The Folly (6 page)

“Well, unless he volunteers to tell us about her, we can hardly ask him,” said Miss Trumble. She herself had forgotten to ask Lady Evans about the late Mrs. Blackwood. The governess looked speculatively
at Rachel. “Mr. Charles Blackwood is a good man and his children are delightful. If he ever marries again, I would hope it would be for love.”

Rachel sighed. “Apart from my lucky elder sisters, love does not seem to enter into fashionable marriages.”

“Better to make an unfashionable marriage than a loveless one.”

Rachel smiled. “I would have thought a sensible lady like yourself would not have believed in love in a cottage.”

“It need not be a cottage. Anywhere but Mannerling, in fact.”

Lady Beverley came in at that moment, a letter in her hand. “Such news,” she said. “I had this letter from Isabella this morning, but did not read it all until now. She is returning with her husband to Perival.” Perival was Viscount Fitzpatrick’s, Isabella’s husband’s, English estate, which lay near them on the other side of Mannerling.

“Splendid!” cried Rachel, elated at the news of the return of the eldest Beverley sister. “Does Mrs. Kennedy accompany them?” Mrs. Kennedy was the viscount’s aunt.

“That hurly-burly Irishwoman! I trust not,” said Lady Beverley. “Mrs. Kennedy was a vulgar influence on you girls.”

“How can you say that, Mama? Mrs. Kennedy was kindness itself.”

“In any case, Isabella says nothing of her.”

“When do they plan to arrive?” asked Miss Trumble.

“In a month’s time.”

Rachel slipped out of the room and went in search of Belinda and Lizzie to tell them the great news.

Lizzie clapped her hands. “We will see our nephew and niece. Let me see, Margaret must be two, and Guy, three years old. Have you told Barry? He was always monstrous fond of Isabella.”

“I cannot find Barry. Where is he?”

“All Miss Trumble will say is that he has gone off on an errand, but whatever errand it was, it has taken him away for quite some time.”

Barry stifled a yawn and sat up on the truckle-bed. Better to get up and sit on a chair in case he fell asleep. It was so tempting to close his eyes. Mark had been a cheerful and happy child before he fell asleep. Barry was sure that this ghost did not exist.

He had left the shutters on one window open, and a shaft of moonlight fell across the boards of the floor. Mark’s little bed was a modern one with a canopy, rather than a four-poster with curtains that could be drawn round it in the night, which was why he could claim to have seen a ghost standing at the end of his bed.

Barry’s eyelids began to droop. He had not managed to have enough sleep during the day.

And then those eyes jerked open. He heard a soft shuffling movement in the corridor outside. He felt on the floor beside him for his stout cudgel and tensed, waiting.

The door slowly swung open. The corridor outside was in darkness but he could dimly make out a tall figure standing in the doorway, a thicker piece of darkness.

The figure walked forwards and stood at the end of the bed. Barry had told Mark not to light a candle.

Barry fought down a sudden superstitious feeling of pure panic.

Then he heard the scrape of a tinder-box. The figure had moved to the side of the bed and was lighting a candle.

Barry’s moment of panic fled. Ghosts, Barry thought firmly, easing himself to his feet, did not light candles.

But as the little flame sprang up, he suppressed a gasp. Surely this was Judd. He was dressed all in black, with a long black cloak, but the hair was sandy and the foxy features were familiar.

“What are you doing here?” shouted Barry.

The figure swung to face him and at the same time raised his cloak to hide his face and let out a sepulchral moan. Mark started up and began to scream.

The “ghost” made for the door. “I’ll give you something to moan about,” cried Barry and lashed out with his cudgel.

The man ducked and the cudgel caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head. He fell heavily, but quickly rallied and staggered out into the corridor. Barry stumbled over one of Mark’s toys and fell headlong. He scrambled back to his feet and ran out into the corridor. But the “ghost” had gone. Barry ran through the corridors of the great house, shouting and yelling. Cries came from the downstairs, where sleepy servants, roused from their beds by the noise, stumbled out into the great hall.

Charles Blackwood appeared wrapped in a magnificent silk banyan. “What is it, Barry?”

“The ghost,” said Barry. “I struck him a blow on the head but then I fell over something on the bedroom floor and he got away.”

“So the boy was telling the truth.”

Charles ran down to the hall and gave orders to the servants. For the rest of the night the house was searched from top to bottom, and the gamekeepers, grooms, and gardeners searched the grounds.

At last they met again in the dawn light, all gathered in the hall.

