The Romance (3 page)

‘Not by my children,’ said Belinda. ‘That is what Miss Trumble taught us, that a mother with a well-furnished mind is much better for her children than a mother without a single idea in her head.’

Lizzie bit her lip. ‘But…but if you have a son, your husband will choose a tutor for him, no doubt the sort of tutor he would like himself. The boy will be taught to shoot and hunt and peacock around in fancy clothes and not learn much else.’

Belinda felt a stab of unease. Had she had any idea of what the love between a woman and
a man could really be like, she would have had her dreams of Mannerling tempered by dreams of romance. But Mannerling was her sole love and everything else came second to that. The unease fled. She saw herself standing at the head of the staircase at Mannerling, her husband a shadowy figure at her side, receiving guests. In her mind, the sun always shone and the sky was always blue.

Both girls expected a lecture from Miss Trumble before they left for the rout, but that lady was strangely absent. Their sister Abigail, Lady Burfield, did visit them and wished them well and then said, ‘Mama is in alt. Evidently you met Saint Clair last night.’

‘Yes,’ said Belinda airily. ‘But there were a great number of interesting gentlemen there as well.’

‘Gyre was there?’

‘Yes, I was introduced to Lord Gyre.’

‘Burfield speaks highly of him,’ said Abigail seriously, ‘and you are so very beautiful, Belinda. I hope no silly ideas about Mannerling are going to ruin your prospects. Only look how they nearly ruined mine!’

Abigail’s own obsession with her old home had brought her to the brink of disgrace and ruin. Her twin, Rachel, was to marry the then owner’s son, Harry Devers, but Rachel had panicked before the wedding and so Abigail had taken her place, only to end up panicking herself and fleeing into the arms of Lord
Burfield.

‘Harry Devers was a monster,’ said Belinda. ‘I shall not make the same mistake, Abigail. Be assured,’ she went on with a limpid look at her elder sister, ‘that Lizzie and I are delighted to be in London and never think of Mannerling at all.’

Abigail looked at her sharply and then gave a satisfied little nod. ‘Our Miss Trumble was worried about you.’

‘Do you go with us this evening?’ asked Lizzie.

Abigail shook her head. ‘No, Burfield and I are tired of racketing around. We shall have a quiet evening together at home.’

And Belinda wondered at the calm glow of happiness that emanated from Abigail. How could anyone forget Mannerling so easily?

*      *      *

Lord St. Clair fidgeted as he faced his father, Earl Durbridge. ‘So, my boy,’ said the earl, ‘when are you to take up residence at Mannerling?’

‘You want me to find a bride,’ said his son patiently, ‘and so I am finding one at the Season, which is where one usually finds such a creature.’

‘And whom have you found?’

‘Early days, Pa,’ said Lord St. Clair airily. He waved a scented handkerchief in the air and
repeated languidly, ‘Early days.’

‘Go to it,’ growled the earl. ‘I am tired of your racketing around. I’ve a demned good mind to disinherit you and put Peregrine in as my heir.’

‘Perry’s such a drab little fellow,’ expostulated St. Clair. ‘I saw him in Saint James’s the other day, took one look at his coat, and crossed to the other side of the street.’

The Honourable Peregrine Vane was St. Clair’s cousin, a serious young man whose sober ways appealed to the earl immensely.

‘He’s got a good head on his shoulders,’ growled the earl. ‘You’ve done nothing to put Mannerling in order, so I’ve sent him down there to look the place over.’

‘What?’ squawked St. Clair. ‘That’s my place.’

‘Then get yourself a bride and show an interest in it.’

Lord St. Clair chewed a fingernail and eyed his father suspiciously. ‘You wouldn’t really put Perry in my place. Think of the scandal!’

‘We’ll see,’ said the earl. ‘Just get a move on and find yourself a bride.’

*      *      *

Routs were probably the most inelegant affairs to be held at the London Season. A rout was not deemed a success unless as many people as
possible were crammed into the rooms. It was not the thing to arrive on foot even though one lived only a few streets away. So coachmen fought each other for places and cursed and threatened each other with their long whips.

Then there was the queue to get up the staircase to greet one’s hosts before edging into a crowded salon to shout bon mots, carefully rehearsed for days on the part of the gentlemen. As an entertainer with one good popular ballad would take it up and down the country, so the gentleman of fashion, having found one good bon mot, would work it to death in salon after salon, head thrown back, eyes half-closed, witticism delivered at full volume.

