Isabella was relieved. She did not want Mrs Kennedy around when they prepared to set off for Mannerling in case that lady overheard anything and guessed their plans.
Another rented carriage. Isabella for the first time began to wonder just how much money was left, if any. She privately thought this Mr Judd should have been thoughtful enough to send a carriage for them.
Perhaps she was the only unhappy member of the party as they all set out, although Lizzie was very quiet. The others were elated, confident that Isabella would win the prize.
But they all fell silent as the carriage rolled up the long drive of Mannerling. The butler met them at the door, his face wooden and unsmiling, just as if he had never worked for them. He led the way upstairs to the Green Saloon and Isabella began to feel increasingly nervous.
But Mannerling was crying to her to come home. The elegant staircase, the painted ceilings, the cool rooms – all belonged to the Beverleys, not to this interloper.
She stiffened her spine and followed her parents into the Green Saloon.
She received two shocks. The first was the appearance of Mr Judd. She had been imagining a man somewhat like the viscount, but this Mr Judd was tall and thin with sandy hair, light-green eyes, and a foxy face. The second shock was the presence of the Stoppards, Mary in particular, both looking very much at home, and Mary was acting as hostess, directing the servants as to where to lay the tea-things, and making the tea herself.
Isabella’s eyes ranged round the room. Some of their beautiful and elegant furniture had been replaced by nasty Jacobean stuff, heavily carved and sombre. She quickly averted her eyes and met those of Mary Stoppard, black, unfathomable.
‘Well, now,’ said Mr Judd when they were all seated, ‘this is indeed a bevy of beauties.’
Isabella pretended he was the viscount and gave him a warm smile. ‘You will turn our heads, sir.’
‘And you, Miss Isabella, must turn the heads of all who set eyes on you,’ replied Mr Judd, and gave a high cackle of laughter.
‘We all expect our Miss Isabella to be snatched up by some lucky gentleman soon,’ said Mary. ‘Of course, after last Season . . .’ Her voice trailed away. She signalled to a footman. ‘John, take the caraway cake to Lady Beverley. Lady Beverley was always fond of Mannerling caraway cake.’
And so, having effectively reminded Isabella of her failure to secure a husband at the Season and Lady Beverley of her changed circumstances, Mary smiled benignly all round.
‘Thank you for those books you lent me, Mr Judd,’ said the vicar. ‘Very interesting.’ He was a small, round, plump man with a white face and those black eyes his daughter had inherited from him.
‘What books?’ asked Isabella before she could stop herself. ‘Bailey’s
Guide to the Tuif?
’
Her sisters gave her reproachful looks. ‘Not at all,’ said the vicar. ‘You do Mr Judd an injustice.’
‘An injustice,’ echoed Mary faintly.
‘I was joking,’ said Isabella. ‘I am anxious to see any changes you have made to Mannerling, Mr Judd.’
‘Come,’ said that gentleman, ‘I will be delighted to show you.’ He led Isabella from the room. The sisters exchanged covert, triumphant little glances.
In the Long Gallery, she gave an exclamation of dismay. ‘Where are the Beverley ancestors, Mr Judd?’
‘Got fine pictures of my own, Miss Isabella, and they ain’t my ancestors, after all. Put them in the attics.’
Isabella looked up at the ‘fine’ pictures, which were mostly of horses: horses racing, horses hunting, horses just standing staring straight ahead. She wanted to say to him that if he did not want the Beverley ancestors, why did he not give them to Sir William, but pride kept her quiet. ‘What very fine animals,’ she said instead.
‘Prime bits of blood, Miss Isabella. Come, I have more in the Blue Saloon.’ And so he had, paintings of dogs and slaughtered game being added to
Another rented carriage. Isabella for the first time began to wonder just how much money was left, if any. She privately thought this Mr Judd should have been thoughtful enough to send a carriage for them.
Perhaps she was the only unhappy member of the party as they all set out, although Lizzie was very quiet. The others were elated, confident that Isabella would win the prize.
But they all fell silent as the carriage rolled up the long drive of Mannerling. The butler met them at the door, his face wooden and unsmiling, just as if he had never worked for them. He led the way upstairs to the Green Saloon and Isabella began to feel increasingly nervous.
But Mannerling was crying to her to come home. The elegant staircase, the painted ceilings, the cool rooms – all belonged to the Beverleys, not to this interloper.
She stiffened her spine and followed her parents into the Green Saloon.
She received two shocks. The first was the appearance of Mr Judd. She had been imagining a man somewhat like the viscount, but this Mr Judd was tall and thin with sandy hair, light-green eyes, and a foxy face. The second shock was the presence of the Stoppards, Mary in particular, both looking very much at home, and Mary was acting as hostess, directing the servants as to where to lay the tea-things, and making the tea herself.
Isabella’s eyes ranged round the room. Some of their beautiful and elegant furniture had been replaced by nasty Jacobean stuff, heavily carved and sombre. She quickly averted her eyes and met those of Mary Stoppard, black, unfathomable.
‘Well, now,’ said Mr Judd when they were all seated, ‘this is indeed a bevy of beauties.’
Isabella pretended he was the viscount and gave him a warm smile. ‘You will turn our heads, sir.’
‘And you, Miss Isabella, must turn the heads of all who set eyes on you,’ replied Mr Judd, and gave a high cackle of laughter.
‘We all expect our Miss Isabella to be snatched up by some lucky gentleman soon,’ said Mary. ‘Of course, after last Season . . .’ Her voice trailed away. She signalled to a footman. ‘John, take the caraway cake to Lady Beverley. Lady Beverley was always fond of Mannerling caraway cake.’
And so, having effectively reminded Isabella of her failure to secure a husband at the Season and Lady Beverley of her changed circumstances, Mary smiled benignly all round.
‘Thank you for those books you lent me, Mr Judd,’ said the vicar. ‘Very interesting.’ He was a small, round, plump man with a white face and those black eyes his daughter had inherited from him.
‘What books?’ asked Isabella before she could stop herself. ‘Bailey’s
Guide to the Tuif?
’
Her sisters gave her reproachful looks. ‘Not at all,’ said the vicar. ‘You do Mr Judd an injustice.’
‘An injustice,’ echoed Mary faintly.
‘I was joking,’ said Isabella. ‘I am anxious to see any changes you have made to Mannerling, Mr Judd.’
‘Come,’ said that gentleman, ‘I will be delighted to show you.’ He led Isabella from the room. The sisters exchanged covert, triumphant little glances.
In the Long Gallery, she gave an exclamation of dismay. ‘Where are the Beverley ancestors, Mr Judd?’
‘Got fine pictures of my own, Miss Isabella, and they ain’t my ancestors, after all. Put them in the attics.’
Isabella looked up at the ‘fine’ pictures, which were mostly of horses: horses racing, horses hunting, horses just standing staring straight ahead. She wanted to say to him that if he did not want the Beverley ancestors, why did he not give them to Sir William, but pride kept her quiet. ‘What very fine animals,’ she said instead.
‘Prime bits of blood, Miss Isabella. Come, I have more in the Blue Saloon.’ And so he had, paintings of dogs and slaughtered game being added to
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