Charles addressed them. “Someone has been trying to frighten my son. If any of you is responsible, then I shall take them personally to the nearest round-house. I want two guards to be on duty from now on outside my son’s door at night.”

He did not want any of the newly hired Mannerling servants. He had not chosen any of the servants he had brought with him for fear they, too, would gossip. But he now realized that they would never be part of any plot to harm his son. He selected one groom and one stablehand and gave them their orders. They had been in his employ for some time and appeared to be trustworthy.

He then turned to Barry. “You have done well. I doubt if our ghost will materialize again.” He handed Barry two guineas, which Barry swiftly pocketed.

The odd man said he would walk back to Brookfield House, as the morning was fine. He felt very tired. But something was nagging at the back of his mind. He had scanned the servants’ faces when they were gathered in the hall, looking for anyone
with the same type of features as Judd, but he could not see one. It suddenly struck him that there was one face that should have been among the crowd, a face that was absent.

He was still mulling it over as he walked up the short drive to Brookfield House. He walked round the side of the building and round the back to the kitchen door. He was reaching up his hand to the latch when the door suddenly opened and Miss Trumble stood there.

“What news, Barry? I had a restless night and rose early. I saw you arrive.”

“I chased the ghost.” Barry described what had happened.

“But who would do such a thing, and why?”

“That I do not know, miss, but there do be something troubling me. When we was all gathered in the hall, all the servants, indoor and outdoor, I looked round the faces to see if I could spot anyone who might have tried to dress up as Judd, someone who looked a bit like him, but I couldn’t see anyone. Then, as I was walking back home, I came to the conclusion that someone was missing out o’ that gathering, but I couldn’t guess who it could be.”

“John,” said Miss Trumble bleakly.

“John?”

“The footman. He is tall and thin. His eyes are pale green. He could have worn a sandy wig.”

Barry scratched his head in perplexity. “But John is a milksop, a cringing, mincing man-milliner.”

“Forget his character and try to imagine him in a sandy wig.”

“Could be,” said Barry reluctantly. “What should we do?”

“If you are not too tired, hitch up the carriage and we will go back to Mannerling. You say you struck John.”

“Twas but a glancing blow, miss.”

“Nonetheless, his head must be examined and his quarters searched.”

“I’ll get the carriage right away.”

Charles Blackwood, roused from a late sleep, heard their suspicions. “You did right to come to me direct,” he said, cutting across the governess’s apologies for having awakened him.

He rang the bell. A footman Miss Trumble did not know answered it promptly.

“Send the footman, John, to me,” commanded Charles. He turned to Miss Trumble and Barry. “Now we shall see.”

After some moments, John appeared and stood meekly before them.

“Come here,” ordered Charles, “and kneel before me.”

John flashed a sudden look of venom at Miss Trumble, quickly veiled. He knelt in front of his master. Charles whipped off the footman’s white wig and then felt carefully over his close-cropped head.

Then he replaced the wig and said, “Stand.”

John did as he was bid. “May I be so bold to ask what this is all about?” he asked.

“In a minute. After the search for this ghost, when the servants were all assembled in the hall, you were not there.”

“But I was, sir. I was standing at the back with Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper, and Freddy, the pot-boy.”

“Bring them here,” ordered Charles.

They waited in silence until the housekeeper and the pot-boy were brought in by John.

The housekeeper was small and stout, encased in black bombazine, keys at her waist and an enormous starched cap on her head. Her face had a high shiny glaze and her little eyes held a look of perpetual outrage.

Gin, thought Miss Trumble.

The pot-boy was undersized and had a loose wet mouth and moist black eyes. He gawked about him with bovine stupidity.

“John, here, says he was at the back of the Great Hall this morning at dawn after we had all given up the search for the man who tried to impersonate the late Mr. Judd. Is that the case? Was John with you?”

“Yes, sir,” said the housekeeper. She had a deep hoarse voice. Definitely gin, thought Miss Trumble.

“You are sure?”

“Oh, yes, sir. John says to me, he says, that it might have been a real ghost after all.”

“And you, boy?” said Charles to Freddy.

Freddy tugged his forelock. “I seed ’im as plain as day, sir.”

He looked to the housekeeper for approval.

“You may go,” said Charles. “Not you, John.”

When the housekeeper and pot-boy had left, Charles said, “You are the only servant who could have impersonated the late Mr. Judd, because of your looks. But obviously I was mistaken. You may
go about your duties. But remember and tell the other servants—if I find the culprit, I will deal with him first before I hand him over to the authorities.”

S
OMEHOW, 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.