The Homecoming (7 page)

Gerald and Lizzie were seated side by side on another sofa. The rest of the house party were assembled on chairs, balancing cake plate and teacup while sitting up rigidly straight. Only commoners allowed their bodies to touch the back of the chair.

“I really did not want to come,” confided Gerald.

“Why not?” asked Lizzie.

“Look about you, Miss Lizzie. I am quite outshone by Severnshire. Every lady wants to become a duchess.”

“Not I!” said Lizzie.

“Why not? You would make a very pretty little duchess.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Like a Dresden figurine.”

“You put me to the blush. May I remind you that Dresden figurines do not have red hair.”

“They should have hair like yours. But now I think of it, they are too insipid-coloured. Your hair is like a flame, like a glorious autumn, like a winter sunset.”

“I beg you to stop,” cried Lizzie. “I am not in the way of receiving compliments, and my head will be quite turned if you go on.”

“Then we will talk of prosaic things. Did you have a long journey to get here?”

“Not at all. I live hard by. In fact, my family once lived here.”

“Of course. Beverley. The Beverleys of Mannerling. I have heard of your family. Your sisters all married great men. You have been lying to me, Miss Lizzie. You must want to outshine your sisters and become a duchess.”

“Not I! Severnshire is very grim, I think, and quite old.”

“You are too hard. We first met him at Dover. My parents had come to meet me after my return from the Grand Tour. He was all that was amiable.”

“I should think anyone would feel amiable with your parents around,” said Lizzie, noticing the way that Colonel and Mrs. Parkes were chatting happily with Miss Trumble.

“Who is that lady you came in with?”

“That is Miss Trumble. She was my governess but I suppose she is now my chaperone. Mama is in Bath taking the waters.”

“Miss Trumble looks much too grand to be anyone’s governess. Her gown is of the first stare. Lady Beverley must be a generous employer.”

But Lizzie did not want to go on talking about Miss Trumble in case she betrayed that lady’s identity.

*   *   *

Peter hovered nervously outside the drawing-room. He had not seen Sarah since her arrival. He had been sent into Gloucester the day before when she arrived to attend to business. That had involved leaving at dawn and not arriving back until everyone else was in bed.

He longed to see her. He had a letter in his hand for the duke which had arrived that morning. It concerned a boundary dispute on the duke’s home estates. He was quite well able to deal with the matter himself, but in his longing to see Sarah again he had persuaded himself that his master would want to attend to it personally.

At last he smoothed his hair and squared his shoulders and walked into the drawing-room. Everyone looked at him. Peter’s eyes flew straight to Sarah. She looked vaguely at him, a little frown creasing her brow, and then she retreated back into her dream in which the duke was proposing marriage to her. The fact that she had made not the slightest push to attract the duke’s attention did not strike her as ridiculous. Sarah preferred dreams to reality. In dreams people were always charming and said all the things one wanted them to say.

The duke rose, interrupting Celia’s prattle and said, “Mr. Bond. You have something for me?”

They walked to a corner of the drawing-room. Peter handed him the letter. The duke read it with surprise. He was about to say sharply that Mr. Bond should be able to cope with the matter himself when he noticed how nervous the young man was. “Mr. and Mrs. Walters,” said the duke, raising his voice. “Do you not recognize Mr. Bond? He is from your village.”

“What?” The squire peered at Peter. Sarah continued to look out of the window where her wedding breakfast was taking place in marquees on the lawn. The duke in his wedding clothes was standing at her side. They were receiving the best wishes of the tenantry.

“Oh, yes, Bond’s son,” said the squire. “Dead, ain’t he?”

“Yes, Mr. Walters,” said Peter. “My father died just before I took up my post with His Grace.”

“Glad you’re settled,” mumbled the squire. “Bond didn’t leave you anything.”

“Miss Walters!” said the duke in a commanding voice.

Sarah came back to earth and blinked at him. “Do you remember Mr. Bond?”

Her eyes focused at last on Peter. “Why, of course,” she said. “You danced with me at the local assembly. How are you?”

“Very well,” said Peter.

There was a silence. Then Miss Trumble said, “I am sure you must have much to talk about. Mr. Bond, why do you not sit with Miss Walters for a little?”

Celia Charter goggled at Miss Trumble and Verity said acidly, “Whether his secretary stays or not is a matter for the duke, not for a local governess.”

