The Romance (19 page)

‘I had to wait and get my thoughts together. I have always been courted for my title and fortune. And, my sweeting, all our conversations were about regaining Mannerling.’

‘We will never speak of that place again!’

‘Now we must go in, or they will wonder what has happened to us. But first, kiss me again!’

*  *  *

Lizzie’s green eyes scanned the ballroom looking for Belinda. Lady Beverley was sitting with two old friends, immersed in conversation. During supper, Lizzie became even more anxious, and by the end of supper was feeling quite frantic. She searched throughout the house and then asked the footmen stationed in the hall whether they had seen a black-haired young lady in a silver tissue gown taking her leave. A footman told her that no one had left. The Hadshires’ ball, he said haughtily, was the social event of the year.

Disconsolately, Lizzie trailed back to the ballroom and then she wondered whether Belinda had gone into the gardens. She made her way through the French windows and along one of the paths until she came across her sister locked in the arms of Lord Gyre.

Lizzie slowly backed away and turned and ran lightly back into the ballroom. Everything was all right again, she thought with a sigh of relief. Mannerling had not won. Then, she thought more practically, now I am the last one left and Mama will just have to let me wear my hair up.

*      *      *

Miss Trumble sensed there was someone in her bedchamber and came awake with a start. ‘Who’s there?’ she called, drawing back the
bed-curtains.

‘Belinda,’ said a voice from the darkness.

‘Light the candles,’ commanded the governess. ‘I want to see your face.’

There was the scraping of a tinder-box and then a soft light bathed the room. Belinda came to the side of the bed and looked down at her governess.

‘Oh, thank God,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘Gyre has proposed!’

Belinda sat down on the bed. ‘Indeed he has.’

‘Oh, my child, I am so happy, I do not know what to do. Yes, I do. Fetch me my wrapper. Over there on the chair. I am going to fetch Barry Wort and he can go to the cellars and bring up a bottle of champagne.’

Soon Barry and Belinda and Miss Trumble were drinking champagne in Miss Trumble’s room. Barry and Miss Trumble demanded to hear what had happened and Belinda gave them a brief account, editing out all the kisses and caresses.

‘Does Lady Beverley know?’ asked Miss Trumble.

‘Mama will know tomorrow when Lord Gyre calls. I did not want to spoil her evening.’ Belinda began to giggle. ‘Only imagine being afraid to tell your own mother that you have landed the catch of the Season!’

‘Lord Gyre is called, my lady,’ said the maid, Betty, the next afternoon, ‘and is desirous to speak to you.’

‘Oh, he no doubt wants to be thanked for saving Belinda’s life,’ grumbled Lady Beverley. ‘I should have written to him, but I cannot help feeling if he had not interfered, then Belinda would have married Saint Clair.’

‘Mad,’ said Betty to Barry later. ‘If it hadn’t been for the marquess, Miss Belinda would be dead.’

Lady Beverley took her time changing and dressing and then made her way rather sulkily to the drawing-room.

Lord Gyre rose to meet her and bowed low. Lady Beverley waved a languid hand to indicate that he might be seated.

‘We are most grateful to you, my lord,’ she said in a bored voice, ‘for having so nobly saved the life of our daughter.’

The royal ‘we,’ thought the marquess, amused.

‘You are too kind,’ he said. ‘I am, in fact, called to ask your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter.’

‘Belinda!’

‘Yes, my lady.’

Lady Beverley stared at him. ‘If you must, you must,’ she said ungraciously. ‘Belinda has been a sad disappointment to me.’

‘Your daughter has not been a disappointment to me,’ he said crossly. ‘May I
see her?’

She rose to her feet. ‘Ironic, is it not, that Lord Saint Clair, who could have been my daughter’s, is now going to marry your ex-mistress?’

She drifted from the room. I will make damn sure that woman never comes near us once we are married, thought Lord Gyre furiously.

Belinda came in and stood looking at him doubtfully. ‘Was it worse than you imagined?’

‘Much worse.’

‘What can I do?’ she asked helplessly.

He smiled and held out his arms.

‘Kiss me better,’ he said.

*      *      *

The wedding of Mrs. Ingram and Lord St. Clair was quite overshadowed by the wedding of Belinda Beverley to Lord Gyre. Lady Beverley had pleaded that a quiet wedding was all that was necessary, but Belinda’s married sisters and their husbands had insisted on funding a grand one, and so Belinda was married at St. George’s, Hanover Square, and as she walked down the aisle with her new husband, she could not help contrasting her happy lot with that poor young creature she had seen married before she had ever met Lord Gyre.

Belinda in white Brussels lace radiated happiness, but she confided to the marquess that now she was married she intended never to
wear white again.

Her sisters noticed that Belinda at the wedding breakfast seemed to exhibit none of the bride nerves and each wondered privately whether Belinda was still a virgin.

Lizzie was wearing her hair up and Miss Trumble, looking at her fondly, thought that Lizzie would in her turn outshine them all.

But something happened to darken Lizzie’s happiness. Her mother took her aside and told her that Miss Trumble had been dismissed. ‘For it is you and only you who must try to get Mannerling back,’ she said. ‘And you are old enough now to dispense with the services of a governess.’

‘But Miss Trumble promised to stay with us until I was married,’ wailed Lizzie.

‘Miss Trumble is a mere servant,’ said Lady Beverley, ‘and will do as she is told. She will return with us to the country to settle matters and then she will take her leave.’

‘But where will she go?’

‘That is not our concern.’

‘You are only piqued because her gown and hat are more fashionable than yours, Mama,’ said Lizzie.

‘That is fustian,’ said Lady Beverley, furious because her daughter had correctly hit on the source of her anger. ‘Only see what a bad influence that woman has become. You have no respect for your own mother.’

