Hope (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 6)

by Mary Kingswood

  “And I thought you were so bound by propriety, Henry, dear.”

  He laughed. “I could never afford not to be. It was my ill-luck to inherit an expensive house with a very modest fortune, and neither of my wives brought any money to the marriage. Then there were the children to consider. But now, our children are settled and neither of us is constrained. What do you say? Should we make a new life for ourselves?”

  She was silent, but a smile played about her lips. “Perhaps the time has come for me to leave this stifling life once and for all. But will you give me a little more time? I need to see how matters play out at the Hall before I can think about my own future.”

  “Of course. At least that is not a refusal.”

  “It is not a refusal,” she agreed.

  22: A Final Throw

  The day appointed for the final disposal of Allamont Hall drew near. Or rather, the night drew near, for Ernest had decided that the gambling would continue from dusk until the following dawn. Whoever held the house at that point would keep it. He and his friends had assiduously spread the word in Brinchester and the villages round about, to ensure that as many people as possible knew of the event. Those who wished to participate must arrive at the Hall before dusk with a promissory note from a bank for one thousand pounds, to be exchanged for fish to play with. Ernest himself would always be the banker, in games where such was needed, and would decide which games were to be played.

  Hope dressed with unusual care that day. In the end, she chose one of her finest new gowns, something worthy of the occasion, for this was the day which would change their futures utterly. By the next dawn, there would be a new owner of the Hall, someone who was not an Allamont, or else it would burn to the ground. Whichever it was, everything would be different.

  She had always been a worrying sort, fretting constantly about the various ways in which things might go awry. No longer. Ernest’s erratic behaviour had swept it all away. What was the point of worrying about the future now? Let it happen as it would, and she and Hugo would cope with it.

  Because of course now she had Hugo. By tomorrow she might not have a home, and he might not have employment, but they still had each other. That was a surprise, that she cared so much about Hugo. What had started as just a marriage of convenience had become something far more precious to her, something more than the slightly uneasy accord of cousinship, something more, even, than friendship. He was not always the easiest of men, but she was coming to understand his ways and know how to cool his anger and lift his mood. She wanted to make him happy, and when she was with him, shut away in their own little apartment, she felt safe and cherished.

  It was not love, and a tiny part of her regretted that she would never again see a man look at her with such longing, such ardour, such fire in his eyes. A man who burned for her love, and for whom she was the whole world. What she had with Hugo was a quieter, steadier sort of affection, strong enough to build a life together. So she told herself.

  The carriages began to arrive shortly before noon, disgorging a variety of men with avaricious eyes, looking up at the front elevation of the house as if weighing up the value of it. Was it worth a thousand pound wager? A great many men apparently thought it was.

  But amongst the cold visages of strangers, there were some arrivals that Hope was delighted to see. Mr Ambleside and Mr Burton arrived together, and George Graham came with his father, Sir Matthew, and his uncle, Mr Bertram Graham. Sir Osborne Hardy’s friend, Mr Merton, came too, sent by Sir Osborne to play on his behalf.

  Cousin Henry arrived with Lady Sara on his arm.

  “Only those gambling are permitted inside, Mama,” Hope said.

  “I have my promissory note,” she said with grim determination. “With enough of us, surely one of us will win it from Ernest.”

  Hope took them through to the book room, where Ernest was accepting promissory notes and issuing fish. He was sitting at his father’s huge desk, the surface littered with papers, boxes of fish, decanters, plates and wine glasses.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, leaning back in his chair and smirking at them. “Not too grand for a little faro, Mama?”

  “Is that what it is to be?” she said languidly. “It is all the same to me.”

  “And Cousin Henry. What a delightful family gathering. Ready to play, cousin?”

  “If necessary, but this whole sordid affair could be avoided if you were minded to sell the place. How much would you take for it?”

  Ernest laughed uproariously at this. “You are the fifth… no, the sixth to offer, for I have just been given a letter from Sir Osborne Hardy stating his willingness to purchase, at whatever price I care to name. It astonishes me to find so many people wishful to live here. Or to sell it for profit, I daresay. Here, cousin, twenty fish for your note.”

  “Is that the rate of exchange? One fish is worth fifty pounds?”

  “That should give us some lively play, would you not agree?” And he laughed and laughed again. As they left the room and another gambler went in, that wild laughter followed them all the way across the entrance hall.

  As the stream of arrivals slowed to a trickle and dusk fell, Ernest ordered the doors closed and everyone moved through to the dining room, which contained the only table large enough to accommodate the expected number of players. There was to be no formal dinner, but food and drink was laid out on the sideboards, to be replenished as needed.

  The room was crowded. Apart from Ernest and the ten or so who qualified as family, and Mr Plumphett, there to witness the transfer of ownership of the estate, there were some thirty other men there. Some Hope recognised, familiar faces from the assemblies at Brinchester or from balls and other gatherings around the county. Several of Ernest’s friends were there also. But most were strangers drawn out of the dark holes where they lived, attracted the prospect of high-stake gambling and the opportunity of winning a fine estate. Some were undoubtedly gentlemen, but there were others of whose origins she could be less certain. One or two looked hard-faced, as if they would not hesitate to wield a knife to protect themselves if need be.

  “Why is it so dark in here?” Lady Sara said.

  “Ernest ordered that only every third candle be lit,” Hope said. “That way, when they burn down, the next set may be lit and so on, to save the servants from needing to replenish the candles if the play goes on all night.”

