The Romance (4 page)

He turned to find an elderly housekeeper standing there. The previous housekeeper had been sacked for drunkenness, but that he did not know. This one was grey-haired, motherly, and just as she should be in black bombazine gown and starched white cap with a ring of keys clinking at her waist. ‘I am Mrs. Muir, sir,’ she said. ‘The servants have taken your bags to your room.’

Peregrine smiled. Although he was a fairly handsome man with square regular features and a neat figure, he did not often smile. ‘I think I would like some refreshment first if I may,’ he said.

‘Very well, sir. The day is chilly and there is a fire in the Green Saloon.’

He followed her up the stairs. A chain of saloons lay on the first floor, where in the grand days of Mannerling balls had been held. The Green Saloon was large and magnificent. A bright fire crackled in the hearth. Peregrine walked to the fire and said over his shoulder, ‘Some claret, I think.’

When the housekeeper had left, he studied his reflection in the glass over the fireplace. It seemed to him that he had grown in stature. He sank down in a comfortable armchair by the fire and stared dreamily into the flames. A footman appeared shortly with a glass, a decanter of claret, and some thin ham sandwiches on a tray.

The claret was excellent and the ham was
Westphalian. Peregrine stretched out his booted legs.

But gradually as he drank and stared about him, the feeling of peace began to leave him. This should be mine, he thought furiously. Why should a churl, a man-milliner like Toby St. Clair, have all this when he does not even want it?

And then he began to remember remarks Earl Durbridge had made. ‘I’ve a good mind to disinherit that boy, Perry. Yes, any more of his japes and roistering and I will do just that. But Mannerling and marriage will settle him, you’ll see.’

‘Yes, we shall most certainly see about that,’ said Peregrine aloud. He grinned at the leaping flames in the fireplace and the flames illuminated that face.

‘Gave me quite a turn,’ said the housekeeper, Mrs. Muir, in the servants’ hall later that day, for she had entered and had stopped short in the doorway, seeing that evil grin. ‘Looked like a soul in hell, that Mr. Vane did. But it was a trick of the light, and we all know this place do play strange tricks on the imagination.’

*      *      *

While Peregrine plotted his cousin’s downfall, Lord St. Clair was driving Belinda in the park and enjoying immensely the admiring stares
her beauty was drawing towards his carriage. Why, even his best swansdown waistcoat had failed to get all this attention! Belinda smiled and nodded to various people she had already met at balls and parties, all the while hanging tightly on to the guard rail and bracing her feet against the spatter-board, for St. Clair was driving a showy team with a propensity to rear and back. St. Clair was impervious to the fact that his driving was awful. Lord Gyre came darting past in a phaeton with a pretty lady next to him. He alone did not slow to view the charms of Belinda.

Fortunately for Belinda’s equanimity, St. Clair’s horses grew weary of shying and bucking and backing and made up their minds to head homewards at a sedate pace. After a few futile efforts to dissuade them, St. Clair decided to let them have their own way and look as if it were all his own idea. The easy pace at last made conversation possible.

‘May I say, Miss Belinda,’ he remarked, ‘that your bonnet is vastly fetching?’

‘Oh, my lord,’ fluttered Belinda, ‘I put it on especially for you.’

The bonnet was her sister Abigail’s. It was a little straw hat with a high crown tilted at a rakish angle to show her shiny black curls.

‘Do you go to the opera tonight?’ asked Belinda.

‘I can’t stand all that caterwauling and it’s Mozart again and that fellow gives me a pain in
the head.’

‘So monstrous boring,’ agreed Belinda. ‘But one goes to be seen and your fashion and style are so much admired.’

‘Hey, you are right. Only cloth-heads bother about the music and one can sit in the back of the box and have a comfortable coze. Then there’s the opera ball afterwards. Got a box?’

‘Yes, my brother-in-law, Burfield, has one.’

‘Then I’ll join you.’

Belinda’s world lurched a little. She loved the opera, loved the music, and the idea of talking all through it horrified her. But there was Mannerling. And look at the freedom married ladies had. Many of them went to the opera with friends rather than with husbands.

‘I’ll call for you,’ went on St. Clair. He had not waited to see if she wanted his escort. Secure in his own vanity, he could not contemplate anything other than that she should be honoured and delighted.