As they sweated in buckram-wadded coats, corsets, and high starched collars, the gentlemen envied the ladies the current fashion in thin loose muslin gowns. Since washing all over except for medicinal purposes was only a recent fad, the air was heavy with the smell of perfume, which combined with more evil smells of unwashed bodies and musk from pastilles sucked to counteract the nasty effects of rotting teeth. As she inched to the top of the stairs, Belinda began to feel quite faint and could only marvel that her mother, that dedicated invalid, should appear to feel no ill effects whatsoever.

Then at last she was able to make her curtsy to Lord and Lady Dunster, who sat, throne-like,
on two carved chairs to receive their guests. Then it was shuffle and push into the next room, where sweating waiters circulated with iced champagne, easing their bodies eel-like through the press, holding their trays high above their heads.

‘I am so thirsty,’ mourned Lizzie, ‘and I would like a glass of champagne, but how am I to get one. Jump?’

But Belinda had spied Lord St. Clair, and her fine eyes gleamed with the pleasure of the hunt. ‘Mama,’ she hissed, plucking her mother’s sleeve. ‘Saint Clair is over there.’

With amazing energy, Lady Beverley propelled her daughters in that direction.

For a brief moment, Belinda found herself jammed up against the Marquess of Gyre, chest-to-chest. She blushed and slid past him. He swivelled to watch her, amazed at the stab of sweet excitement that brief contact had caused.

Lord St. Clair was standing with his bosom friend, Mirabel Dauncey, an equally willowy and foppish creature. ‘So I’ve got to get me a bride,’ said Lord St. Clair, stifling a yawn. ‘Should I just ask anyone?’

‘Won’t do,’ drawled Mr. Dauncey, raising his quizzing-glass and staring around the company with one huge magnified eye. ‘Might get a shrew. Might get some creature who will jaw you to death. Oh, demme. Who’s this old fright?’

Lady Beverley was smiling in a predatory way as she edged up to them. ‘Lord Saint Clair, I believe,’ she fluted, extending a thin white-gloved hand like a swan’s neck.

‘Charmed, madam,’ said Lord St. Clair, rolling his eyes at his friend.

‘I am Lady Beverley, formerly of Mannerling.’

‘I’ve got that place,’ said Lord St. Clair. His pale-blue eyes raked Lady Beverley.

‘You are the most fortunate of men,’ said Lady Beverley. ‘There is no finer house in England.’

‘It’s in the
country,’
said Lord St. Clair pettishly.

‘Yes,’ agreed Lady Beverley with undiminished enthusiasm. ‘Such lawns, such vistas.’

Belinda saw Lord St. Clair roll his eyes again in the direction of his friend, signalling that he wanted to escape.

She edged forwards until she was standing in front of her mother. ‘We met last night, Lord Saint Clair.’

Belinda gave him a dazzling smile. Still Lord St. Clair would have effected his escape had not a dandy drawled somewhere behind him, ‘Who is that shiner talking to Saint Clair? Most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen, demme.’

Saint Clair looked at Belinda with new eyes. He had never until that moment considered
asset. ‘Of course we did,’ he said with a little bow, the crush not permitting a full scrape. Lord Gyre moved close to them.

‘I never forget beauty,’ Lord St. Clair was saying.

Belinda cast down her long eyelashes, giggled and simpered. ‘La, my lord,’ she said, ‘you do flatter me.’

‘I remember we discoursed most intelligently on that rare farce. Better than dull Shakespeare any day, heh, what?’

‘Indeed,’ gushed Belinda. ‘Shakespeare does send me to sleep. I can hardly refrain from yawning.’

Saint Clair looked at her, struck afresh by this kindred spirit. ‘Demme, if don’t suffer the same ennui. Your honesty is refreshing.’

Again that giggle. ‘And compliments from such an arbiter of fashion are always a delight, my lord.’

At that moment, Belinda saw Lord Gyre staring at her, a faint look of contempt in his eyes. Then he turned away. She blushed with mortification, but Lord St. Clair saw that blush and was gratified, thinking he must be possessed of masculine attractions he had hitherto been unaware of.

‘I hate these crushes,’ he said. ‘There is very little opportunity for conversation. May I take you driving tomorrow?’

Lady Beverley smiled graciously. ‘Belinda is honoured and charmed to accept your
invitation. Come, Belinda.’

