The Homecoming (3 page)

But Miss Trumble was irritated, when they climbed into the small carriage driven by Barry, that Lady Beverley did not even seem to notice her daughter’s new modish appearance. The day was sunny and warm. Great clouds like galleons under full sail moved in stately procession across a blue sky. Lizzie’s red hair was dressed in one of the new Roman fashions and curled and pomaded so that it almost seemed to shine with purple lights. She was wearing a lightleaf-green muslin gown with a broad green silk sash. A little straw hat was perched at a jaunty angle on her curls.

Lizzie felt strange and not quite like herself. Clothes were a comfort, she thought. In such a modish gown and with her smart new hairstyle, she was sure she would behave like a lady. “When in doubt, only speak when spoken to,” Miss Trumble had warned her.

So Lizzie was determined to behave. There would only be herself, Lady Beverley, Miss Trumble, and the duke. Her mother would prose on about the great days of Mannerling when the Beverleys were in residence and Miss Trumble would supply her usual tactful conversation. There would be nothing for her to do but listen and nod from time to time.

But at that moment, the Duke of Severnshire was ringing for his secretary.

When Peter came in, the duke leaned back in his chair and surveyed the young man as if seeing him for the first time. Thin sensitive face, clear grey eyes, fair wispy hair, he was correctly and neatly dressed in black coat and black knee-breeches and square-toed shoes with modest metal buckles.

“Mr. Bond,” began the duke, “as you are aware, the Beverleys are expected, and Miss Trumble.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Miss Lizzie is a tiresome little minx and apt to open her mouth and say the first thing that comes into her head. Very fatiguing. You are to join us and entertain Miss Lizzie. You are to take her away and show her the gardens.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

“And you may get some of that fresh air Miss Trumble thinks you need so badly.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. I will do my best to entertain Miss Beverley.”

“Ah, so good to be home again!” cried Lady Beverley, sailing into the drawing-room at Mannerling.

“I was under the impression it was
my
home,” said the duke drily.

“You must forgive me,” Said Lady Beverley, settling herself on the sofa and looking about her with a complacent air. “Such happy memories.”

The duke introduced his secretary. He had been a little taken aback by Lizzie’s appearance. Quite the little fashion plate, he thought in surprise. “Perhaps Miss Lizzie would care to see the gardens, Mr. Bond?”

“Certainly,” said the secretary.

The day had become warm and Lizzie would have liked a cup of tea but she saw the warning flash in Miss Trumble’s eyes and rose obediently to her feet.

She and Peter walked down the great staircase. Lizzie looked up at the chandelier.

“Does it still move?” she asked curiously.

“Move, Miss Beverley?”

“A previous owner, a Mr. Judd, hanged himself there. Sometimes the chandelier would move and the crystals would tinkle although there was no wind or even a draught.”

“Not that I have heard, Miss Beverley.”

“Strange,” mused Lizzie. “There is no atmosphere anymore. This house used to feel like a live thing, and sometimes when I entered it seemed to welcome me and from time to time the very walls exuded an air of menace. Now I feel nothing.”

Peter remembered his master’s remark that Miss Lizzie came out with whatever happened to be passing through her mind, but he said politely, “His Grace is so very grand that perhaps his presence has tamed the house.”

“Perhaps,” said Lizzie, as they went out together into the sunlight.

“Do you miss Mannerling very much?”

“I used to,” said Lizzie. “Yes, very much. But now I think I am quite reconciled to my new home, and it is about time.” Her green eyes flashed with amusement. “What are you supposed to do with me? Walk me about like a dog?”

Peter suppressed a smile. “Oh, no, His Grace is all kindness.”

“Do you think I look very fine?”

“Yes, Miss Beverley, very modish.”

Lizzie gave a sigh. “So let us walk in the gardens. Here is the little lawn at the side where we used to play battledore and shuttlecock.”

“I found bats and shuttlecock in the little cupboard in the Great Hall, and the net.”

“We could play,” said Lizzie eagerly. “See, the posts for the net are still here.”

“May I point out you are not dressed to play?”

