Whilst I have nobody but myself to
please, I have no one but myself to be
pleased with.
MISS WEETON,
‘JOURNAL OF A GOVERNESS 1807–1811’
Minerva Santerton read the announcement of Rachel’s forthcoming wedding in the Morning Post and threw the newspaper angrily across the breakfast table at her brother.
‘Rachel Beverley and Charles are to wed,’ she hissed.
He tossed the paper on the floor and looked at her blearily. ‘He told us that.’
‘But I had begun to think it was all a hum, that he only said it to get rid of us.’
‘Even if that had been the case,’ pointed out George, ‘then it stands to reason he didn’t want you.’
‘Those brats of his turned him against me. I hate children.’
‘Just as well then that you ain’t got any.’
The butler entered. ‘There is a person called to see you, Mrs Santerton.’
‘Miss,’ said Minerva crossly.
‘Don’t know why you don’t call yourself “Mrs”. Silly, I call it,’ complained George, ‘particularly when it looks as if you won’t marry again and folks will forget you ever were married and think you’re a spinster.’
Minerva ignored him and turned to the butler. ‘We do not see persons,’ she said. ‘Tell whoever it is we are not at home.’
The door opened and Mr Cater walked in.
He was travel-stained, his eyes were red with fatigue, and he strolled forward and sat down at the breakfast table.
Minerva nodded dismissal to the butler. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. The scandal had not reached the newspapers in Sussex and she did not know Mr Cater was being hunted down.
‘I was in the neighbourhood,’ said Mr Cater, grabbing a fresh roll from a basket on the table and wolfing it. ‘Remembered you had a place here.’
‘I do not feel like guests at the moment,’ said Minerva. ‘You will find a good inn in the village.’
‘This is no way to treat a fellow conspirator.’ Mr Cater rose and began to help himself to kidneys from the sideboard.
‘Hey, what’s all this about?’ demanded George.
‘I think you’d best leave Mr Cater and me to have a private chat, George. Do run along.’
‘All right, but send him on his way as soon as you can,’ remarked George over his shoulder as he reached the door. ‘He looks deuced odd.’
Mr Cater, between gulps of food, told Minerva bluntly of how he had tried to have Miss Trumble harmed and then his rejection by Rachel and his subsequent flight.
Minerva listened, cold-eyed, until he had finished. Then she said, ‘What I cannot understand is that if you wanted Mannerling, why did you not just make the Blackwoods an offer for it?’
‘I thought if I wed one of those damned Beverley girls, the house would be securely mine. Judd, a previous owner, the one who killed himself, was my half-brother. He said had he married one of the Beverleys, the house would not have turned against him and his luck at the tables would have held.’
‘Mad,’ commented Minerva icily. ‘Quite mad.’
‘Anyway, I want to rack up here for a bit until the hunt dies down and then make my way to the coast.’
‘I don’t want you here.’
‘If you don’t put me up, sweeting, I’ll write to Blackwood and tell him you were in the plot to get rid of that governess.’
She tightened her lips and her eyes flashed blue fire. ‘You may stay a few days, that’s all, and then go on your way.’
He looked down at his muddy clothes. ‘I’ll need some duds.’
‘George has enough peacock finery for all the men in Bond Street. He will furnish you with something. After a few days, get you hence.’
Mr Cater grinned. He had every intention of staying as long as possible.
To the further disappointment of Lady Beverley, Charles and Rachel refused to be married at Mannerling. Rachel and her family were to travel to London and stay with Abigail; Charles, the general, and the children would reside at their town house; and the pair would be married in London. Mannerling was already on the market for sale.
Belinda and Lizzie were to attend balls and parties during the Little Season, chaperoned by Abigail.
Miss Trumble believed she had fought another battle with Mannerling and won. As she helped with all the preparations for the journey, she felt the whole menace of Mannerling would soon be removed from their lives. All she had to do was to find husbands for Lizzie and Belinda.
She did not know that Belinda and Lizzie often wondered if anyone had made an offer for Mannerling. They were cross with Rachel because she refused to give them any information on the subject.
Rachel’s reason for this was that Charles had told her that a certain Lord St Clair had made a handsome offer. He was the son of the Earl Durbridge, only twenty-four and not married. ‘I shall keep that information from the girls and Mama,’ Rachel told Charles. ‘They will find out sooner or later, but I would rather it was later.’
But Lizzie and Belinda decided to call on Mary Judd, the vicar’s daughter, one day shortly before they were due to go to London. Both detested Mary, but Mary was a good fund of gossip.
Mary gushed her usual welcome, but the smile on her lips never melted the hardness of her black eyes.