Belinda curtsied and moved off with her mother. Her heart was beating hard. But that look the marquess had thrown her was lodged in a corner of her mind and would not go away.

The following day Barry asked Lady Beverley’s permission to go back to the country. Not only was he given permission but Miss Trumble was ordered to go with him.

‘You see,’ said Lady Beverley, giving the governess a gracious smile, ‘it is not as if the girls need further lessons, and I have various household matters at Brookfield which require your attention.’

Miss Trumble thought quickly. She could stand her ground and point out that she had not been employed as a housekeeper. She knew that Lady Beverley wanted rid of her in case she came between Belinda and Lord St. Clair. Suddenly weary and looking forward to getting out of smoky London, Miss Trumble acquiesced. She was disappointed in Belinda. It was time for the girl to be left to sink or swim. Miss Trumble was heartily sick of the Beverleys
and their ongoing schemes and plans to regain Mannerling.

Belinda and Lizzie heard of her imminent departure with mixed feelings. Without their Miss Trumble, the world suddenly seemed an unsafe place. But like their mother, they did not want Miss Trumble to interfere in any of their stratagems. Only Abigail, Lady Burfield, was genuinely upset and went to tell Miss Trumble that if she wished to remain in London, she could resign her employ and stay with the Burfields as their guest for as long as she wished, for life if necessary.

‘You are kind,’ said Miss Trumble, ‘but the air of London does not agree with me.’

‘What does not agree with you,’ said Abigail shrewdly, ‘is that you feel Belinda is out to snare Saint Clair and you have had enough of us silly Beverleys.’

Miss Trumble suddenly smiled. ‘Perhaps I could use just a little rest, and perhaps without my constant disapproval, Belinda will see Saint Clair for the empty-headed, useless man he is.’

Abigail was well aware that St. Clair was to take Belinda driving that afternoon and the excitement and flutter that invitation had caused. She gave a little sigh. ‘Saint Clair is a fool, but an amiable fool. She could do worse. Burfield hoped that she might attract Gyre. He is intelligent as well as handsome.’

‘I think Belinda has ruined herself in Gyre’s eyes. I was watching him when she first met
Saint Clair and she was simpering and flirting in just the sort of way to put a man like Gyre off. As you say, Saint Clair is weak and shiftless and stupid, but he might make an amiable husband.’

‘Are you sure you will not stay?’ begged Abigail. ‘You were surely instrumental in prompting the rest of us into securing good husbands.’

‘I do not know that is the case,’ said Miss Trumble seriously. ‘I think that with you and your elder sisters, a combination of common sense and love prevailed. Yes, love defeated Mannerling on each count.’

‘It is unusual to find love in a society marriage.’ Abigail heaved another little sigh. ‘Perhaps there will be no great love for Belinda. She will marry Saint Clair, get Mannerling, have children, and settle for that.’

‘Mannerling might have other ideas. That is a fickle, evil house.’

‘My sensible Miss Trumble! What has happened to you? Mannerling is not a person and does not have feelings.’

‘I am not superstitious, and yet…and yet there is something about that place—malignancy seems to seep from the very walls. It may take a dislike to Saint Clair.’

Abigail looked at the old governess uneasily. ‘I think, dear Miss Trumble, that you have been in contact for too long with the Beverley obsession. It is only a house—bricks and slates
and paint. Nothing else.’

*      *      *

The Honourable Peregrine Vane sat slumped against the squabs in a corner of the travelling-carriage supplied by his uncle, Earl Durbridge, as it turned in at the gates of Mannerling.

He bitterly resented being sent to see the place when that job should be performed by the new owner, Lord St. Clair. Peregrine detested Lord St. Clair. That young man was everything he despised—foppish and empty-headed. In truth Peregrine was bitterly jealous of his cousin, but jealous people are always in competition with the object of their jealousy.

The carriage lurched to a stop. A footman let down the steps. Peregrine climbed wearily down and walked under the porticoed entrance and so into the great hall.

He stood silently for a moment, looking around and then up at the great glittering chandelier and then to the painted ceilings, where gods and goddesses rioted in classic immorality. The air smelled sweetly of wood fires, beeswax, and roses. He felt a great atmosphere of peace and love that seemed to emanate from the very walls.

Feeling strangely like a child coming home from a rather brutal school, he stood drinking in that peace.

‘This way, sir,’ said a voice at his elbow.