And so the evening was quite a nightmare for Belinda. As Lord St. Clair chattered on at the back of the opera box, several angry voices kept calling on him to be quiet. There was to be further mortification. Lord St. Clair was handed a note. He crackled it open and read the contents and then gave an angry snort. ‘Would you believe this, Miss Belinda,’ he said in a loud carrying voice. ‘Gyre says if I don’t shut up, he’ll call me out!’

Saint Clair stood up and walked to the edge
of the box, raised his quizzing-glass and glared all around in what he considered was a threatening way. But the recollection that Gyre was reputed to be the best shot and swordsman in the country made him finally sit down and fall into a sulky silence.

Gratefully, Belinda gave herself up to the beauty of the music.

At the opera ball afterwards, as he promenaded with Belinda after a set of the quadrille, he said, ‘Tedious, was it not? I thought you had gone to sleep.’

Belinda gave a silly giggle. ‘So boring and long. I declare I nearly did. But, la, my lord, how could I sleep with you to keep me company?’

‘I must warn you, my fair charmer, I’m a devil with the ladies.’

‘Oh, my lord, do you mean you are enamoured of someone? I declare you break my poor heart.’

‘Hey, only bamming. No one else here to match you.’

After the promenade was over, Belinda slipped away. She wanted a few moments by herself because her resolve to marry St. Clair was slipping. She went to a dressing-room set aside for the ladies and sat down in a chair in front of the mirror and gazed wearily at her own reflection. Somehow, without the disapproving Miss Trumble around to react to, the idea of securing such a fool for a husband
was beginning to strike Belinda as ridiculous. She pinned up a stray curl, shook out her muslin skirts, and made to leave the room. The door of the dressing-room was open. She heard the Marquess of Gyre’s voice and shrank back. The marquess made her feel as if she were perpetually making a cake of herself. ‘Which is exactly what you are doing, Belinda,’ said Miss Trumble’s voice in her head.

‘You must admit, Gyre,’ said his companion’s voice, ‘that the Beverley girl—Belinda, is it?—is the most beautiful creature in London.’

Then came the marquess’s voice with dreadful clarity, ‘Oh, she is well enough, I suppose, but so stupid and vain.’ His voice rose to a falsetto as he began to parody Belinda, ‘Oh, my lord, opera is so tedious and boring, the finest works of art are so boring. La, your waistcoat is the very height of fashion.’

‘Was that meant to be Belinda Beverley? Doesn’t sound like her. Got a pretty voice.’

‘But the content was hers,’ said Gyre drily.

‘They all talk like that.’

‘Which is why I am still unwed,’ said the marquess. ‘Someone told me the Beverley girls were highly educated. Perhaps because they are able to spell “cat” without looking up Doctor Johnson’s dictionary.’

‘Well, you know,’ said his companion, sounding amused, ‘if she is behaving like a silly widgeon, it’s all part of the plot.’

‘You interest me—go on.’

‘It is a well-known fact that the Beverleys have thought of little but getting their family home back again. They lost all when old Beverley spent all his money, house and lands, across the tables of Saint James’s. Do you not remember the scandal when Rachel Beverley was set to marry the owner of Mannerling, Harry Devers, got cold feet and so her place at the wedding was taken by her twin Abigail? Abigail decides she cannot go through with it after the farce of a marriage and to escape Devers, jumps into Burfield’s bed. You’ll probably find that Belinda Beverley is really as sharp as a whip and that if Saint Clair did not have Mannerling, she would not give him the time of day.’

‘What a disgusting little creature,’ remarked Lord Gyre. ‘Shall we face the music again or go to the club?’

‘I think another few dances.’

They moved off. Belinda retreated back into the dressing-room, her face flaming. Why should she have thought that all the Beverley scandals had been forgotten? If Lord St. Clair did not know of them, he soon would. Some competitive society mother would soon find a way to put him wise.

Belinda clenched her little fists. ‘Damn Mannerling,’ she said aloud.

In the refreshment room, Lord St. Clair was hearing all about the history of the Beverleys
from his friend, Mirabel Dauncey.

‘So you see what I mean, old fellow,’ said Mirabel at the end of a catalogue of Beverley iniquities, ‘she only wants that demned house, not you.’

Lord St. Clair’s amour propre was severely dented.

‘I’ll keep clear of her,’ he said. ‘That’ll show her.’

*      *      *

It was a silent carriage ride home. Lord St. Clair had sent an opera servant with a note to say he could not escort Lady Beverley, Belinda, and Lizzie home. He had the headache. It was a dreadful snub. After wondering aloud and plaintively what could have possibly happened to disaffect him, Lady Beverley had fallen into a miserable silence.

