down the bridle-path and out into the open country. Isabella felt a sudden rush of freedom and joy, as if she were flying away from all her cares – from Mr Judd, from the almost constant shadow of the Beverleys’s ruin.
The great horse surged under her as if infected by her gladness. With a feeling of triumph, she came abreast of the viscount and they hurtled out of the trees and across the fields, finally coming to a stop where the fields met the Hedgefield road.
‘Bravo!’ he cried. ‘You ride well.’
Isabella glowed with pleasure, her eyes meeting his in open friendship. ‘Let us ride on to the Green Man,’ he said, ‘and have something to drink.’
They cantered into Hedgefield and into the courtyard of the inn.
He lifted her down from the saddle and she lowered her eyelashes and turned slightly pink as she felt the pressure of his hands at her waist.
He looked at her quizzically as he led her into the inn, at her averted face.
But when they were seated and sharing a jug of lemonade, she appeared to recover her composure. She was beginning to chat happily about the fine points of Satan when the vicar and his daughter walked into the tap.
‘Oh, Miss Beverley,’ cooed Mary, stopping by their table and dropping a curtsy. ‘Have you seen Mr Judd?’
‘No,’ said Isabella. The landlord came into the tap at that moment and the vicar called to him, ‘Have you seen Mr Judd of Mannerling?’
‘Not since yesterday,’ said the landlord. ‘He was playing cards here all afternoon.’
‘You cannot mean Mr Judd,’ exclaimed Isabella. ‘He was struck by lightning, was he not?’
The landlord scratched his head. ‘Reckon I would ha’ heard of that, had it happened.’
‘What gave you such a
quaint
notion!’ declared Mary.
Stiff-necked pride stopped Isabella from saying that it was none other than Mr Judd himself who had told her so. The viscount, to her relief, remained silent. Mary’s black eyes darted from one to the other. Then she said, ‘We have received our invitations to the ball at Mannerling.’
Isabella felt another shock go through her. No invitations had arrived at Brookfield House. ‘Of course,’ Mary went on, ‘it will not be so
grand
as it was in Sir William’s day.’
‘Do not let us keep you,’ said the viscount in a flat voice.
‘Oh . . . yes, we will be on our way,’ said Mr Stoppard hurriedly. ‘I shall be calling on you soon, Lord Fitzpatrick.’
‘Pray do not. Mrs Kennedy, my aunt, is not in the best of health and we do not wish visitors.’
‘In that case, we will eagerly await her recovery,’ said the vicar, a red spot on each cheek. He recognized a snub, and so he should, thought Isabella bitterly. He had already had a long life of toadying and must have become used to it.
‘Dreadful people,’ murmured the viscount, and despite her distaste for them, Isabella was surprised at the extent of her own dislike. The toadying Stoppards had been so much part of the Mannerling life that until the Fall, as she called their ruin to herself, she had taken such grovelling adulation as her due. Again a picture of Mr Judd rose up in her mind. To go to such lengths for such a man! And then she was suddenly impatient with the viscount’s company, for it was surely his company which was making her lose sight of her objective.
The viscount watched amused as different emotions followed each other on Isabella’s face like cloud shadows crossing a field.
He suddenly thought with a tug at his heart that if she would forget about Mannerling completely, if he could be sure of that, then he would ask her to marry him. Certainly the Beverleys in their pride had warned him off, but their circumstances were different now and they could not afford to be so choosey.
John, the footman from Mannerling, stood over in a corner with a tankard of shrub and covertly watched the couple. He was anxious to ingratiate himself with his master, Mr Judd, who was threatening to turn him into a
The great horse surged under her as if infected by her gladness. With a feeling of triumph, she came abreast of the viscount and they hurtled out of the trees and across the fields, finally coming to a stop where the fields met the Hedgefield road.
‘Bravo!’ he cried. ‘You ride well.’
Isabella glowed with pleasure, her eyes meeting his in open friendship. ‘Let us ride on to the Green Man,’ he said, ‘and have something to drink.’
They cantered into Hedgefield and into the courtyard of the inn.
He lifted her down from the saddle and she lowered her eyelashes and turned slightly pink as she felt the pressure of his hands at her waist.
He looked at her quizzically as he led her into the inn, at her averted face.
But when they were seated and sharing a jug of lemonade, she appeared to recover her composure. She was beginning to chat happily about the fine points of Satan when the vicar and his daughter walked into the tap.
‘Oh, Miss Beverley,’ cooed Mary, stopping by their table and dropping a curtsy. ‘Have you seen Mr Judd?’
‘No,’ said Isabella. The landlord came into the tap at that moment and the vicar called to him, ‘Have you seen Mr Judd of Mannerling?’
‘Not since yesterday,’ said the landlord. ‘He was playing cards here all afternoon.’
‘You cannot mean Mr Judd,’ exclaimed Isabella. ‘He was struck by lightning, was he not?’
The landlord scratched his head. ‘Reckon I would ha’ heard of that, had it happened.’
‘What gave you such a
quaint
notion!’ declared Mary.
Stiff-necked pride stopped Isabella from saying that it was none other than Mr Judd himself who had told her so. The viscount, to her relief, remained silent. Mary’s black eyes darted from one to the other. Then she said, ‘We have received our invitations to the ball at Mannerling.’
Isabella felt another shock go through her. No invitations had arrived at Brookfield House. ‘Of course,’ Mary went on, ‘it will not be so
grand
as it was in Sir William’s day.’
‘Do not let us keep you,’ said the viscount in a flat voice.
‘Oh . . . yes, we will be on our way,’ said Mr Stoppard hurriedly. ‘I shall be calling on you soon, Lord Fitzpatrick.’
‘Pray do not. Mrs Kennedy, my aunt, is not in the best of health and we do not wish visitors.’
‘In that case, we will eagerly await her recovery,’ said the vicar, a red spot on each cheek. He recognized a snub, and so he should, thought Isabella bitterly. He had already had a long life of toadying and must have become used to it.
‘Dreadful people,’ murmured the viscount, and despite her distaste for them, Isabella was surprised at the extent of her own dislike. The toadying Stoppards had been so much part of the Mannerling life that until the Fall, as she called their ruin to herself, she had taken such grovelling adulation as her due. Again a picture of Mr Judd rose up in her mind. To go to such lengths for such a man! And then she was suddenly impatient with the viscount’s company, for it was surely his company which was making her lose sight of her objective.
The viscount watched amused as different emotions followed each other on Isabella’s face like cloud shadows crossing a field.
He suddenly thought with a tug at his heart that if she would forget about Mannerling completely, if he could be sure of that, then he would ask her to marry him. Certainly the Beverleys in their pride had warned him off, but their circumstances were different now and they could not afford to be so choosey.
John, the footman from Mannerling, stood over in a corner with a tankard of shrub and covertly watched the couple. He was anxious to ingratiate himself with his master, Mr Judd, who was threatening to turn him into a
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