Deception (Daughters of Mannerling 3) (19 page)

When the maid had left, the couple looked at each other. ‘There must be some innocent explanation,’ said Mrs Makepeace.

Prudence came in, looking, as usual, like a fashionplate. She was wearing a plain muslin frock of walking length, the front of the bodice and the short sleeves made rather full, the latter gathered with a band and finished with a bow of ribbon. She had not yet removed her bonnet, which was of the cottage shape, the front of straw with a round crown of lavender-blossom silk. A handkerchief of the same silk crossed the crown and was tied in a bow under her chin. Under the bonnet was a small cap with a frill of lace. A sash to match the bonnet trimming was tied at the back under a pereline made of three falls of finely crimped muslin. Her long gloves and half-shoes were of buff kid.

She looked a good and modest girl. Mrs Makepeace surveyed her with a glimmer of hope in her eyes. ‘Prudence, dear . . .’ she began hesitantly, but Mr Makepeace said angrily, ‘Why have you been meeting Devers on the sly?’

Prudence turned scarlet and the hope left her mother’s eyes.

‘I have not been meeting such a man,’ cried Prudence.

‘You have been seen with him when you were supposed to be shopping, and only today you were with him in St James’s Park. Out with it!’ demanded Mr Makepeace. ‘What were you about? Have you no care for your reputation?’

Prudence did not know what to say. She could not reveal that she had been helping Harry in his plot to capture Abigail Beverley on the day of her wedding.

With a great effort, she put a pious expression on her face. ‘I knew you would not approve,’ she said. ‘I was merely trying to help that poor, unfortunate man.’

For the first time in his quiet, orderly life, Mr Makepeace had a strong desire to hit his daughter.

‘That poor, unfortunate man, as you call him, is a notorious lecher.’

‘He has reformed,’ said Prudence, casting her eyes modestly down. ‘He regrets his wicked ways. He sought the company of a good lady like myself.’

‘Then he should have called here!’ howled her exasperated father.

‘How could he? You would have refused him admittance.’

‘I do not know what silly, romantical notions you have been getting into your head,’ said her father, ‘but you are not to see him again, and from now on you are confined to the house and you will not go out of it unless accompanied by your parents. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, Papa,’ said Prudence meekly, desperate to escape.

‘Go to your room until I have time to discuss this with your mother. You have not heard the last of this!’

Abigail stared upwards in despair. There was that round of blue sky, but it was at the end of a chimney-pot through which she could not possibly get. She stood on the topmost rung. It bent a little under her feet and gave an ominous creak.

She lunged upwards and struck the side of the chimney-pot with her fist with all her strength. To her amazement, her relief, the old chimney-pot, loosened by centuries of weather, slowly toppled over and fell. She could hear it slithering down the thatch, and then there was a solid thump as it hit the grass in the garden. Sweet fresh air flowed down onto her sooty face. She grasped the edging of the thatch and heaved herself up. She gave a frightened cry as she began to slip back. She thought of Harry Devers, soon to return, and impelled herself up and out with such impetus that she rolled onto the thatch, slid down the roof, with the reeds of the thatch tearing at her gown and at her clutching hands. Her feet struck the lead gutter, which creaked and bent and finally gave. Abigail fell straight down into the garden, and, fortunately for her, onto a pile of soft earth. She stumbled to her feet. Her hands were bleeding, having been cut by the thatch, and she was black with soot from head to foot. She ran to the garden gate. But her horse had gone. Of course Harry would have taken it away. How on earth was she to get to the church?

And then she heard the sound of carriage wheels coming along the road and crouched down behind the hedge, fearful that Harry had returned.

It was supposed to be a small wedding in the church of St Edmund, King and Martyr in Lombard Street in the City of London. But gossipy society were determined to get a view of this outrageous bride and crowded outside the church, craning their necks, giggling and gossiping. There was an air of holiday, almost like a public hanging. The gingerbread sellers were plying their wares, along with the ballad singers, and there were even street dancers and acrobats to entertain the crowd.

Inside the church, the wedding guests fidgeted and waited. At the altar stood Lord Burfield with an old army friend, Colonel Withers, as his brideman. At the door of the church waited Robert Sommerville with the Beverley sisters.

The Earl of Drezby muttered to his wife, ‘By Jove, I do believe the bride is not going to come. What a scandal! But our boy has had a lucky escape.’