“I will go,” said Peter wretchedly.

“No, Mr. Bond, you must not let the bad manners of one of my guests drive you away. Pray be seated,” Said the duke.

Lizzie looked at Verity, wondering how she was liking that set-down, but she heard Verity say to Celia, “I hope that puts that uppity governess in her place for once and for all. She
was
rude.”

“Apart from us,” said Gerald cheerfully, “it’s apretty horrible guest-list. Only look how the squire glares at that young secretary.”

Sarah was enjoying herself, talking about village matters. The fact that Peter was adoringly hanging on her every word went unnoticed by her.

“How do you think our host plans to entertain us today?” Gerald went on. “Or will he bother? After tea, we will all repair to our rooms and rest from the rigours of raising a cup to our lips.”

“I have no suggestions,” said Lizzie. “I am resolved to be correct.”

Gerald’s blue eyes sparkled with mischief.

“And what would you do were you not being correct?”

“I would probably go out into the sunshine and walk about the gardens and look around all my favourite old haunts.”

“Why do you not show them to me? Leave this fusty, musty tea-party?”

“I think Miss Trumble would consider it proper to escort me.”

“Surely not! In broad daylight, in the gardens, in full view of anyone who might care to see you?”

“Nonetheless, I will ask her,” said Lizzie.

She rose and crossed to Miss Trumble, who looked up inquiringly. “Mr. Parkes and I would like to take a turn around the gardens in the sunshine, Miss Trumble.”

Miss Trumble hesitated only a second. She glanced at Mr. and Mrs. Parkes, who were smiling their approval.

“Yes, by all means, Lizzie,” she said. “But do not stray too far from the house.”

The duke saw them leave. He then turned away and looked at the window. But the sun was still shining. Odd. He could have sworn the room had become suddenly darker.

“Oof! That’s better,” exclaimed Gerald as they emerged from the darkness of the hall and out into the sunlight. “I am not made for the social life.”

Lizzie looked amused. “And what are you made for, Mr. Parkes?”

“I am made for adventure, excitement. I think I shall join the army. Do you not get bored with all this social chit-chat among the teacups, Miss Lizzie?”

“I usually lead a very quiet life, Mr. Parkes. I have not travelled. Only to London, and that does not count. So a visit to my old home and meeting new people is a welcome diversion.”

“I like the sights and smells of foreign countries,” said Gerald. “Oh, the sunshine in Italy. We will probably remember this fine summer when we are quite old because it is so unusual. But in Italy the sun shines every day and there is a restless, excited feeling in the streets.”

“What of the art and architecture?”

“Oh, those. Well, people do prose on and drag on about the churches and ruins, but it was the life in the streets which interested me. You should see Venice, Miss Lizzie. Streets of water with the sun shining on it like molten gold.”

“It is very fine here,” said Lizzie primly, “and you have not looked about you once.”

“I was looking at your enchanting face.”

“You are trying to make me fall in love with you, sir, and all for your amusement.”

Gerald, who had been hoping for a flirtatious dalliance with this little redhead to beguile the tedium of a country visit, burst out laughing, and said, “Are you usually so perceptive?”

“On the contrary, I often do not see what is under my very nose. Let me just say your tactics make your motives very plain.”

“You do not have much vanity, do you, Miss Lizzie? Many a lady would have believed every word I said.”

“They can’t have had red hair,” said Lizzie gloomily.

“Silly fashions. They come and go. You will make red hair the fashion.”

“I am not fashionable, either in looks or speech.”

“That is what makes you so intriguing.”

“There you go again,” said Lizzie on a sigh. “Let us walk to the folly and look at the lake.”

“So we walk to the folly and look at the lake, and then what?”

“It is a very beautiful view,” said Lizzie reprovingly.

He laughed and strode out in the direction of the lake so that she had to scamper, holding on to her hat, to keep up with him.

“The view will not go away,” she panted.

He slowed his step and smiled down at her. Lizzie felt suddenly a little breathless and it was nothing to do with the fast pace. Gerald Parkes was so very beautiful.

“You look startled. What’s amiss?” he asked.

“You are very beautiful.”

“And you are bamming me!”

“Oh, dear,” said Lizzie, colouring up. “I have spoken my mind again. How embarrassing. I beg you to forget it.”