When they arrived back, Lizzie would have followed Belinda to her room, but Belinda said, ‘Not tonight, Lizzie. I am too depressed and too tired.’

Belinda lay awake for a long time, writhing with mortification. How could she have been so silly? When Lord St. Clair next called, she would drop her act and be herself again.

*      *      *

But a week passed and Lord St. Clair did not call. But he thought of Belinda often, not in any
amorous way, but he regretted losing this important fashion accessory. He remembered all the admiring stares in the park. No one had given him an admiring stare since then. Not even his new bottle-green coat with the wide lapels and high buckram-wadded shoulders and silver buttons had drawn so much as a glance.

But still he would not have approached Belinda again had not matters taken a dangerous turn.

He was summoned again by his father.

‘As you know, I sent Perry to Mannerling to make sure everything was running smoothly,’ said the earl, waving a letter in his son’s delicately painted face. ‘He has done a marvellous job and has come up with some excellent plans for the place. Perhaps I should let him have the estate.’

Lord St. Clair went a trifle pale under his paint. ‘Can’t do that, Pa. I’m your heir.’

‘I don’t think you will be for much longer, m’boy. You seem to have done nothing about finding a bride. I heard you were seen with that shiner, Belinda Beverley.’

Lord St. Clair’s not usually agile brain suddenly began to work ferociously. He was about to tell his father all about the scheming Beverleys, but his father would then think him even more of a fool. After all, Belinda Beverley was admired. Married to her, he could point out she had gained what she wanted—
Mannerling—and then go cheerfully on his own hedonistic way.

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Lord St. Clair, ‘that was something I meant to put to you. Belinda Beverley is all that is suitable and her family used to have Mannerling before old Beverley went to Queer Street and lost everything. She’ll know all the tenants and useful things like that and all the local county. Thought of going to Mannerling in a couple of weeks’ time and inviting the fair Belinda and her mother down. Little house party. Can’t woo with Perry around, so tell him to quit the place sharpish.’

The earl looked at his son in amazement. ‘Well, I declare, you have some of the right stuff in you after all! Go to it, m’boy. You have my blessing.’

‘Thank you, Pa,’ said his son meekly. ‘But get rid of Perry!’

*      *      *

Barry Wort had heard reports of what was going on at Mannerling. One morning, shortly after he and Miss Trumble had arrived back at Brookfield House, he said, ‘I gather he’s the Honourable Peregrine Vane.’

‘Have you heard good reports of him?’ asked Miss Trumble. They were standing by the cabbage plot and she drew her shawl more closely about her shoulders, for the day was cold with an irritating, blustery wind.

‘The servants do say he might end up the owner of Mannerling after all. The gossip runs that Earl Durbridge favours this Mr. Vane as a sensible fellow while sometimes despairing of his son. I have heard no bad reports of Mr. Vane.’

‘I confess I am curious, Barry. Perhaps Mr. Vane would be a more suitable parti for Belinda. I wish I could think of some reason for calling.’

Barry leaned on his spade and furrowed his brow. At last his face cleared. ‘You could say that Lady Beverley left a shawl there when she last called.’

Miss Trumble laughed. ‘Excellent. We shall go to Mannerling this afternoon, Barry.’

*      *      *

That afternoon Perry, on receiving the intelligence that the Beverleys’ governess had called, was about to tell the footman to inform Miss Trumble that he was not at home. But he had gone to great pains to ingratiate himself with the servants and tenants and so decided it would be politic to receive her.

He smiled graciously at the elderly governess when she was ushered in, but was a little taken aback at the modishness of her gown and the grandeur of her manner.

‘You are most gracious to receive me, sir,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘Lady Beverley left a red-
and-goldwool shawl the last time she was here and wondered if it had been found.’

Perry pulled the green-and-gold embroidered bell-pull and told a footman who promptly answered its summons to bring in tea and cakes and then question the staff about the whereabouts of the shawl.

Perry had always made a point of listening to servants’ gossip and so he had heard all about the ambitions of the Beverleys. He could not blame them for such ambitions, for sometimes he felt he could cheerfully kill to make Mannerling his own. In all his selfish life, he had never known a love like this. Before dinner, he would stroll about the lawns and smoke a cigar and drink in the great enfolding peace of the place.