After various bits of chit-chat had been exchanged, Mary said, all mock sympathy, ‘Such a pity Rachel is not to live at Mannerling. She must have been very disappointed.’
‘On the contrary,’ retorted Lizzie, ‘Charles would have kept Mannerling if Rachel had wanted it, but Rachel wanted to live elsewhere.’
‘Dear me! How odd! After all the Beverley ambitions.’
Belinda’s beautiful eyes hardened. ‘I trust you will not keep talking about the Beverley ambitions, Mary. That is in the past.’
Mary gave a little smile and poured tea. ‘Then you will not be interested in the identity of the new owner.’
‘A new owner already!’ exclaimed Lizzie. ‘Tell us. Who is it?’
‘Oh, I am sure you are not interested.’
‘Don’t be infuriating, Mary,’ said Belinda crossly. ‘Who is buying Mannerling?’
‘Perhaps it is a secret. I mean, apparently Rachel has said nothing to you . . .’
‘Do not trouble,’ said Lizzie airily. ‘Rachel will tell us. Do tell us instead the recipe for these cakes. Quite delicious.’
Mary gave her a baffled look and then said sulkily, ‘It’s a certain Lord St Clair. Twenty-four and unwed. He is the eldest son of Earl Durbridge, and Mannerling is a present to his son. The earl is vastly rich and wishes to expand his property and possessions.’
To her disappointment, both Belinda and Lizzie affected indifference to this news and went on to beg for that recipe.
They had walked to the vicarage. When they left, Belinda and Lizzie sedately made their way along the country road under the turning leaves, but as soon as they were out of sight of the vicarage they stopped and clutched each other with excitement. All Lizzie’s doubts and fears about Mannerling had left. Ambition had them in its grip again.
‘It is your turn, Belinda,’ said Lizzie fiercely. ‘It is up to you.’
‘Perhaps we can find out more about this lord in London,’ said Belinda. ‘We can ask Abigail. And we will be going to balls and parties and we can ask there. A rich young lord must be often talked about.’
‘And let us keep this news to ourselves,’ urged Lizzie, ‘for if Miss Trumble thinks we have any interest in Mannerling, she might persuade Abigail or Rachel to keep us in London!’
Isabella and Rachel were walking in the grounds of Mannerling. ‘I am so glad you and Fitzpatrick are to be here for my wedding,’ said Rachel, ‘and Mrs Kennedy, too. I trust she is recovered from her fright.’
‘She appears to be well,’ said Isabella slowly, ‘but do you know, she says she fears Mannerling. I tried to persuade her that the house only seemed haunted because of the machinations of that dreadful man, Cater.’
‘There is no news of him.’ Rachel looked uneasily around. ‘I keep expecting him to return.’
‘He would not dare! He has been exposed as a villain. Miss Trumble has found out more about him. As you know, he won those plantations of his at the gambling table, but the man he won them from was ruined as a result.’
‘I am so glad none of us has the gambling fever,’ said Rachel. ‘Oh, there goes Mama, pursuing the general. I wish she would not. She is torturing the poor man. Mama hopes to secure him and persuade him not to sell. But Mannerling belongs to Charles. I have told her that many times, but she will not listen.’
‘Did you tell her Lord St Clair was to take the place?’
Rachel shook her head. ‘I would not dare, nor Belinda or Lizzie either. They might not even go to London, anxious to stay rooted to the spot in case the new owner arrived when they were away.’
‘Mama I can understand, but surely Belinda and Lizzie have grown out of that nonsense.’
‘So they assure me and then they run off and whisper together, the way I used to run off and whisper to Abigail so that no one would guess our ambitions were still rampant.’
Isabella laughed. ‘You should get a coat of arms and put on it two Beverleys rampant, with Mannerling in the middle. Here come your children. I will leave you to your play.’
Rachel ran to meet Mark and Beth. Isabella stood for a moment watching them and then walked slowly back to the house. If only Lizzie and Belinda could find happiness as well.
‘Is that Cater fellow never going to leave?’ grumbled George Santerton.
‘You do something about it,’ snapped Minerva, looking moodily out of the windows of the drawing-room at the dripping trees in the gardens. The autumn weather was chilly and wet and the good summer only a dim memory.
‘By the way, the head gardener wants to get men in to lay a new path down to the pond.’
‘Why?’
‘That, sis, is where your late husband slipped, banged his head, and fell in the pond. Such unhappy memories.’
‘Not unhappy. I am well rid of him. I never walk there and neither do you.’
‘The present path, nonetheless, is slippery and precipitous.’
‘And this, I may remind you, is my property and I am not going to any unnecessary expense.’