‘What will you do?’ Barry asked Miss
Trumble. The servants had been allowed to join the wedding breakfast for a glass of champagne.

‘I will think of something,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘I shall wear all my oldest gowns when we get back to Brookfield House and Lady Beverley will forget she ever dismissed me. Belinda is leaving now. We must say goodbye.’

They followed the crowd outside the house. The Beverley sisters were clustered together—Isabella, Jessica, Rachel and Abigail, Lizzie and Belinda. Then Belinda’s husband took her hand and helped her into the carriage.

Miss Trumble felt tears pricking at her eyes and blinked them away. Another happy ending. She had long ago accepted that other people’s happy endings were to be her lot in life.

Belinda waved and smiled. Her sisters waved back. Then Belinda sank back in the carriage seat next to her husband and said in a choked voice, ‘If only Lizzie can be as happy as I am.’

‘With Miss Trumble to look after her, I am sure she will. Now, come here and show me just how happy you are.’

To Belinda, the journey to the posting-house where they were to spend the night passed in a dizzy haze of long amorous kisses. They had planned to dine as soon as they arrived, but once they were alone together in their bedchamber, they somehow found themselves on the bed and their clothes on the floor.

‘I am not very ladylike, am I?’ asked Belinda at one point.

The Marquess of Gyre gathered his wife’s naked body close in his arms.

‘Thank God for that,’ he said.

*      *      *

So Lizzie found herself alone and back at Brookfield House. Her only comfort was that Miss Trumble was still there. But the normally strong Miss Trumble had succumbed to a bad cold and was confined to her bed.

Slowly all Lizzie’s curiosity about Mannerling began to come back. It would not hurt, she began to think, as lonely day followed lonely day, to just have one more look.

She set out one morning wearing a warm cloak over a wool dress and half-boots, telling her mother only that she was going for a short walk.

She knew Mannerling had been up for sale, but had heard nothing about there being a new owner.

She let herself in by the small side-gate beside the great gates of Mannerling. There was smoke rising from the lodge chimneys, but no one came out to ask her her business.

She walked up the long drive, a small figure with her long hair streaming down her back. There had been no point in putting it up when there were no social events to attend.

The front door stood open. Heart beating hard, Lizzie walked inside. In that moment, she knew she had made a mistake. All her love and longing for the place came flooding back. As if walking in a dream, she walked slowly up the great staircase to the first landing. The chandelier crystals began to tinkle and she swung round, alarmed. But the door was open, she reminded herself, and a breeze must be moving the crystals.

She went into the Green Saloon. How grand it had been in the days when they’d had balls here. Lizzie began to pirouette dreamily to the music in her head.

‘What are you doing here, child?’ demanded a haughty voice.

Startled, she turned and looked at the doorway.

A tall man, dressed in hunting-coat and top-boots, stood looking at her. He was hatless. His hair was thick and brown and worn in an old-fashioned style, being long and tied back with a ribbon. He had odd silvery-grey eyes under hooded lids, a proud nose and a harsh cruel mouth. He was very tall.

Lizzie bobbed a curtsy. ‘I once lived here,’ she said.

‘That is no excuse for trespass,’ he said coldly.

‘But no one lives here.’

‘This is my property and I must ask you to remove yourself. I do not want to be too
abrupt. If you go to the kitchens, the housekeeper will no doubt find you some refreshment.’

Lizzie’s face flamed as red as her hair.

‘I am a Beverley,’ she said haughtily. ‘And the Beverleys do not visit the kitchens.’

‘I have heard of the Beverleys,’ he said coldly. ‘Can’t leave the place alone. I am Severnshire.’

So this was the Duke of Severnshire. ‘But you don’t need this place,’ said Lizzie.

‘I own many properties and this is now one of them. It will make a good hunting-box.’

‘A hunting-box!’ gasped Lizzie, outraged. ‘Such as Mannerling is not a hunting-box.’

‘Well, it is now, you impertinent little girl. Do run along or I shall have to ask my servants to turn you out.’

Lizzie turned and ran away. What a monster! How dare he speak to a Beverley thus!

On her return home, she longed to burst into Miss Trumble’s bedchamber and tell her about the new, horrible owner of Mannerling, but dared not, as Miss Trumble would be furious with her for even going near Mannerling.

*      *      *

The following days were easier for Lizzie, for Miss Trumble was restored to health and
suggested she continue her lessons.

One day, two weeks after she had visited Mannerling, Lizzie was walking in the garden.

She heard the sound of carriage wheels on the road and ran eagerly to the gate, hoping one of her sisters might have decided to come on an impromptu visit. A grand carriage with a crest stood outside. Two tall liveried footmen let down the steps and opened the carriage door.

The Duke of Severnshire stepped down.

He looked down his nose at Lizzie and Lizzie glared back and then turned on her heel and walked back into the house.

‘Who is that?’ demanded Lady Beverley. ‘I thought I heard a carriage.’

‘It is the Duke of Severnshire.’

‘Oh, my stars. Here! The great duke himself. And I have not even time to change my gown!’

Lady Beverley went outside. Lizzie reluctantly followed, suddenly curious to see why the monster had called.

‘Oh, your grace,’ cried Lady Beverley, dropping a full court curtsy while the duke responded with a curt nod. ‘We are indeed honoured.’

‘I am come to see my aunt,’ he said testily.

Both Lady Beverley and Lizzie stared at him in amazement and then said in unison, ‘
YOUR AUNT!’

Behind them, Miss Trumble’s quiet voice
said, ‘What’s amiss? Who has called?’ And then she saw the duke. ‘Oh, it’s you, Gervase,’ she said.

‘And just what are you doing here, Aunt Letitia?’ demanded the duke.

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