She likes her self, yet others hates
For that which in herself she prizes;
And, while she laughs at them, forgets
She is the thing that she despises.
WILLLAM CONGREVE
Somehow, the sisters had expected the excitement of a visit to Mannerling to go on forever. But rainy days set in and although the children came daily during the week, neither Charles nor his father came with them. There was only the local assembly to look forward to, and that, the sisters privately thought, would be the usual dull affair. Of course, Isabella would soon be with them and that was at least something exciting. But the damp dreary days made the hours drag by. Barry began to worry about getting them safely to the assembly and in an open carriage, too, for thick fog had started to shroud the countryside at night, along with the persistent drenching rain.
Lady Beverley was once more victim of one of her imaginary illnesses and demanded ‘absolute quiet’, so there were not even Lizzie’s tunes of the pianoforte to enliven their days. And then, just when it seemed to the sisters that they would be locked in this rainy, foggy, silent grave of Brookfield House forever, the day before the assembly the morning sun appeared and burnt through the fog, leaving the countryside glittering and shining under a clear blue sky.
And Mark and Beth arrived with a letter from the general to say he and his son would be at the assembly, for friends of theirs had come to stay at Mannerling and were anxious to sample the ‘local excitements.’
Belinda and Lizzie took out gowns and feathers and lace. A party from Mannerling might include some young men!
Rachel said it would amuse her now to go and see all the ladies trying to ensnare the owner of Mannerling.
A package arrived in the mail for Miss Trumble. She opened it and took out several letters and read them with a smile. Then she went in search of Lady Beverley. Her mistress was up and about and looking over several gowns. ‘What do you think I should wear, Miss Trumble?’ she asked when she saw the governess. ‘I wore this plum velvet for half-mourning, but I fear it looks sadly démodé.’
‘There is a pale-blue silk here, very grand, and a good line,’ said Miss Trumble, picking up the gown from the bed and shaking out the folds. ‘With an overdress, the one you have, you know, of darker-blue sarsenet, ’twould be very fetching.’
‘Perhaps you have the right of it.’
‘My references, my lady.’ Miss Trumble held them out.
‘Put them on my desk over there. Oh, and Miss Trumble, it will not be necessary for you to accompany us. I do not like to leave the house empty.’
‘The maids will be here, and Josiah.’
‘Servants are not responsible people.’ Lady Beverley crossed to the glass and studied her own reflection critically. ‘I need you to prepare a pomade and one of your washes for my face, Miss Trumble.’
‘Alas, I have mislaid my recipe book and fear I cannot.’
Both women eyed each other. Lady Beverley knew that the governess would now punish her for having been forbidden the assembly. There would be no more lotions, pomades, powders, washes, and, above all, magic draughts for those tiresome headaches.
‘On the other hand,’ said Lady Beverley, ‘I suppose Josiah is protection enough for this poky little house. You may accompany us.’
‘I do believe I left my book in the kitchen with Josiah. I will go directly and look for it.’
When the governess had left, Lady Beverley eagerly scanned those references. Her face fell. There were three letters, all from ladies of impeccable rank and lineage, and their praise for Miss Trumble was of the highest order.
Lady Beverley gave a petulant little shrug. What chance had a mere governess with such as the general? Such a man would not lower himself to wed a governess!
To the sisters’ delight, their mother hired a closed carriage and coachman to drive them all to the assembly. The assembly, from being damned as a tiresome village affair, had become enchanted in their eyes because the owner of Mannerling was to be there.
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.’
‘Perhaps you may yet have children,’ he said lightly. ‘You may marry again.’
‘When one has made a bad mistake, or rather, one’s father has forced one into an unhappy marriage, then one is not anxious to marry again.’
He looked at her with quick sympathy. ‘I understand what you mean. But there are good people in this world.’
Her eyes caressed his face. ‘I am beginning to think there are.’
He felt a little chill, a sense of withdrawal. Like all men, he wanted to be the hunter, not the hunted.
‘How long do you plan to stay at Mannerling?’ he asked abruptly.