‘As you will. Where’s Cater now?’
‘Out somewhere. How do we get rid of him? Think of something.’
‘Shoot him?’
‘Something sensible. The servants are already gossiping about our so-called Mr Brown who arrived on a tired horse and with no luggage.’
Minerva suddenly swung round, her eyes shining. ‘I have it. I will simply tell him that unless he goes, I will write to the authorities and tell them he is to be found here.’
‘And they will wonder why we didn’t tell them before.’
‘We will say we did not know anything about it until now. But it is only a threat. But it will shift him.’
‘You told me that he is wanted for an attack on the governess and an assault on Rachel Beverley. You were not part of the plot by any chance, were you?’
‘Don’t be so stupid.’ Minerva had suddenly realized that Mr Cater had no proof that it was she who had suggested he put the governess out of action. Her blue eyes were shining with malice. ‘I will go and find him and tell him now.’
‘Do that, but take a gun with you.’
An undergardener weeding a flower-bed volunteered the information that ‘Mr Brown’ had last been seen heading in the direction of the pond.
Minerva hesitated, but then set out towards where the pond lay. She walked across the wet lawns, the rings on her pattens making soggy imprints on the grass. She then entered the woods and walked on along a winding path where tall trees sent down showers of raindrops onto the calash she wore over her bonnet, until she could see ahead of her the gleam of water of the pond.
Ahead of her, Mr Cater stood at the top of the precipitous muddy path which led down to the pond. So this was where the late Mr Santerton had met his death. And no wonder. Why such a treacherous, steep, and muddy path should have been left on such an otherwise well-ordered estate puzzled Mr Cater.
His mind worked busily. A couple more months here of free food and board and he would make his way to his bank in London before heading for the coast. He had not killed anyone. He shrewdly guessed that neither the Blackwoods nor the Beverleys would be anxious to keep the scandal alive.
What a dreary day! A thick mist was coiling around the boles of the dripping trees. And the days seemed long and tedious. He would try again that very evening, when George was in his cups, to get him to play a game of piquet. So far, George, even stupid with drink, had refused to gamble.
He shivered. What was he doing stumbling down this muddy path to view some dreary pond, not even an ornamental lake?
He half-turned to go back and his foot slipped. Cursing loudly, he slipped down and down the slippery path and plunged straight down into the icy waters of the pond.
He struggled and fought to rise, but thick weeds at the bottom were wrapped round his ankles. He finally tore free and with bursting lungs his head broke the surface.
‘Help!’ he shouted. ‘I can’t swim.’
Minerva stopped just above the pond and heard that shout. She turned very white and began to tremble. The mist was so eerie, she was sure she was hearing the voice of her dead husband. Had she not stood just here and heard him cry for help? As if in a nightmare, she turned as she had turned then and began to hurry away, back up the hill and through the trees, the cries growing fainter behind her as they had done on that dreadful day when her drowning husband’s struggles had made him hit his head on a rock before he sank for the last time. That had been the coroner’s deduction at the inquest.
It was only when she had stumbled into the hall of her home that her wits cleared and she remembered that she had gone to find Mr Cater.
George came down the stairs and stopped short at the sight of his sister.
‘You look as if you have seen a ghost,’ he said.
‘Quickly,’ hissed Minerva, ‘into the library.’
He followed her in and stood looking inquiringly at her. The little-used room was musty and lined with books which had not been taken down and read since the last century.
‘What is it?’ demanded George. ‘Is it Cater? Did he attack you?’
She shook her head.
‘Then what is it?’
‘I went down to the pond to find Cater,’ said Minerva in a dull voice. ‘A gardener said he had gone that way. I was approaching the pond and I heard a cry for help, and someone shouting, “I can’t swim”, I turned and walked away.’
‘I’d best get the men and get down there. It was Cater. He was saying the other night that he had never learned to swim.’
‘Wait! It will be too late now. He will be dead, and we will need to report that death if the servants know about it. And it will come out that we have been harbouring Cater.’
‘And if it does? We will say we knew nothing of the trouble at Mannerling.’
‘Who would believe us? The servants will say he arrived in a state and without luggage and has been going by the name of Brown.’
George looked at her uneasily. ‘You were implicated some way in those goings-on at Mannerling. You must have been or you would not have allowed him to stay. And that’s what happened to poor Santerton. It was an accident and you could have saved him, but you walked away.’
‘Stop going on about what I am supposed to have done. The problem is that we must get Cater’s body, which is no doubt floating on the pond, and bury it. According to the servants, he has gone off and that is that.’
‘I tell you, sis, I will help you, but then I will take myself off. It’s like living with Lady Macbeth.’
