The Homecoming by M. C. Beaton, Marion Chesney Page A

Mannerling. But there was no longer a quickening of the heart at the thought of going “home.” For the very first time, Lizzie thought of Brookfield House as home, and wished heartily she were back there, sitting in the stables, talking to Barry.
    But Barry Wort had gone to Bath with her mother. Certainly, he would be sent back as soon as the journey was completed. Although Barry often acted as footman on special occasions for the Beverleys in a second-hand suit of red plush and a glass wig, Lady Beverley was ashamed of him. Footmen should be slim, six feet tall, and haughty.
    As Lizzie had noticed before, the duke seemed to have a great many servants. As the carriage drew to a stop, two tall footmen, who would have gladdened Lady Beverley’s heart, jumped down from the back-strap to let down the steps. Other footmen began to unload their luggage. Butler and housekeeper followed them up to their rooms, and soon they were surrounded by a flurry of maids unpacking their luggage.
    Lizzie found she was in her old bedroom with its adjoining private sitting-room. She walked around examining everything. The old four-poster bed in which she used to sleep had been replaced by a modern one with a canopy from which lace bedcurtains descended. In the sitting-room, there was new furniture, gilt with striped silk upholstery in green and gold. The wallpaper was of a green-and-gold Chinese pattern. The clock over the mantel, the little gilt French clock, was the same, as was the escritoire in the corner. How awful it had been, she remembered, when Papa’s debts had been so great that they could not even remove some of their favourite pieces of furniture. Mannerling no longer reached out to her.
    It was mid-afternoon. Miss Trumble entered and said, “We are to join the company in the drawing-room for tea. Let me see to your hair.”
    Lizzie obediently went into her bedroom and sat down at the toilet-table. “This is my old room, Miss Trumble,” she said. “But some things are different. Even this mirror is different. I remember it now. It is a very old one and used to be in Papa’s dressing-room.”
    “The glass gives a good reflection,” said Miss Trumble, adjusting bone-pins amongst the curls and coils of red hair. “You will do very well, Lizzie.”
    “I am now anxious to see Peter’s beloved,” said Lizzie. “Is she here?”
    “I gather from a footman that everyone is arrived.”
    As they walked together along the corridor and down the stairs to the drawing-room, Lizzie felt her heart begin to beat hard and wondered if an actor felt like this just before he made his appearance on the stage.
    Two footmen sprang to open the double doors and they entered.
    Eyes, eyes, eyes everywhere, staring and assessing.
    The duke moved forward. “May I present Miss Lizzie Beverley and my…and Miss Trumble.”
    Both curtsied. The duke led them round the room while Lizzie tried to remember who was who. The Chumleys, Mr. and Mrs., round and comfortable-looking. The Earl and Countess of Hernshire; the earl, small and tubby, the countess, tall and stately. Daughter, Lady Verity, with a chilly smile, turning indifferently away as soon as the introductions had been made.
    Then the Charters—as silly as their silly little daughter, thought Miss Trumble.
    Squire Walters, his wife, and daughter Sarah. They came as a great disappointment to Lizzie. The squire was wizened and nasty-looking, his wife frightened, and his daughter so vague and dreamy that she did not quite seem to know where she was.
    Next was Colonel Parkes, genial and courteous, with a jolly, friendly wife.
    And son, Gerald.
    Lizzie blinked up at him in a dazed way. He was a young Adonis. Hair as gold as the sun and eyes as blue as a summer sea. His face was lightly tanned and very, very handsome.
    Lizzie smiled at him and curtsied.
    “The formalities seem to be over,” said Gerald, looking down at Lizzie. He grinned and the duke moved away, feeling obscurely that he had been