Hope (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 6)

by Mary Kingswood

  “Well, good riddance if she does go,” he said, unfastening her pelisse. “Goodness, but there are a lot of buttons on this. But frankly I suspect she will change her mind about that. Where will she go? And so close to Christmas, too. She will not want to be travelling at this time of year.”

  “Oh, you are quite right. I had not thought of that. Although I do not think she is very settled here.”

  He gave a bark of laughter. “You mean she is not quite the demure wife that a respectable English gentleman should have? But then Ernest is not quite the respectable English gentleman one might have hoped for. You will not believe what he has done today.”

  He told her the whole story, and her hands flew to her mouth in shock. “Oh, poor Mr Garmin! And Mrs and Miss Garmin, too. Such a dreadful thing to do, to turn them off in such a high-handed manner, and with no notice, either.”

  “He does have the right,” Hugo said slowly. “The land is his, after all. Perhaps he will install one of his friends as farmer there, as he set one of them up as butler.”

  “A fine butler he makes, too,” Hope said disgustedly. “He poured wine three times and served the soup twice, and since then he has done nothing at all. Everything is left to William. But if the Garmins are to leave, someone will have to manage the farm — the animals, and so on.”

  “He has workers who can keep things going for a while, but—”

  A burst of angry voices distracted them. They crept to the door and opened it a fraction. The gun room lay in the corridor to the kitchen wing, but it was near enough to the main house that they could identify the voices of Ernest and Clarissa, one loud and rough, the other shrieking like a demented woman. And then there was the crash of something breaking, followed by another, and yet another.

  “The figurines on the console at the top of the stairs,” Hope whispered. “Oh dear!”