‘You always were a weakling, George!’
‘Oh, God, spare me your insults. Let us see if we can still save the poor man.’
‘The servants must not see us!’
‘We’ll just go for a little walk. It’s dark now. I will take a lantern.’
Soon they set out together, George holding the lantern high as they finally negotiated the slippery path.
They stood on a grassy knoll at the side of the treacherous path. George swung the lantern in a wide arc.
‘Nothing,’ he whispered. ‘He’s probably up in my room, taking dry clothes out of my wardrobe.’
‘Wait!’ urged Minerva. ‘Try near the edge.’
George held the lantern out over the bottom of the path and Minerva drew back against him with a little hiss.
The body of Mr Cater lay almost directly below them, his hands stretched out grasping the mud. He had obviously managed to nearly get out of the water, but cold and exhaustion had robbed him of his final strength.
‘It’s going to be a day’s work to drag him up that path and bury him,’ muttered George. ‘I say we put some rocks in his pockets and push him back in the pond.’
‘You do it,’ shivered Minerva. ‘I could not bear to touch him.’
George gave her a look of loathing. ‘I’ll do it during the night. Let’s go back.’
At two o’clock that morning, George, with a bag of rocks and some heavy chains over his shoulder, made his way back to the pond. He worked quickly, weighing down the pockets of Mr Cater’s clothes with rocks, and then wrapping the chains around his legs. He then gave the body a huge push and heard a sinister gurgling sound as it sank beneath the waters of the pond.
And then he went wearily back to the house to get well and truly drunk.
Mrs Kennedy walked about the grounds of Mannerling the following day. There was a steel-cold wind from the east. She and Isabella and Lord Fitzpatrick were to leave for London on the following day. She had been drawn to visit Mannerling one last time, to walk the lawns and say a prayer for the dead footman. She thought she would never forget John’s scream as he fell from the roof.
She went to sit in the folly and look out over the black waters of the lake. The folly was the only place at Mannerling that she really liked, possibly because it had been built on the orders of Charles Blackwood and was not part of the old Mannerling.
She had kept her doubts about the two remaining Beverley sisters, Belinda and Lizzie, to herself, not wanting to worry Isabella. She sensed that neither Belinda nor Lizzie had given up their ambitions to reclaim their old home. What a passion the wretched place aroused in people! Only think of that creature, Cater.
She left the folly and walked down to the lake. The wind abruptly died and the waters were cold and still.
‘It’s goodbye to you, Mannerling,’ said Mrs Kennedy. ‘If I have my way, neither I nor Isabella will ever come here again.’
Then she suddenly felt colder than the day itself and a mist seemed to surround her. She was standing on the jetty and a white face grinned up at her from the water. She let out a hoarse scream and crossed herself.
As if waking from a nightmare, she looked around and found there was no mist at all. She looked back down at the lake again. There was no face in the water.
She turned and began to hurry back towards where her carriage was parked outside the house. She never told anyone about her experience or that the face in the water that she thought she had seen had looked like the dead face of Mr Cater.
Rachel and Charles were married on a winter’s day in London in St George’s, Hanover Square. Lady Beverley wept noisily throughout the service. After all, sensibility was all the rage.
Miss Trumble felt quietly satisfied. Another happy ending. She sat at the back of the church, heavily veiled. In fact, her veil was so heavy that Barry, also at the back of the church, remarked slyly that it was almost as if she did not want any of the fashionables among the guests to recognize her.
Belinda, as bridesmaid, wondered if she herself could ever look forward to such happiness. The church was cold and she shivered in her fur-lined cloak. She and Lizzie had attended a few balls and routs and also the playhouse, but nowhere had they seen the mysterious Lord St Clair. They heard of him, however, heard he was in London, and that he was regarded as one of the most eligible men on the marriage market. They also learned that he preferred town life and that his father had bought him Mannerling in the hope that a house and lands of his own would give him more responsibility and encourage him to take a bride.
Abigail had offered them a Season in London, and both Lizzie and Belinda had decided to accept. If their quarry preferred town life, then surely he would emerge at the following Season.
Beside Belinda, Lizzie was feeling uncomfortable, for Mrs Kennedy had given her a stern talking-to only the day before. Lizzie was very fond of Mrs Kennedy but had not liked being told that Mannerling was a wicked place. She quite forgot that she had thought that very thing herself not so long ago. That old ambition was burning in her veins. Belinda must somehow manage to marry Lord St Clair. Lizzie went off into a dream of sunny days at Mannerling, back home again, and only came out of it as she realized her sister, Rachel, was well and truly married and the bells were ringing out in triumph over the sooty buildings of London.