Mrs Brochard gave a little smile of satisfaction. Rupert had not spoken to her since he told her to leave his house. But now he was seeing for himself what type of family he had been about to ally his name with.

Miss Trumble was worried to death. She hoped that Abigail was simply behaving disgracefully and had run away from her own wedding. For the alternative, that someone had tricked her, that she could be in danger, was almost past bearing. Lady Beverley was very white and for once Miss Trumble felt sorry for her.

The service was supposed to commence at three o’clock. By ten past three, there was a rustling and muttering starting from the guests, which rose louder and louder as everyone began to speculate what had happened to Abigail. Barry, the odd man, seated at the very back of the church, wondered what would happen should it transpire that Abigail had once more shamed a man on his wedding day. The Beverleys would never rise above this scandal. Where, oh where, was Abigail?

Mr Tommy Cartwright was not a very happy young man. He was driving his racing curricle slowly along Bark Lane in Kensington and musing sadly on the bitter fact that he had failed to cut a dash in London.

He was nineteen years of age and had come up to Town from the country for his first Season armed with all the requisites necessary to become a dandy. He had a good income, a wardrobe of the first stare, prime horses, membership of White’s, got his vouchers of Almack’s, and yet he felt friendless and ignored. He had fondly imagined that by the end of the Season he would be dubbed Beau Cartwright, and that the other dandies would be begging him to show them how to tie a cravat. But the men did not crave his company and the beauties of the Season looked at him with indifferent eyes. If only he could have achieved some social success to make them sit up and stare. Everyone was desperate for an invitation to that Beverley girl’s wedding. If only he could have secured an invitation! If only . . .

His horse shied and reared and plunged as a black figure darted out in the middle of the road in front of them, waving its arms.

‘Whoa!’ cried Tommy, reining the horses in. ‘What the devil . . . ?’

‘Oh, please, sir,’ cried an anguished female voice. ‘I must get to my wedding.’

Thoroughly bewildered, Tommy stared down into a soot-stained face turned up to his.

‘I am Abigail Beverley. Please, please, I must get to the church. Harry Devers locked me up in that cottage so I could not go to my own wedding. Oh, please take me to the City.’

Tommy had never been famed for quickness of thought, but he was to remember that as the one moment when his brain worked like lightning. He did not stop to question whether this awful sooty creature was really
the
Abigail Beverley.

‘Hop up,’ he said, ‘and hang on tight. I’m going to spring ’em. Lombard Street it is.’

The noise inside and outside the church was rising to an uproar. Guests had left their pews and were strolling about. The general consensus of opinion was that the disgraceful Abigail Beverley had done it again – she had ruined another wedding. Lizzie, with her other sisters, was crying quietly in the church porch, saying she was sure Abigail would never do such a thing, that something awful had happened to her.

Rachel looked up into Lord Burfield’s face with wide, frightened blue eyes as he walked down the aisle to join the little group at the church entrance.

‘I think we should all leave here,’ he said stiffly. ‘The crowd outside are turning this into a circus and I cannot bear any more.’

‘You
cannot bear any more!’ cried Rachel furiously. ‘What about Abigail?’

Animated by worry and anger, she looked heart-breakingly, in that moment, like her twin. Lord Burfield hesitated, but then shook his head. ‘There is no point in waiting here any longer to provide any more amusement for the gossips. I will make an announcement.’

Miss Trumble had joined them. She suddenly heard loud cheers and laughter from outside, followed by cries of ‘Make way! Let them through!’

‘Wait!’ she shouted. ‘Something has happened.’

Lord Burfield strode out of the church.

To loud huzzas, Tommy Cartwright was edging his carriage through the press and beside him sat a sootstained little figure whom Lord Burfield recognized with a lurch of his heart as Abigail.

He went forward as the carriage pulled up outside the church and held out his arms. Abigail fell down into them, crying, ‘Harry Devers tricked me. Oh, Rupert, he locked me up in a cottage. Oh, Rupert!’

Lord Burfield drew her into the church. Abigail told her story inside and Tommy, relishing his moment of glory, told his story outside.

‘How could you be so easily tricked?’ Lord Burfield exclaimed, when Abigail had finished.