To his horror, those beautiful eyes of hers filled with tears. ‘Alas,’ she said brokenly, ‘I told George we had been too forward in coming. We will leave as soon as possible.’
He immediately felt like a brute. ‘My dear Miss Santerton, you and your brother are welcome to be my guests for as long as you wish.’
She dabbed at her eyes. ‘Too kind,’ she said. ‘I must do something to repay you. Your poor children, I am sure, would appreciate some feminine company. I would be prepared to spend some time with them.’
‘As to that, although I do thank you for your offer, the matter is attended to. Mark and Beth go daily to Brookfield House to be educated by the governess there, an estimable woman, and they also have the company of the Beverley girls.’
‘Ah, yes, the Beverleys,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You do not think the many scandals attached to that unfortunate family will affect your children?’
‘I have heard all the scandals and no, I do not. They are very happy.’
‘Mmm. Oh, well, if you are satisfied . . . I mean, I trust the girls are not using the children to ingratiate themselves with you.’
‘Hardly. Miss Rachel gave me my character over my neglect of Mark and Beth.’
‘We shall see,’ said Minerva. ‘We shall see.’
The ball wound to its close. Rachel had not been asked to dance by Charles Blackwood and she felt it was something of a slight, for he had danced with both Lizzie and Belinda, a Belinda who, Rachel thought, had flirted quite outrageously.
She felt suddenly tired. The room was overwarm, faces were flushed, and quite a number of the gentlemen were drunk. But she knew her mother would not leave the ball until the general did. Rachel reflected that she had never seen her mother look so animated before. She still had a handsome figure and a neat ankle. She had rouged her face with two bright circles, despite Miss Trumble’s advice to the contrary, in an effort to banish the pallor caused by long bouts of imaginary illness when she was mured up in her bedchamber. But Rachel noticed how the general’s eyes kept straying to where Miss Trumble sat against the wall, and feared ructions ahead. Lady Beverley would have been shocked could she have guessed that the general’s reason for not taking Miss Trumble up for a dance was because he feared she might make life difficult for her governess.
At last Rachel, dancing a second dance with Mr Cater, saw the Mannerling party leave and knew that they could now go home. Mr Cater sought out Lady Beverley and gained her permission to call.
‘He would do very well for you, Rachel,’ said Lady Beverley in the carriage on the road home.
‘You go too fast, Mama,’ pleaded Rachel wearily. ‘I know very little about the gentleman except that he owns sugar plantations in Barbados in the West Indies. He employs slaves.’
‘I should be very surprised if he did not, my child. How else is the sugar to be harvested?’
But Rachel did not feel like entering into an argument on the rights and wrongs of slavery with her mother. The next day was Sunday, so there would be no visit from the Blackwood children, although they could expect to see the Blackwoods in church.
When Rachel was brushing out her hair before going to bed, Miss Trumble quietly entered the room.
‘You look worried, Rachel. Was Mr Cater not to your liking?’
‘He is a very pleasant man. But he keeps slaves. The slave-trade was abolished, or so you told us.’
‘The Abolition of the Slave Trade Act was passed in 1807,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘But this act, be it remembered, did not abolish slavery but only prohibited the traffic in slaves. So that no ship should clear out from any port in the British dominions after May the first, 1807, with slaves on board, and that no slave should be landed in the colonies after March the first, 1808.’
‘So why is there still slavery?’
Miss Trumble sat down with a weary little sigh. ‘The product is now home-grown, just like the sugar. Slavery has been going on so long that there are black children growing up into slavery.’
‘It distresses me,’ said Rachel in a low voice.
‘Many things in this wicked world distress me,’ said the governess. ‘But you are not going to reform a plantation owner. Should you marry him, all you could do would be to see that the slaves were well-housed and fed and not ill-treated. With the education I have given you, you would be well-equipped to educate them. But in order to go to such a situation on the other side of the world, you would need to be very much in love. Arranged marriages often work out quite comfortably in England, but it would be different there. There would be so many stresses and strains.’
‘It looked very much tonight as if our Mr Charles will make a match of it with Miss Santerton.’
