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mistress of Mannerling and wondered uneasily if Lady Beverley considered Charles Blackwood as a possible husband for one of her daughters.
    Rachel was wearing a blue muslin gown which matched the colour of her eyes. It was high-waisted and puff-sleeved and had three deep flounces at the hem. But she considered that Belinda with her black curls and pink gown looked prettier and wondered whether Belinda really meant to set her cap at Charles Blackwood and in the same moment persuaded herself she did not care.
    Soon they arrived at the tall iron gates of Mannerling. The lodge-keeper sprang to open them. Hewas a new face to the Beverleys. Lady Beverley insisted on telling the carriage to stop while she lowered the glass and quizzed the lodge-keeper in a high autocratic voice as to whether he was happy in his new employ. Rachel’s heart sank. She privately hoped this would turn out to be the first of many visits, but if Lady Beverley started ordering around the Mannerling servants and criticizing any changes to the house, as she had done in the past, then Rachel feared this might prove to be their first and last visit.
    She felt a tug at her heart as the great house came into view, its graceful wings springing out, as they had always done, from the central block of warm stone.
    Then down from the carriage and into the hall, where the great chandelier glittered above their heads, and up the double staircase behind the stiff back of a correct butler.
    “Remember your place, Miss Trumble,” hissed Lady Beverley, “and sit in a corner of the room.”
    Miss Trumble smiled vaguely but made no reply.
    The general and his son rose at their entrance. Rachel was struck afresh by how handsome Charles looked with his black hair and odd green eyes. His legs were superb. She suddenly blushed as if he could read her naughty thoughts.
    Miss Trumble curtsied and moved to a chair by the window.
    “Miss Trumble,” cried the general. “‘Pon rep, you must not hide yourself. Come and sit by me.” He patted the cushion on the sofa beside him.
    Lady Beverley’s pale eyes shone with an unlovely light but she refrained from saying anything.
    “So what do you think of the place, hey?” the general asked Miss Trumble. “Many changes since your day?”
    Lady Beverley found her voice. “Miss Trumble was never at Mannerling,” she said. “She came to us after The Fall.” By this she somehow implied that Miss Trumble was part of the Beverleys’ loss of fortune and face.
    “The Fall?” asked the general curiously.
    “We were once one of the most powerful families in the land,” said Lady Beverley. “My poor husband incurred debts and so we were driven from Mannerling, from our rightful home.” She took a wisp of handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.
    There followed an awkward silence. Then Belinda said brightly and loudly, “I see the pianoforte there and Lizzie has come along in her studies. Do play us something, Lizzie.”
    Lizzie rose obediently, having been schooled by Miss Trumble that when asked to play, she should do so without forcing anyone to persuade her.
    Soon Lizzie’s fingers were rippling expertly over the keys. When she had finished playing a brisk rondo, the general begged her to play the tune of a popular ballad. Miss Trumble’s end of the sofa where she was seated was next to Charles Blackwood’s armchair. She leaned forward and said gently, “I would like a word with you in private, sir.”
    “Gladly. Come with me.” They both rose and, under the curious eyes of the others, left the room together. He led her into the small drawing-room, used by the Beverley sisters on rainy days when Mannerling had been their home.
    “Now what is this all about?” he asked.
    “I am worried about Mark.”
    “What’s amiss? Is he slow to learn?”
    “Not at all. He has a quick intelligence.”
    “Then what can it be?”
    “He has seen a ghost—a ghost at Mannerling.”
    “I hope I have not been mistaken in you, Miss