‘I was jealous,’ said Abigail, beginning to cry weakly. ‘You would not explain about Lady Tarrant.’

He gathered her in his arms again. ‘Oh, my darling, how stupid we both have been and how stubborn. We will get you home and arrange the wedding for another day.’

‘No!’ Abigail brushed away the tears, leaving white streaks across her sooty face. ‘I do not want to wait. Cannot we be married now?’

He gave a sudden laugh. ‘London will talk about this for days. Yes, my love. We will be married.’

‘And can someone ask my nice young rescuer to the wedding?’

‘I will,’ said Miss Trumble.

It was the moment of glory that Tommy had always dreamt of. In front of the crowd, he was formally invited to the wedding by Miss Trumble, who also thanked him warmly for being ‘such a hero.’

And so Lord Burfield, with his white satin wedding clothes stained with soot from hugging Abigail, was married to his extremely dirty bride, while two of the male guests went off to fetch the Runners. The hunt was up for Harry Devers.

But Harry had been among the crowd, savouring his ‘triumph’ when, to his horror, he had seen Abigail being driven up to the church. He took to his heels, sweating with fear. He would need to escape before the law caught up with him.

Almost mad with fright when he reached his town house, he shouted to the servants to pack his things and make his travelling-carriage ready. But before the preparations were half done, he heard the roar of an approaching crowd in the street and knew what had happened. The gossip outside the church had spread like wildfire to the mob and the mob were out for his blood.

He ran down to the basement to try to make his way out through the back door, but he retreated quickly as he heard the thud of feet as members of the mob, anticipating that he might try to escape that way, vaulted over the back wall.

Harry scampered back up the stairs, past his terrified servants. Up he went to the attics, into one, climbed on a chair and pushed open the skylight. With luck, he could scramble over the roof and leap to the roof of the adjoining building which, unlike his own, was the start of a terrace, and so across the other roofs to safety. Someone down below saw him and yelled. There was a deep-throated baying from the crowd. Shots came from the end of the street. The militia had arrived.

But Harry was not going to risk waiting for their rescue, for they would arrest him and drag him off in chains to Newgate.

Teetering on the tiles, he ran to the edge of the roof and looked across at the adjoining building. It looked farther away than he had thought.

The splintering of his front door downstairs as the mob burst into his house made up his mind for him. He went back several paces, took a breath, and ran and leaped out into space. But he fell short of the building opposite by a whole foot and plunged downwards towards the stone path which ran between the two houses. He hit the ground with a sickening thud. For a moment, all was blackness, and then the blackness cleared and he was walking into the splendid hall at Mannerling, feeling the house welcoming him back, smelling the Mannerling smell of pot-pourri, beeswax, and wood-smoke. He died with a smile on his lips, the innocent smile of a child.

The gossips had been calling on the Makepeaces all day. First they learned of how Abigail had arrived at the church covered in soot, with her dress torn and her hands bleeding and yet had insisted on getting married there and then.

Prudence commented in a subdued little voice that no doubt Abigail Beverley was worried her groom would escape her, but no, replied the gossips, they were so much in love. Everyone could see that when they left the church together.

Then Prudence learned that Harry had lied to her, that Abigail knew the identity of her captor and that Harry Devers was to be arrested. She turned quite pale. Had Harry told Abigail about
her
? She began to feel quite faint. But then an excited servant burst in with the news that Harry Devers, in an attempt to escape from the mob, had leaped from the roof of his house to his death. Prudence slowly began to feel better. Had Harry talked to Abigail, then the Runners would have called for her by now. She had nothing to fear. But there were more callers, and this time more detailed information. The letter sent to Lord Burfield’s home to say that Abigail planned to arrive at the church by herself had been written in a feminine hand, so Harry Devers must have had an accomplice. Prudence became aware of her parents’ horrified eyes resting on her. When the last callers had left, Mr Makepeace said, ‘You were behind this, Prudence. That is why you were meeting Devers secretly. There is no time now to tell you exactly what I think of you. Speed is of the essence. You must be got out of the country before anyone comes looking for you. No,’ he added in a fury as Prudence would have spoken, ‘not another word. We are leaving this night for Naples, leaving like the fugitives we are, but ‘fore God, the way I feel at the moment, I would gladly turn you over to the Runners. So make haste and lie me no more lies, or I might change my mind!’