‘I do hope not.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘A feeling, that is all. I think there is an instability of mind there.’
Rachel gave a little shrug. ‘Where such beauty is concerned, I am sure a little madness would not even be noticed.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Miss Trumble.
At church in the morning, with the congregation heavy-eyed after the ball the night before, Rachel noticed that the Santertons were there, Minerva and Charles looking very much a couple. Mr Stoddart, the vicar, preached in a monotonous voice. ‘I do wish that little man would end. Is he going to prose on forever?’ Minerva’s voice sounded in the church with dreadful clarity. Mr Stoddart flushed, but smiled down at the Mannerling party in an ingratiating way and brought his sermon to an abrupt close.
Outside the church, where ladies clutched their bonnets in a frisky, blustery wind, Mary took hold of Rachel’s arm in a confidential way. ‘It looks as if Mannerling will soon have a new mistress. And so suitable!’
Rachel felt irritated and depressed at the same time. At that moment, the wind came to her rescue and whipped Mary’s straw bonnet from her head and sent it scuttling off among the tombstones, with Mary in pursuit.
At least Isabella will soon be with us, thought Rachel, her eyes straying to where Charles Blackwood was escorting Minerva to the Mannerling carriage. Charles had not spoken to her or acknowledged her presence.
She did not know that Charles had had every intention of speaking, not only to her, but to various other parishioners, but that Minerva’s hand on his arm had been like a vice and that, outside the church, she had instantly claimed that the sermon had given her a headache and that she wanted to return ‘home’.
As his carriage drove off, he saw that new fellow, Hercules Cater, approach the Beverley family and saw a smile of welcome on Lady Beverley’s thin lips.
Though he was finding Minerva a heady and enchanting beauty, she was beginning to annoy him. He did not like the unspoken and yet calm assumption of brother and sister that he should propose to Minerva.
Lady Beverley had invited Mr Cater back to Brookfield House for a cold collation. Miss Trumble had planned to find out as much as she could about the young man, but Lady Beverley was annoyed that Charles had not spoken to her and blamed the presence of the governess. Lady Beverley always had to have someone to blame. And so she gave Miss Trumble several tasks to perform, telling her that her presence was not needed in company. Miss Trumble went in search of Barry.
‘I suppose Mr Cater will be deemed suitable for Rachel,’ she said as Barry straightened up from weeding a flower-bed. ‘I suppose one cannot expect all the Beverley girls to marry for love.’
‘He seems a pleasant-enough young man, miss. Sugar plantations, I believe.’
‘Rachel is troubled by the fact that he keeps slaves.’
‘They all do, in them parts. One young miss can’t change the way things are done.’
‘No, but she would either need to become hardened to the situation, which I would not like, or become distressed by it. I cannot think Mr Cater is suitable, and yet he is surely better than some elderly gentleman with a great deal of money, for I cannot see Lady Beverley balking at anyone at all who is in funds.’
‘It amazes me, miss,’ said Barry, ‘that she is not throwing Miss Rachel at Mr Blackwood’s head.’
‘Ah, that is because my lady plans to wed the general and so secure Mannerling.’
‘Any hope there?’
‘I should not think so. Lady Beverley was once a very great beauty but I do not think she ever had the arts to charm. She probably relied on her beauty and fortune and felt she did not have to do much else.’
‘I did hear tell that Miss Santerton is of outstanding beauty and people are already saying a match is expected.’
‘Perhaps. She is certainly amazingly handsome. But tall, very tall. I always feel such a lady is to be admired from a distance, like a statue. She lacks human qualities. I have written to an old friend for the full story of the Santertons. I will let you know when her reply arrives, although it should be some days because I wrote the letter last night and cannot post it until tomorrow.’
Barry gave her a sly grin. ‘It always amazes me, if I may say so, miss, that a lady like yourself would gossip with an old servant like me.’
‘That is because I am an old servant myself.’ Miss Trumble gathered her shawl about her shoulders, nodded to him, and walked away.