  Hugo pulled her back into the room. “We should keep out of their way for a while, or we might get porcelain thrown at us, too.”

  ~~~~~

  Later, when the house had fallen into its usual afternoon quiet, Hope felt it was safe to creep out to the drawing room. As she was passing the door to the north gallery, she heard a gentle sniffling sound, like someone weeping. One of the housemaids, she guessed, for it would not be the first time Ernest had shouted at one or other of them and reduced her to tears. She could not ignore it, so she peeped round the half-open door into the dusk-shadowed gloom.

  At first, she could see no one, but then another sniff revealed Clarissa sitting hunched up on the floor in one corner, little Edward asleep in her arms.

  “Oh, Clarissa! I did not see you at first, behind that urn,” Hope said. Then, seeing the tears coursing down Clarissa’s cheeks, she added softly, “Oh dear! Whatever is the matter? May I fetch you something? Some brandy perhaps?”

  Silently, Clarissa shook her head.

  “But there must be something I can do for you. May I fetch Ernest—”

  “No!” Her head shot up. “Not him! Anyone but him.”

  “Your maid, then. Jacob?” she added tentatively.

  Clarissa smiled. “Thank you, Hope, but no one can help me. It is all over. I so wanted to be an English lady, but it is impossible.”

  Hope dragged a stool nearer so that she might sit down. “Do not despair. You can still come about, if you begin anew. You have made a few mistakes, but—”

  “Ha! A few! I have done everything wrong, and it is all his fault.”

  “Ernest’s?” Hope said in surprise.

  “Oh, yes. It is all his doing. ‘How shall I go on in England?’ I asked him, for I had heard how particular English society is, but I had no notion of the proper way to behave, since I had no one to teach me. My father was a good man, Hope, and had me well taught, as far as he was able, and raised me as a lady — so much so that everyone called me ‘Lady Clarissa’ — but he could not impart the rules of English society to me for he had never lived here. So I asked Ernest to help me. ‘You need only be yourself and everyone will love you,’ he said. ‘But you must on no account be reserved or demure, for then everyone will despise you. Be forthright and bold, and you will be a great leader of society, and the ton will follow your every whim.’ But he lied to me, Hope. He thought it the greatest joke in the world to set me loose with such advice and watch me be rejected by everyone. He it was who told me to dance the waltz with Jacob. ‘Brinshire is too timid to try it. They await only one bold advocate to begin the fashion, and the whole county will follow. They will be delighted by your courageous leadership.’ He allowed me to make a fool of myself, and afterwards I was so angry with him, all I wanted was to pay him back. But that only made it worse, and now everyone despises me even more.”

  Another tear rolled down her cheek.

  Hope had no idea what she might say to comfort her sister-in-law, but she had to try. “Clarissa, if you will put yourself in my hands, I can advise you better than Ernest. We can recruit my sisters to the cause, too. If you will allow me to tell them all that you have confided to me, they will want to help you. It will not be easy, but I believe, in time, we can persuade Brinshire to accept you.”

  “You are kind to say such things, but I doubt my reputation can be salvaged now,” Clarissa said with a wan smile. “Nor do I want that, not really. English society is so… so confining, Hope, that I wonder you can bear it. So many things that one must never do, or must do in the only acceptable way, with no variation. No one here is permitted to be true to themselves, or to break out of the little box in which society has placed them, and that is as much so for the scullery maid as the duchess. Well, it does not suit me, and nor does this miserable weather, so I am going home to Jamaica where I can be free again. I am just waiting for the carriage to be brought round.”

  “I am so sorry,” Hope whispered. “I very much wanted us to be sisters — to be friends.”

  “Did you indeed?” Clarissa said, with a hint of acid in her voice. “I doubt that. You always despised me, I believe. Not good enough for Allamont Hall.”

  “No, I—”

  “Do not deny it, little sister-in-law, or otherwise I should be forced to admit to your good qualities and mourn the loss of your company. Better if I leave here without any regrets. Here, give me a hand up, will you?” Hope pulled her to her feet, and Edward stirred in his mother’s arms. She smiled down at his sleeping face. “Ah, at least there is one good thing in my life. Farewell, Hope. We shall not meet again. Tell Ernest that he is a devious, conniving devil, and I hate him.”

  So saying she swept out of the room.

  20: A Clever Scheme

  Hope retreated to her bedroom to weep a little, and pace about, and weep some more. She was almost too distressed to leave her room that evening. Her charming vision of Allamont Hall becoming a happy family home was dashed to pieces, and now there was only Ernest and his peculiar friends, with their endless gambling and drinking and quarrelling. And they shouted at the servants so! There was no bearing it.

  When her maid came to dress her, she said mournfully, “I shall not go down tonight, Flora. Pray tell my husband so.”

  But Hugo himself came to see her. “What is it? Are you ill?” he said abruptly.

