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.
Rachel did not want to arrive late but her mother did, Lady Beverley liking to make an entrance. She fondly imagined the general and his son being bored by the dismal country company and how their eyes would light up at the sight of the Beverley family.
Mary Judd was pinning up a stray lock of hair in the anteroom provided for the ladies when they arrived. Miss Trumble, resplendent in gold silk and with a Turkish turban to match on her pomaded curls, noticed that Mary’s little black eyes were shining with malice and wondered why.
“Just arrived?” asked Rachel.
“No, I have been here this age,” said Mary. “So passé to arrive late, do you not think?”
“I wouldn’t know the ways of the world, any more than you,” retorted Rachel. “Out with it, Mary. Your eyes are full of secrets. Is the party from Mannerling here?”
“You will see for yourself.” Mary flitted out.
“I suppose Mr. Charles Blackwood has turned up with a beautiful lady and she thinks we will be disappointed,” said Lizzie, and they all laughed at the joke.
They could hear the jolly strains of the local band playing a country dance. The air was full of the smells of scent and pomade, wood-smoke, wine and beer. They pushed open the double doors which opened into the assembly room.
It was a long room at the side of the inn, with a fire burning at either end. The band played in a little gallery which overlooked the room. At first Rachel saw only familiar faces and then the crowd of watchers in front of her parted and she could see the whole ballroom.
In the centre of the room, his height topping the dancers, was Charles Blackwood, partnered by a very tall, very beautiful woman. Her hair was as fair as Rachel’s and her eyes of a very intense blue. She had high cheek-bones, a long straight nose, and a statuesque figure, slim but deep-breasted, and she was nearly as tall as Charles Blackwood. She was wearing a gown of silver gauze over an underslip of white satin. Diamonds sparkled in her hair and round her perfect white neck.
Rachel stood there, feeling small and diminished. This Amazon was a sort of grander Rachel, taller, more assured, with bluer eyes and a sophisticated, commanding presence.
“Oh, dear,” whispered Lizzie. “Who can she be?”
“I fear that is our Mr. Blackwood’s house guest,” said Rachel. “Perhaps her husband is here.”
“From the way she is looking at Mr. Blackwood and he at her,” said Belinda, “I fear there is no husband.”
The general had
“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.
Rachel did not want to arrive late but her mother did, Lady Beverley liking to make an entrance. She fondly imagined the general and his son being bored by the dismal country company and how their eyes would light up at the sight of the Beverley family.
Mary Judd was pinning up a stray lock of hair in the anteroom provided for the ladies when they arrived. Miss Trumble, resplendent in gold silk and with a Turkish turban to match on her pomaded curls, noticed that Mary’s little black eyes were shining with malice and wondered why.
“Just arrived?” asked Rachel.
“No, I have been here this age,” said Mary. “So passé to arrive late, do you not think?”
“I wouldn’t know the ways of the world, any more than you,” retorted Rachel. “Out with it, Mary. Your eyes are full of secrets. Is the party from Mannerling here?”
“You will see for yourself.” Mary flitted out.
“I suppose Mr. Charles Blackwood has turned up with a beautiful lady and she thinks we will be disappointed,” said Lizzie, and they all laughed at the joke.
They could hear the jolly strains of the local band playing a country dance. The air was full of the smells of scent and pomade, wood-smoke, wine and beer. They pushed open the double doors which opened into the assembly room.
It was a long room at the side of the inn, with a fire burning at either end. The band played in a little gallery which overlooked the room. At first Rachel saw only familiar faces and then the crowd of watchers in front of her parted and she could see the whole ballroom.
In the centre of the room, his height topping the dancers, was Charles Blackwood, partnered by a very tall, very beautiful woman. Her hair was as fair as Rachel’s and her eyes of a very intense blue. She had high cheek-bones, a long straight nose, and a statuesque figure, slim but deep-breasted, and she was nearly as tall as Charles Blackwood. She was wearing a gown of silver gauze over an underslip of white satin. Diamonds sparkled in her hair and round her perfect white neck.
Rachel stood there, feeling small and diminished. This Amazon was a sort of grander Rachel, taller, more assured, with bluer eyes and a sophisticated, commanding presence.
“Oh, dear,” whispered Lizzie. “Who can she be?”
“I fear that is our Mr. Blackwood’s house guest,” said Rachel. “Perhaps her husband is here.”
“From the way she is looking at Mr. Blackwood and he at her,” said Belinda, “I fear there is no husband.”
The general had
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