The wedding breakfast was held in the Blackwoods’ town house, which had once been the Beverleys’ town house. It was to be sold as well. The Blackwoods would not be returning to Mannerling again. They had cleared out all their possessions from the place. The town house did not have too many memories for the Beverley sisters, for they had spent most of their time at Mannerling. Only Isabella had made her come-out from the town house, remembering, as she sat next to her husband, what a disaster that had been. She had been so haughty and proud, she had thought no man good enough for her.
A small orchestra was playing sweet melodies. The room was full of the happy sound of conversation.
Rachel sat at the top table beside her new husband, happy and content. Charles was buying a property outside Deal on the coast. Until they were ready to move in, they would travel here and there on their honeymoon and end up in Ireland to stay with Isabella. The Fitzpatricks were returning there after the wedding.
She floated on a happy dream through the breakfast and the dancing afterwards, until it was time to leave.
Her sisters clustered on the pavement outside the town house to wave goodbye. She felt a lump in her throat as she kissed them one after the other, then her mother and then Miss Trumble.
Rose-petals were thrown, handkerchiefs waved. Rachel leaned out of the carriage window and waved back until the carriage turned the corner and her past life was lost to view. She put up the glass, blew her nose firmly, and said huskily, ‘I can only pray that Belinda and Lizzie will be as happy as I am.’
‘As to that, I hope they will,’ said Charles, ‘although, if you remember, we attended Mrs Dunster’s party a few weeks ago. I did not tell you then, for I did not want to distress you, but I fear both Lizzie and Belinda were overheard asking curious questions about Lord St Clair.’
Rachel looked alarmed. ‘They must know! We must turn back. I must talk to them, warn them.’
‘No, my sweeting, the estimable Miss Trumble has been warned by me and will do all in her power to keep them safe.’
He put an arm around her and held her close. ‘Kiss me, Mrs Blackwood. And if you ever mention Mannerling again, I shall beat you.’
‘Would you, indeed!’
‘Probably not. Kiss me instead.’
Rachel did as she was bid, and after a long while she said dreamily, ‘I hope Mark and Beth will not miss us too much.’
‘They are so excited to be going to Ireland with your sister, they have probably forgotten about us already.’
‘When does St Clair take up residence?’
‘I really should beat you. Five kisses for that. I do not know. It is his father who wants him to remove to the country and away from the wickedness of Town. I think it will be a long time before he goes there. Now for those kisses . . .’
Lord St Clair at that moment was facing his father. He was a tall, willowy young man dressed in the latest Bond Street fashion, which made him look like an elegant wasp. His waist was pinched in with a corset and his vest was of black and gold stripes. ‘Don’t think I want that Mannerling place after all,’ he drawled.
‘What?’ demanded the choleric earl. ‘Most beautiful place in the world, and you turn your nose up at it.’
‘My agent went to look at it,’ said Lord St Clair with a weary sigh. ‘Man, very reliable, my agent. Stout fellow. Says the place is haunted.’
‘Pah! Fustian. Been at the brandy, that’s what he’s been doing. Get rid of him.’
‘He went down to sort out the servants, you know, which to keep and which to send packing, and a lot of ’em told him the place was haunted by some chap who hanged himself from the chandelier and, worse than that . . .’
‘Oh, do tell, you popinjay! A headless horseman?’
‘No, a drowned man.’
The earl took a deep breath. ‘Now listen to me, m’boy, you are not going to spend your life racketing around London. You can get yourself a suitable gel at the next Season, move to Mannerling, and set up your nursery, or I will disinherit you!’
Lord St Clair took out a scented handkerchief and waved it in front of his painted face, as if perfume could sweeten his father’s temper.
‘You wouldn’t do that,’ he protested.
‘Oh, yes, I would. It’s Mannerling and a bride, or nothing.’
St Clair uncoiled himself from his chair and headed for the door. ‘As you will, Father,’ he said in a mournful voice. ‘As you will.’
He strolled round to Bond Street to comfort himself and fell in with two equally elegant cronies.
‘You look like the deuce,’ said one. ‘What’s amiss?’
‘Got the threat of the country hanging over me,’ mourned St Clair. ‘Father says he’ll disinherit me if I don’t get meself a bride at the next Season and move to that place Mannerling he’s bought me.’
‘Do as he says,’ counselled the other. ‘Move to Mannerling and take the Town down with you, big parties, good friends, good bottles, and a complacent wife, and as soon as she’s produced the heir, take yourself back to Town.’
‘Jove, the very idea,’ said St Clair, brightening. ‘The countryside will never have seen anything like us. Mannerling it is!’