  “No, no, nothing like that. I just… do not want to spend any more time in Ernest’s company. I wish he would go away, Hugo! If only he would leave us in peace again, for everything is spoiled now and I hate it!”

  “Really, Hope, are you a child or a grown woman? We cannot always have things just the way we like them. I am disappointed in you.”

  Then she collapsed into a chair and wept in good earnest, for it was a dreadful thing to have one’s husband of only a few weeks disappointed in one. But Hugo knelt at her feet and chafed her hands and told her not to cry.

  “I am sorry I spoke so to you,” he said. “I hate it when you cry. It makes me feel like such a worm.”

  “We must not quarrel, Hugo,” she said through her tears. “It is worse than anything when we quarre
l.”

  “I know,” he said. “You need not come down for dinner if you dislike it so much, but I should be very glad if you could make the effort. Ernest is so provoking, and your presence is a calming influence.”

  So she dressed in her finery, and let her maid powder her tear-stained cheeks and arrange her hair in one of the fetching styles that she liked so much, and descended the stairs on Hugo’s arm with some measure of composure.

  Ernest was in a strange mood when they gathered before dinner. He said nothing about Clarissa’s hasty departure, greeting Hope affably enough, calling her his dear sister, and giving her the best chair beside the fire. It was the one Clarissa had habitually used, and was therefore too close to the fire to be comfortable, but Hope was too subdued to make any protest. Then Ernest insisted on giving her a glass of brandy, which was not a favoured drink of hers, but she sipped it dutifully to please him. Hugo received no such distinguishing attention, and Hope saw him slip into the shadows on the far side of the room, avoiding notice.

  When William announced dinner, Ernest offered Hope his arm. She could not refuse, as she was the only lady present, but she was by no means pleased to be led to Clarissa’s chair at the foot of the table, as if she were the mistress of the house. Luckily, Ernest’s friends clustered around him, so that the chair nearest to Hope was left free for Hugo. She did not much care for Ernest’s friends, who were careless with their language, even with ladies in the room.

  The meal passed off reasonably well, and with Clarissa gone, no dishes were sent back to the kitchen. Ernest and his friends drank too much and became rowdy, but Hope was used to that by now, and she had Hugo for rational conversation. It was only when she rose to leave the gentlemen that Ernest took notice of her again.

  “Going away, little lady?”

  “The meal is finished, brother. I shall leave you all to your port and your male discussions.”

  “Our male discussions, eh? What might they be?”

  Hope’s immediate thought was to say, ‘How should I know, since I am not male?’ but she quelled the impulse. There was an odd glitter in Ernest’s eye that made her quake. So she answered in mild tones, “Politics and so forth, I imagine.”

  Ernest and his friends roared with laughter. “Politics? You can keep your damned politics. We talk about women, little lady. Women we’ve bedded, women we might like to bed, if we can persuade them, eh, fellows? Or if we find them all alone and unprotected.”

  Hope coloured and made for the door. She dared not look at Hugo’s face, but perhaps she could escape before Ernest said anything too despicable for Hugo to ignore.

  “Stay here, woman!” Ernest yelled. “I did not give you permission to go! Sit down.” Meekly, Hope returned to her chair, demurely lowering her eyes. “There, that is better,” Ernest went on. “You are the mistress of the house now, you know, with my dear wife gone. Yes, you like that, don’t you? You like being in charge. I daresay you’d like me gone, too, eh? Well, maybe I will go. What do you say to that, little lady?”

  Hope licked her lips. He was clearly right on the edge of control, and any small thing could ignite an explosion. What could she say that would not antagonise him further?

  “It makes me sad that Clarissa was not happy here,” she said carefully. “I had hoped the two of you would make this house the wonderful family home it ought to be. But if you cannot find contentment here, perhaps it would be better for you to go back to the life you loved in the West Indies.”

  “You’re right,” Ernest said. “I shall leave this God-forsaken house and go home, where at least the sun shines occasionally and the air is warm and the fruit is full of the sweetest juice, and the women are warm and sweet too. But what shall I do with this house, eh?”

  She said nothing, but she felt Hugo stiffen beside her. She could only trust him to say nothing that would inflame Ernest even more.

  “Well?” Ernest said. “Cat got your tongue, little lady? What shall I do with this place?”

  “I… I cannot advise you. It is your house, you must do as you think best.”

  Ernest jumped to his feet, face suddenly red with anger. He rested his fists on the table, as a wineglass slowly toppled.

  “Yes!” he yelled. “My house. Mine! Every evil stone of it is mine now, every rug and table and pane of glass is mine, yet still filled with my father’s wickedness. It cannot be made clean. Nothing can scour away the foulness that lives here. So as soon as I have made my travel arrangements, I shall burn it to the ground.”