“Not I! I shall preen myself quite dreadfully for the rest of the day.”

“Be sensible. Now here is the folly. Mr. Judd, the owner of Mannerling who hanged himself, blew it up. This is a replacement.”

“He must have been all about in his upper chambers. Why did he blow it up?”

“He had taken the Beverleys in dislike. He knew that he was expected to marry Isabella, my eldest sister, and he let her believe he meant to propose at the first ball he held at Mannerling. Instead, he proposed to the vicar’s daughter.”

“What a truly dreadful man. Would your sister have really married him just to regain Mannerling?”

Lizzie bit her lip. “It seems a madness now. We felt we were nobodies without Mannerling. Our pride and ambition were great. But Isabella fell deeply in love with Lord Fitzpatrick and so it all had a happy ending.”

“For everyone—except Mr. Judd.”

The sunlight sparkled on the lake, where two brightly coloured rowing-boats held by their painters bobbed beside a small wooden jetty. Weeping willows trailed long fingers in the still water.

“If you want excitement,” said Lizzie, “you should go and look down into the waters of the lake when they are still and clear as they are today. People have seen the drowned face of Mr. Cater.”

“And who was Mr. Cater? Another suicidal owner?”

“No, but he wished to possess Mannerling. He disappeared from our lives and we never found out what became of him.”

“I have never seen a ghost,” cried Gerald. “Let’s go and look.”

“Not I,” said Lizzie with a shudder. “I believe in ghosts.”

With a laugh, he ran lightly down the grassy bank which led to the jetty. He turned and waved to Lizzie. When he reached the jetty, he knelt down on one knee and stared down into the water.

Lizzie waited and watched anxiously.

Then she heard Gerald cry out, saw him clutch his throat, then he fell back on the jetty and lay prone, his hat rolling off into the water.

“Mr. Parkes!” screamed Lizzie.

She ran headlong down to the jetty and knelt down beside him, rubbing his wrists and cheeks. “Please, Mr. Parkes,” she begged. “Do not be dead.”

His blue eyes suddenly opened and he said, “I think a kiss would restore me to life.”

“Monster!” Lizzie got to her feet and glared down at him.

“I fooled you,” he cried gleefully, springing to his feet. “You should see your face.”

Lizzie turned and began to walk angrily away. “I will never forgive you,” she said over her shoulder.

The duke, irritated by Celia and bored with Verity, stood once more at the drawing-room window.

His eyes narrowed. There was Lizzie Beverley, hurrying back towards the house. Gerald Parkes was following her. He seemed to be pleading. Then, as the duke watched, Gerald ran around the front of Lizzie and sank to his knees and clasped his hands.

He saw Lizzie begin to laugh, saw Gerald get to his feet with a sunny smile and tuck Lizzie’s hand in his arm. Chatting together, they continued towards the house.

Mr. Bond has done well for that chit, thought the duke sourly.

Lizzie and Gerald entered the hall. Suddenly Lizzie stopped.

“What is the matter?” asked Gerald.

“The house is angry with me,” whispered Lizzie.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” said Lizzie, “nothing at all.”

She ran away from him and up the stairs.

How odd, thought Gerald. She was quite white. I must be careful not to play any more tricks on her.

Lizzie sat down in her sitting-room and slowly unfastened her bonnet and lifted it from her bright hair. It must have been a trick of her imagination. Now she felt nothing. The fright Gerald had given her at the lake must have overset her.

There was a scratching at the door and she called, “Come in.”

The door opened and Peter Bond walked into the room.

“Peter,” said Lizzie. “Do sit down and chat to me. How is your fair Sarah?”

“I am at my wit’s end,” said Peter with a groan.

“Why, has she snubbed you?”

“Not at all, Lizzie, she is all that is amiable. But I had forgotten that Sarah is very dreamy. Although we talked of people we know in our village, it was as if most of her mind was somewhere else.”

“Sarah Walters
is
very dreamy,” said Lizzie. “Are you sure…I do not wish to offend you…but are you sure you would wish to be allied to such a family? Squire Walters seems a terrible old man and his poor wife appears to be frightened to open her mouth.”

Peter clasped his hands and stared at Lizzie beseechingly. “I am sure she would be glad to escape from her family.”