“All I need to do is take off my hat. My kid slippers are perfectly suitable for running across the grass and the modern fashion for loose gowns means I am not constricted in any way.”

“Then we shall play, Miss Beverley.”

They returned to the house, where Peter summoned footmen to put up the net and carry the bats and shuttlecocks round to the side lawn.

Lizzie unpinned her little hat and stripped off her gloves.

“I must warn you, I am a very good player,” she said. “What about you?”

“Fair, Miss Beverley.”

“I think it would be perfectly in order for you to call me Lizzie when we are not in company since we are destined to be friends.”

Peter looked down at her elfin face and suddenly smiled. “You may call me Peter, but not in front of my master. He is very strict on protocol.”

“Pooh to your master. Let’s play.”

It became all too clear to the duke as Lady Beverley spoke on that she was still determined to get Mannerling back. “Such a pity a fine gentleman like yourself is unwed,” she said coyly. “What you need is a young girl who knows the tenants and the neighbouring aristocracy and gentry.”

“Why a young girl?”

“You will wish to school her in your ways.”

“What a truly dreadful idea,” he said acidly.

“Indeed it is,” put in Miss Trumble maliciously. “I heard someone else say that just recently.”

“Do you not think we should summon Lizzie?” asked Lady Beverley. “I know you meant well, Your Grace, but a Beverley does not consort with a mere secretary.”

Miss Trumble raised her eyes to heaven.

“Peter Bond is from an excellent family,” said the duke harshly. Through an open window of the drawing-room which overlooked the side lawn came the sounds of shouts and laughter.

The duke frowned suddenly and went to the window and looked down. Hatless, her red hair glowing like a flame in the sunshine, Lizzie Beverley ran energetically hither and thither. “I am still better than you, Peter,” she cried gleefully.

And a new Peter, in his shirtsleeves, laughed back.

The duke had meant to punish Lizzie by banishing her from the tea-table. He had not for a moment expected her to look so free, so happy, to have forgotten the very existence of the great Duke of Severnshire. Nor had he expected her to get on such easy terms immediately with his secretary.

“Miss Lizzie, I am sure, would welcome some tea,” he said. He rang the bell and told a footman to tell the young lady that her presence was required.

Lady Beverley had begun to prose on again about Mannerling under the reign of the Beverleys. Miss Trumble watched her nephew curiously as he went back to the window.

The duke waited. He saw the footman call out to Mr. Bond. The couple stopped their game. He heard the footman say, “Your presence is requested by His Grace.”

He quite clearly heard Lizzie say, “Oh, fiddle, and just when I was beginning to have some fun,” saw the way his secretary’s face fell, how he quickly struggled into his black coat and smoothed down his hair.

The duke had never thought about his age before, always somehow thinking of himself as being still a young man. For the first time he felt old and cold and stuffy.

At last he heard them mount the staircase. Lizzie entered, her gloves once more on her hands and her hat on her head. Her face was flushed from the exercise and her eyes shone, but she went meekly to the sofa and sat down primly by her mother—who had not paused for breath—crossed her hands and bowed her head.

She accepted a cup of tea from the footman. Peter bowed to the company, then his master, and made his escape.

The duke sat down and studied Lizzie. She must have been aware of his steady gaze but she calmly drank tea, her long gloves unbuttoned and rolled back over her wrists.

The duke cut right across Lady Beverley’s droning monologue. “Did you enjoy your game, Miss Lizzie?” he asked.

“Yes, I thank you, Your Grace,” said Lizzie meekly.

“The last ball we had here,” said Lady Beverley, ploughing on, “was a magnificent affair. The footmen had gold swords. I always wondered what happened to those gold swords.”

“They probably went to pay off Papa’s debts like most other things,” said Lizzie.

“My dear child,” said Lady Beverley with an icy glare which did not go with the fondness of the words. “Always funning.”

“My secretary kept you amused, Miss Lizzie?” pursued the duke.

“Yes, I thank you, Your Grace.” Green eyes met silver ones. “He is most assiduous in attending to his duties, I believe. Does he walk your dogs as well?”

“I did not send you away like a dog,” said the duke sharply.

