue of her eyes, the gold of her hair,
the swell of her bosom, and the way those magnificent eyes lit up with laughter went straight to his heart. He had planned never to marry again, but Minerva would make such a beautiful ornament in his beautiful home.

But there were Mark and Beth to consider before he even thought of presenting them with a new mother. His fury at his late wife’s infidelity had made him neglect them. He realized that now and he was immensely grateful to Miss Rachel Beverley of Brookfield House for having brought that neglect to his attention. His eyes strayed to Rachel. She seemed to be enjoying the company of that stranger, Cater. If the man was as rich as rumour already had it, then perhaps yet another of the Beverley sisters would make a good marriage. He hoped she would find someone worthy of her. He could not in his heart blame the Beverleys for their reported machinations in trying to reclaim their home. The girls were very young and the plunge from riches to a sort of genteel straitened circumstances must have been hard. There was a soft glow about Rachel when she was happy that seemed to make Minerva’s charms, by contrast, look like hard brilliance. He gave himself a mental shake. Minerva was speaking. “I quite dote on your children,” she said. “I feel it is a great tragedy that I have none of my own.”