As she approached the house, she could hear a burst of laughter from the dining-room. Mr Cater appeared to be keeping the company well-entertained.
Only Rachel wondered at Mr Cater’s conversation. He spoke of Barbados, of the climate, of the flora and fauna, of the tedium of the long sea voyage home, of the plays he had seen in London before travelling to the country, and yet he revealed nothing of his private life, of his family, or of where he originally came from and what had taken him to the other side of the world in the first place.
But Rachel chided herself on looking for flaws. To marry such a man would mean being well set up for life, of getting away from Mama, of having a household of her own. It would be adventurous to go to the Indies.
But after the meal, when Mr Cater asked her to show him the garden, Rachel irritated her mother by promptly suggesting that Belinda and Lizzie should accompany them. She described plants and bushes and all the while her errant thoughts kept straying to Mannerling. Had Charles considered his children if he was thinking of marriage again?
At that moment, Minerva was entering the drawing-room, holding Mark by one hand and Beth by the other. ‘We have had such sport,’ she cried. ‘I quite dote on the children. Playing with them makes me feel like a child myself.’
‘Come here to me,’ said Charles to the children. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Playing with stick and ball,’ said Mark in a low voice. Minerva had asked them whether they did not miss their mother, and he had replied, truthfully, that he could remember very little of his mother, for he had barely seen her. Minerva had then told him that he must always put his father’s happiness before any selfish thoughts, and should his father decide to find them a new mother, then he and Beth must do all in their power to make that lady welcome.
And Mark did not like Minerva. Her intense blue gaze unnerved him. But he did not want his father to retreat back into becoming the sad-eyed, withdrawn man he had been so recently and so Mark forced himself to look pleased with Minerva. He longed for Sunday to be over so that he and Beth could return to Miss Trumble and the safety of Brookfield House.
The Santertons slept late. On Monday morning, Charles surprised his father as he was getting into the carriage to go to Brookfield House with the children.
‘Feel a bit dull,’ said the general. ‘Thought I’d talk to that Trumble female. Very sensible.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Charles suddenly. He did not know what it was about Mannerling that had suddenly begun to oppress him. Perhaps it was Minerva, and yet, had he been a superstitious man, he could have believed the house itself was turning against him. He could sense a malignancy lurking in its quiet rooms, but decided he was becoming fanciful and that the haunting of his son was putting him on his guard, for whoever had played such an evil trick had not been discovered.
When they arrived, Miss Trumble said that as the day was fine and warm, she would give the children their lessons in the garden. Lady Beverley urged the general and Charles to step into the house but, to her irritation, the general said he would like to sit in the garden as well.
The girls joined them. Miss Trumble started by reading items of news from the Morning Post, explaining before she did so that she liked the children to be au fait with current affairs. Then an article caught her eye and she began to laugh.
‘What amuses you, Miss Trumble?’ asked the general.
‘I just read a few sentences. It appears to be a very good description of a Bond Street Lounger.’
‘Read it to us,’ urged the general.
‘Come now, General,’ protested Lady Beverley. ‘You would not like to see the education of your grandchildren neglected.’
‘I think Mark should know all about Bond Street Loungers. Go ahead, Miss Trumble.’
Miss Trumble looked inquiringly at her mistress.
‘Very well,’ said Lady Beverley huffily.
Miss Trumble explained. ‘It begins with the necessary behaviour of a Bond Street Lounger in an hotel as he tries to establish his character as that of a man of fashion. “In short, find fault with every single article without exception, damn the waiter—” ’
‘Miss Trumble!’ exclaimed Lady Beverley.
‘Go on, do,’ said the general with a laugh.