“I do beg your pardon,” said Lizzie sweetly. “You were being most kind in thinking I would prefer
young
company.”

“Yes, my dear,” gushed her mother. “His Grace is kindness itself. But I always think a young lady needs
an
older man to guide her.”

“How strange, Mama. I would not have thought that at all. Papa was only a year older than you when you married.”

“Ah, but I was old beyond my years. Now you, my dear, are a trifle wayward and flighty, but some gentleman older in years would be able to school you.”

“You forget, Mama, I have the benefit of a superior governess.”

Lady Beverley gave her tinkling laugh. “Such an innocent!” She smiled at the duke, who gave her a stony look. “No, no, a husband is something different.”

Lizzie was experiencing an odd feeling of excitement. Mannerling had lost its hold on her. She did not care a whit what this rude duke thought of her. She had forgotten all her good intentions of remaining silent.

“You do not need to worry about a husband for me, Mama, for I am much too plain to fetch one, old or young. As you said yourself, it is a pity I am the runt of the litter.”

The duke covered his mouth with his hand to hide a smile.

“I said no such thing.” Lady Beverley raised a thin white hand to her brow. “I declare I am feeling a trifle faint. Perhaps some fresh air…?”

Miss Trumble rose to her feet. “Yes, we must return immediately. I will make you one of my possets, Lady Beverley.” She took Lady Beverley’s arm and guided her to the door.

Lizzie curtsied low to the duke. Once more their eyes met and held. Lizzie’s green eyes held a mocking, challenging look.

Peter was waiting at the foot of the stairs. “If you are ever allowed some free time, do call on us,” said Lizzie.

The duke caught the remark as he followed them down the staircase. He was displeased. Lizzie Beverley was a forward, unruly girl.

After Barry had helped Lady Beverley into the carriage, then Lizzie, the duke took Miss Trumble aside.

“Even you, Aunt, must admit your pert miss should have watched her tongue.”

“You did, however, send your secretary to take her away for a walk, just like a pet dog,” said Miss Trumble. “You are annoyed because she dared to enjoy his company. Your trouble, Gervase, is that no one has ever given you a set-down. But what is a little miss like Lizzie to you? You will invite your ladies here to look them over and no doubt you will select one who is as little capable of love and laughter as you are yourself.”

The duke turned on his heel and walked back into the house.

“Your Grace,” said Peter.

“Yes, Mr. Bond?”

“The chandelier has begun to move although there is no wind, and I feel a strange air of menace, of threat that seems to come from the very walls.”

The duke stared up at the chandelier as it turned first one way and then the other.

“Vibration from somewhere,” he said curtly. “And exercise has made you fanciful. I feel nothing.”

He marched up the stairs with his dutiful secretary at his heels.

If a ghost confronted my master, thought Peter, he would probably just order it off the premises!

A
WEEK AFTER
the tea party found Lady Beverley still confined to her room with one of her imaginary illnesses. “It is too bad of you, Lizzie,” complained Miss Trumble. “Your mother always becomes like this when her ambitions are thwarted.”

“They would need to be thwarted in any case,” said Lizzie. “Better sooner than later.”

“But as I have pointed out, your were impertinent. The duke will invite you to a ball or fête when his guests are in residence and you must behave prettily.”

“He does irritate me,” said Lizzie ruefully.

“Well, we will say no more about it for the moment. Only do try to learn to guard your tongue!”

The duke summoned his secretary and asked if the invitations to his house party had been sent out.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Good. That will be all. No, stay. Did you find a young man suitable for Miss Lizzie Beverley?”

“Yes, Your Grace, a certain Mr. Gerald Parkes. Aged twenty and of good family. If you do but remember, we met the young man and his family at Dover last year. Mr. Parkes was returning from the Grand Tour. He was all that was amiable and you played backgammon with his father, Colonel Parkes, and thought very highly of him. I took the liberty therefore of inviting Mr. Gerald and his parents.”

“That will be all.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

Peter bowed his way to the door.

“A moment.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You may take tomorrow off. I will not have need of you.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“And if you wish to ride to Hedgefield, say, you may ask the groom to find you a mount.”