Read Online Banishment (Daughters of Mannerling 1) by M. C. Beaton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M. C. Beaton
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crack, one of those Gothic things, all moss, and with a hermit. Have that instead. Got to have a hermit.’
‘And do you know a hermit?’
‘Don’t need to be a real one. One of the servants will do it. That footman, John, now he’s a trifle too uppity for my taste. If he wants to continue to collect his wages, he can be a hermit and put on some rags instead of that plush uniform.’
Raindrops rattled down on Isabella’s bonnet. ‘We must return to shelter,’ he said. ‘Poxy rain.’
Isabella felt like crying. If he was prepared to smash down the beautiful temple, what other horrors had he in store for Mannerling?
When they were back in the drawing room, Mrs Judd presiding over the teacups, Mr Judd said, ‘I’m thinking of giving a ball here, get to know the neighbours. Is that secretary still about?’
‘Until the end of the week,’ said Isabella.
‘Better get him to furnish me with a list.’
‘Ajax,’ reprimanded his mother, ‘you cannot be contemplating a ball when your poor father is scarcely cold in his grave!’
‘Pooh, died over a year ago.’
Mrs Judd took out a starched handkerchief and applied it to her eyes.
‘How did your father die?’ asked Isabella.
‘Blew his brains out,’ said Mr Judd succinctly.
‘I wish that nice Miss Stoppard was here,’ moaned Mrs Judd. ‘
She
is all sentiment.’
‘I am deeply sorry to learn of your loss,’ said Isabella.
‘My husband would never have let us live here,’ wailed Mrs Judd. ‘The place is too big.’
‘He could never have afforded to live here,’ remarked her son with heartless satisfaction. He was standing by the fireplace and ran his hand lovingly over the marble mantel in the way one caresses a favourite pet.
Isabella stole a covert look around the room again. Drawing rooms, because of the custom – still regarded on the Contintent as a form of English barbarity – of separating the men and the women at the end of a meal, had come to be regarded as the preserve of the ladies, and this was usually reflected in the lighter furniture, knick-knacks, portfolios of water-colours, work-tables, and the latest ladies’ magazines. But the console table at Mannerling now only held sporting magazines, a gamebag lay discarded just inside the door, and a fishing-rod was propped against the window shutters.
‘I am feeling poorly,’ complained Mrs Judd. ‘Be so good as to excuse me, Miss Isabella.’
And so convention demanded that Isabella took her leave. Mr Judd walked her downstairs and out to the carriage. They stood for a moment under an umbrella held over them by a footman.
‘Tell you what,’ said Mr Judd, ‘I’ll take you for a drive next week. Tuesday again, hey?’
Isabella dimpled and curtsied. ‘I consider myself honoured, sir.’
‘Call for you at two.’
And so, as Isabella was driven off, she fought down that constantly monitoring voice which was telling her that he ought to have asked her parents’ permission first. The farther she was driven from Mannerling, the more awful Mr Judd and his mother seemed. But surely no sacrifice was too great to regain Mannerling.
When she arrived home, she was hustled into a little parlour on the ground floor by her sisters, anxious to hear her news.
They gave exclamations of dismay when she told them about the trees and the temple.
But Jessica said stoutly, ‘All that can be restored when you are married, Isabella.’
‘I wish I were a gambler,’ sighed Isabella. ‘Then I would play him at cards for Mannerling.’
Lizzie looked at Isabella, her green eyes shining. ‘You cannot, but Lord Fitzpatrick could . . . if you asked him.’
Isabella shook her head. ‘My lord thinks that the best thing that could happen to the Beverleys is that Mr Judd should set fire to the place and burn it down!’
‘What a monster!’ cried Abigail. ‘But does Mr Judd appear at all
warm
towards you, Isabella?’
‘Ye-es, yes, he does. He is to take me driving next week.’ The
‘And do you know a hermit?’
‘Don’t need to be a real one. One of the servants will do it. That footman, John, now he’s a trifle too uppity for my taste. If he wants to continue to collect his wages, he can be a hermit and put on some rags instead of that plush uniform.’
Raindrops rattled down on Isabella’s bonnet. ‘We must return to shelter,’ he said. ‘Poxy rain.’
Isabella felt like crying. If he was prepared to smash down the beautiful temple, what other horrors had he in store for Mannerling?
When they were back in the drawing room, Mrs Judd presiding over the teacups, Mr Judd said, ‘I’m thinking of giving a ball here, get to know the neighbours. Is that secretary still about?’
‘Until the end of the week,’ said Isabella.
‘Better get him to furnish me with a list.’
‘Ajax,’ reprimanded his mother, ‘you cannot be contemplating a ball when your poor father is scarcely cold in his grave!’
‘Pooh, died over a year ago.’
Mrs Judd took out a starched handkerchief and applied it to her eyes.
‘How did your father die?’ asked Isabella.
‘Blew his brains out,’ said Mr Judd succinctly.
‘I wish that nice Miss Stoppard was here,’ moaned Mrs Judd. ‘
She
is all sentiment.’
‘I am deeply sorry to learn of your loss,’ said Isabella.
‘My husband would never have let us live here,’ wailed Mrs Judd. ‘The place is too big.’
‘He could never have afforded to live here,’ remarked her son with heartless satisfaction. He was standing by the fireplace and ran his hand lovingly over the marble mantel in the way one caresses a favourite pet.
Isabella stole a covert look around the room again. Drawing rooms, because of the custom – still regarded on the Contintent as a form of English barbarity – of separating the men and the women at the end of a meal, had come to be regarded as the preserve of the ladies, and this was usually reflected in the lighter furniture, knick-knacks, portfolios of water-colours, work-tables, and the latest ladies’ magazines. But the console table at Mannerling now only held sporting magazines, a gamebag lay discarded just inside the door, and a fishing-rod was propped against the window shutters.
‘I am feeling poorly,’ complained Mrs Judd. ‘Be so good as to excuse me, Miss Isabella.’
And so convention demanded that Isabella took her leave. Mr Judd walked her downstairs and out to the carriage. They stood for a moment under an umbrella held over them by a footman.
‘Tell you what,’ said Mr Judd, ‘I’ll take you for a drive next week. Tuesday again, hey?’
Isabella dimpled and curtsied. ‘I consider myself honoured, sir.’
‘Call for you at two.’
And so, as Isabella was driven off, she fought down that constantly monitoring voice which was telling her that he ought to have asked her parents’ permission first. The farther she was driven from Mannerling, the more awful Mr Judd and his mother seemed. But surely no sacrifice was too great to regain Mannerling.
When she arrived home, she was hustled into a little parlour on the ground floor by her sisters, anxious to hear her news.
They gave exclamations of dismay when she told them about the trees and the temple.
But Jessica said stoutly, ‘All that can be restored when you are married, Isabella.’
‘I wish I were a gambler,’ sighed Isabella. ‘Then I would play him at cards for Mannerling.’
Lizzie looked at Isabella, her green eyes shining. ‘You cannot, but Lord Fitzpatrick could . . . if you asked him.’
Isabella shook her head. ‘My lord thinks that the best thing that could happen to the Beverleys is that Mr Judd should set fire to the place and burn it down!’
‘What a monster!’ cried Abigail. ‘But does Mr Judd appear at all
warm
towards you, Isabella?’
‘Ye-es, yes, he does. He is to take me driving next week.’ The
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