‘ “– the waiter at almost regular intervals, and never let him stand one moment still, but keep him eternally moving; having it in remembrance that he is only an unfortunate and wretched subordinate, of course, a stranger to feelings which are an ornament to Human Nature; with this recollection on your part that the more illiberal the abuse he has from you, the greater will be his admiration of your superior abilities, and Gentleman-like qualifications. Confirm him in the opinion he has so unjustly imbibed, by swearing the fish is not warm through; the poultry is as tough as your Grandmother; the pastry is made with butter, rank Irish; the cheese which they call Stilton is nothing but pale Suffolk; the malt liquor damnable, a mere infusion of malt, tobacco, and cocculus Indicus; the port musty; the sherry sour; and that the whole of the dinner and dessert were infernally infamous, and of course, not fit for the entertainment of a Gentleman; conclude the lecture with an oblique hint that, without better accommodations, and more ready attention, you shall be under the necessity of leaving the house for a more comfortable situation.
‘ “Having thus introduced you to, and fixed you, recruit-like, in good quarters, I consider it almost unnecessary to say, however bad you may imagine the wine, I doubt not your own prudence will point out the characteristic necessity of drinking enough, not only to afford you the credit of reeling to bed by aid of the banister, but the collateral comfort of calling yourself damned queer in the morning, owing entirely to the villainous adulteration of the wine, for when mild and genuine, you can take three bottles without winking or blinking. When rousing from your last somniferous reverie in the morning, ring the bell with no small degree of energy, which will serve to convince the whole family you are awake; upon the entrance of either chamberlain or chambermaid, vociferate half a dozen questions without waiting for a single reply. As, What morning is it? Is my breakfast ready? Has anybody inquired for me? Is my groom here? And so on and so forth. And here it becomes directly in point to observe that a groom is become so evidently necessary to the ton of the present day (particularly in the neighbourhood of Bond Street) that a great number of gentlemen keep a groom who cannot (except upon credit) keep a horse; but then, they are always on the look-out for horses, and, till they are obtained, the employment of the groom is the embellishment of his master, by first dressing his head, and then polishing his boots and shoes.”
‘And I really think that is enough of that,’ said Miss Trumble, putting down the paper.
‘I think it is very funny,’ voiced Mark.
‘Prime,’ said the general. ‘Is there any more?’
‘If there is,’ said Lady Beverley, ‘I pray you will restrain your language, Miss Trumble.’
‘Perhaps later . . .’
‘No, do go on,’ said Rachel. ‘I have seen such gentlemen when we were in London and have never heard one better described.’
Miss Trumble smiled and began to read again. ‘ “The trifling ceremonies of the morning gone through, you will sally forth in search of adventures, taking that great Mart of every virtue, Bond Street, in your way.
‘ “Here it will be impossible for you (between the hours of twelve and four) to remain, even for a few minutes, without falling in with various feathers of your wing, so true it is, in the language of Rowe, you herd together, that you cannot fear being long alone. So soon as three of you are met, link your arms so as to engross the whole breadth of the pavement; the fun of driving fine women and old dons into the gutter is exquisite and, of course, constitutes a laugh of the most humane sensibility. Never make these excursions without spurs, it will afford not only the presumptive proof of your really keeping a horse, but the lucky opportunity of hooking a fine girl by the gown, apron, or petticoat; and while she is under the distressing mortification of disentangling herself, you and your companions can add to her dilemma by some delicate innuendo, and, in the moment of extrication, walk off with an exulting exclamation of having cracked the muslin. Let it be a fixed rule never to be seen in the Lounge without a stick or cane, this, dangling on a string, may accidentally get between the feet of any female in passing; if she falls, in consequence, that can be no fault of yours, but the effect of her indiscretion.’
‘Now, that really is enough, General,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘I am amusing you and everyone by this description, but at the moment such brutes, however satirized, are beyond the comprehension of little Beth.’
‘Yes, I find your ideas of teaching most strange, Miss Trumble.’ Having delivered herself of that reproof, Lady Beverley smiled at the general and went on, ‘And how go the Santertons?’
‘Abed, I should think,’ said the general gruffly. Mark and Beth had been summoned by Miss Trumble to sit at a table next to her under the shade of the cedar tree, Beth to write the letters of the alphabet in block letters and then script, and Mark to study his Latin declensions.
‘I regret I did not have the chance to dance with you on Saturday night,’ Charles said to Rachel. ‘But every time I was free to approach you, I found you surrounded by courtiers. I believe your sister, Lady Fitzgerald, is soon to be in residence at Perival.’