  ~~~~~

  Hope had never seen Hugo so still and silent. He was not even angry, for the wound went too deep for that. He had sat motionless all evening, responding when anyone spoke, but in such a thread of a voice that her heart wept for him, sunk in despair as he was.

  Across the drawing room, Ernest and his cronies were engaged in one of their endless card games, all the while discussing the best way to burn a stone-built house to the ground. It would not be easy, so she gathered, and there was much talk of filling the ground floor rooms with wood, perhaps by chopping all the furniture into pieces, or else piling linens into a bonfire heap. But however difficult, they were determined to do it, and in such a way as to make the conflagration as spectacular as possible.

  While she fretted over Hugo and half-attended to Ernest’s conversation, Hope’s mind mulled over possibilities. Would Ernest really do it, that was the first question, and she could not in all conscience give a negative answer. He was certainly wild enough for anything, and after such a public declaration and with his friends urging him on, he was not likely to go back on his given word.

  What could change his mind? This was more problematic, because she did not know Ernest very well, and she had no idea what might tempt him to abandon his plan. She wished she were clever, like Belle or Grace, and could think up some ingenious scheme.

  When she and Hugo retired to their rooms that night, she said, “What shall we do? Can you think of anything? I have been racking my brains all evening to think of something but nothing comes to mind. What is your opinion? What can we do?”

  He looked at her vaguely, almost as if he hardly recognised her. “Do? There is nothing to be done, nothing at all. Everything is finished, do you understand? It is all over. We have lost the house, I have no employment and even your dowry is to be snatched away from us, to line the pockets of greedy lawyers. What is left for us now except misery and a life of dependence on kindly relations?”

  “Hugo…”

  “We should never have married, and that is all there is to be said about it. You would have been better off without me, that much is certain.”

  And nothing she said could convince him otherwise.

  But Hope was not so cast down. So long as the house still stood, there was a chance of rescuing it from disaster. Even so, she woke from a long restless night no nearer to a solution. Hugo disappeared with the dogs at first light, but Hope rose and dressed slowly, pondering the possibilities. Only one option was unacceptable to her, that of doing nothing at all. She had come up with no clever scheme, so she resolved to approach the case in the most straightforward manner possible — by talking directly with Ernest. She would not argue or plead or become angry or cry. She would talk to him, sister to brother, and see if there was a way to resolve the situation to the satisfaction of all parties.

  First she had to find him, and this was more difficult than she had supposed. Generally he rose late, so all that was needed was to set one of the servants to watch his bedchamber and send word whenever he drifted from his bed. But today, for some unfathomable reason, he had risen early and vanished. Hope began a systematic scouring of the house, first the ground floor, and when that proved fruitless, the upper level.

  She ran him to earth in the schoolroom, sitting at the table, head down, and he looked so glum that, despite all, she could not help saying, “Oh, what is the matter? May I get you anything?” But even as she spoke, she noticed the decanter of wine and a half-full gla
ss within his reach.

  “What is the matter?” he said without lifting his head. “Well, let me consider the question. Firstly, there is the trifling matter that my wife has left me. Then there is the minor detail that everyone in Brinshire despises me. And then, there is this place. Look around you, sister. Can you be in this room without feeling as if a thousand snakes were crawling over your skin?”

  “I never minded this room,” she said. “At least he hardly ever came here. Most of the time it was just us, and Miss Bellows. I learned to draw in this room, and to understand numbers, and to dance. We were happy enough — were we not?”

  He raised his head to look directly into her eyes. “Never!”

  “But I recall you laughing and teasing us,” she said, before she remembered that she had intended not to argue with him. “You enjoyed some of the lessons. You liked making things, do you remember? The wooden tree you carved—”

  “That Grace broke,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “Well, Grace broke a great many things over the years,” Hope said, with a laugh. “The one I liked was the model of the house. You had the proportions to perfection.”

  His lips twitched in the hint of a smile. “I daresay Grace broke that, too.”

  “No, I am sure it is still here, somewhere.” She ran off to the far end of the room, opening cupboard after cupboard. “Ah, here it is! See how fine a piece it is. Do you still carve?”

  “Not for years.” He picked up the model and turned it this way and that. “It is a good piece, my best, I think. When I was working on a carving, I could forget everything else — the world was gone, and all that existed besides myself was this block of wood and the shape that was inside it, waiting to be released.”

  “Is that how you saw it — a shape inside?”