Rachel’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, I am so looking forward to seeing her again. And her children. They are too young, alas, to be companions for Mark. The boy needs children of his own age.’
‘And what would you suggest I do to remedy that?’
Rachel laughed. ‘You will begin to think I am always advising you as to what to do with your children when it is none of my affair.’
‘I would appreciate such advice.’
‘You could give a children’s party for Mark. Miss Trumble could furnish you with a list of suitable children in the neighbourhood.’
‘It is his birthday in a week’s time. Perhaps that is too soon?’
‘I am sure Miss Trumble will be able to arrange something.’
The general had risen to his feet and was heading in the direction of where Miss Trumble sat with Mark and Beth.
‘Come now, General.’ Lady Beverley’s voice called him back. ‘I am become stiff with sitting here. Let us take a promenade together.’
The general returned to her side, throwing an anguished look in the direction of his son which went unnoticed by Charles, for Rachel was talking about Mr Cater and Charles asked her, rather sharply, if she really knew anything at all about the man.
‘As to that,’ said Rachel, ‘I know very little other than what he tells us about himself, that he is a sugar planter from Barbados and is here in England on quite a long visit.’
‘No doubt to find himself a wife.’
‘Perhaps. And yet Mannerling appears to be his goal.’
‘In what way?’
‘He heard it described to him by an old friend of my father’s and in such glowing terms that he decided to travel here and see the place for himself.’
‘Strange.’
‘How strange?’
‘Mostly gentlemen such as Mr Cater come armed with letters of introduction.’
‘Perhaps he could not find anyone who knows you.’
‘I have a large acquaintance in London and I believe he spent some time there.’
‘It could be that he does not move in the same circles as you do yourself, sir.’
‘Any sugar planter who appears to be as rich as Mr Cater, to judge from his clothes and carriage, could most certainly move in fashionable circles.’
Some imp prompted Rachel to say, ‘Perhaps I will wed Mr Cater and travel to the West Indies.’
‘I was not aware that you were so enchanted with him.’
‘If you have visited Lady Evans and also remember my sister Lizzie’s ill-timed and ill-judged remarks, you will know that I do not command much in the way of a dowry and so must take the best bidder.’
His face darkened and his eyes glittered like green ice. ‘Does none of your sex ever marry out of affection?’
She quailed before his gaze and said, ‘Yes, my three sisters, the ones who are already wed. Do not look so furiously at me, I pray. I was funning. I know little of Mr Cater and have no ambitions in that direction.’
But he still looked angry as his eyes went past her to where a carriage was turning into the short drive. Rachel swung round in time to see Minerva being helped down from the carriage by her brother. Minerva was wearing a muslin gown which clung to her form like the folds of drapery on a statue. Her hair was in a plait at the back, and falling in small ringlets around her face and shining with huile antique. On top of her head was a small round hat embellished on the front with three scarlet feathers which had been moulded to look like burning flames. She carried a parasol of white lace.
George Santerton was wearing a long-tailed blue coat with gold buttons, a high starched cravat, and shirt-points so high that they dug into his cheeks. His waistcoat was canary yellow and hung with fobs and seals. He had lavender gloves and lavender shoes on his small feet. Rachel wondered if such a tall man could really have such small feet. Large feet were considered a social disgrace, as was a large mouth, and so many men thrust their tortured feet into shoes several sizes too small for them.
The two fashion plates, brother and sister, had probably planned to make an entrance, but once they had arrived and were settled in chairs in the garden, the sheer formality of their attire seemed out of place.
And Rachel became conscious that Minerva’s blue gaze was often fixed on her in an assessing, calculating way. It could not be that Minerva regarded her as a rival! But Rachel began to think that was the case and it made her look at Charles Blackwood in a different light. For the first time, she really saw him as an attractive man, not just handsome and wealthy, but a man to be desired.
A flush mounted to her cheeks. Charles looked quickly at her and she dropped her eyes and twisted a handkerchief in her lap.
And Minerva looked at both of them.