  Ernest took his place in the centre of one side of the table, setting his wine glass down carefully. In front of him he placed his stake, the wooden model of the house that he himself had carved as a boy. It seemed appropriate. “I will allow the family to play first, if they wish,” he said. “It is only right that those with a connection to the Allamont name should have the first chance to secure Allamont Hall for themselves. And it would be courteous, I feel, to allow the ladies to go first. Hope, will you begin?”

  Her stomach somersaulted. First? She had hoped for some time to watch the play before joining in herself. But she could not refuse, and perhaps the whole foolish charade could be laid to rest straight away, if she were to win. All it would take would be a modest run of luck, for Ernest had only his single basket of fish to bet with, and once they were gone, it would have to be the house. She took the seat opposite him, her bowl of fish beside her. He smiled, and laid down a pack of cards beside his own fish. “Piquet?”

  “I… I am not sure. Piquet is complicated and I am unused to playing for high stakes,” she said. “May we just throw dice? Something simple?”

  He laughed at her. “Of course, sister dear. Here…” He fished two dice from his pocket. “Let me see… is this simple enough? We each stake one fish, and take turns to guess what the score will be with both dice.”

  “Both dice? Very well.”

  She put one fish into the centre of the table. “Seven.” Then she threw the dice. A five and a six came up.

  “Bad luck.” He scooped up the fallen fish. “My turn. Nine.” This time it was two fives.

&nbs
p; “Do I win?” she said.

  “No, the fish stay on the table. Your turn.”

  Hope discovered that twenty fish lasted a surprising length of time. At first, her basket emptied quite quickly, and for every turn she won there were three or four that she lost, until she realised that the dice turned up fives and sixes more than other numbers. Then she did rather better. Even so, slowly but inexorably, her basket emptied until she came to the point of staking her last fish.

  “Eleven.”

  But it was a one and a two. She stared in disbelief at the dice. How could that be? There had hardly been any ones or twos the whole time they had been playing, and now they came up together, and just at the point when she needed the exact opposite.

  “Bad luck,” Ernest said, with his usual smirk. “The dice are against you tonight, sister.”

  She was too upset to answer him, and only a tap on the shoulder recalled her to her surroundings.

  “Hope?” Hugo said. “The game is over. Come and have a glass of wine. Or brandy perhaps.”

  His reassuring voice lifted her spirits. She had tried her best, but it was all in the fall of the dice and she had been unlucky, that was all there was to it. So she went with him docilely, and sipped the brandy he offered her and tried not to mind.

  Lady Sara was the next to play, taking her place serenely opposite her son to play piquet. She lasted less time than Hope, or so it seemed.

  Then Sir Matthew Graham said, “How about a game of whist, Allamont? We have three players here, if you are willing to join us.”

  “By all means.”

  Hope’s spirits lifted, for Sir Matthew and Mr Bertram Graham were both excellent whist players, and they had contrived to partner Ernest with George Graham, and for a while it seemed as though the strategy was working, for the Graham brothers steadily won fish. But after a while, Ernest called for a break in proceedings, and then decided that he wanted a new pack of cards, and after that the tide turned and the Grahams began to lose ground.

  “He is cheating, you know,” Lady Sara whispered in Hope’s ear.

  “I wondered… but what can we do about it?”

  “Nothing, I fear. Any challenge would lead to a duel and I make no doubt that Ernest is an excellent shot.”

  “Then all is lost and he will burn the Hall after all!”

  “And he will be forty thousand pounds the richer, too. A very clever game indeed.”

  After the Grahams had withdrawn, defeated, and the other Allamont family members declined to take Ernest on alone, he threw the table open to all, with a game of faro. The table became a riot of waved hands, thrown fish, dealt cards and whoops of delight or groans of despair. Hope had never seen this kind of gambling going on before, so it was rather a shock. At first, the family held back, but one by one the lure of the table drew them in. Only the Grahams, Lady Sara and Hope were left on the side-lines, watching as the heaps of fish piled up. In the shadows, the servants came and went in silence.

  Gradually players began to exhaust their supplies of fish.

  “I can take your vowels,” Ernest said, as one man rose to leave the table. “You there! Paper and ink!”

  The servant scurried off to comply, and from then onwards, those who wished could play on, by writing an IOU.

  Mr Ambleside soon withdrew, and Cousin Henry was not far behind. Mr Burton and Mr Merton lasted quite a while longer, but they too ran out of fish and were disinclined to write an IOU.

  Hugo, however, managed to hang on for longer than any of them. Hope watched him, noting his high colour and glittering eyes, and his intense concentration. When he won, he could barely sit still for excitement, and when he lost he was cast into despondency.

  And finally the moment came when he lost his last fish.

  “I would be happy to take your vowels, cousin,” Ernest said. “I know you are good for it.”

  “I do not think—”

  “What, not afraid to play a little high, surely? I had thought your stomach stronger than that.”

  “I am not afraid, no.”

  “Well, then. Another thousand will not hurt, and look how many have dropped out already. Your luck is bound to turn at any moment, I have seen it happen over and over again. Just one more thousand.”

  Hugo hesitated. “Oh, very well.” He laughed, suddenly, a high brittle laugh that made Hope’s blood run cold. “I have had such a run of bad luck these last few plays. It must turn at any moment. Pass me paper and ink.”

  Hope was trembling so much it was a wonder she could stand straight. The night seemed endless as she watched Hugo consumed by a great fever, so deep in the game that nothing could withdraw him from it. She made no attempt to, for no lady could interfere in a gentleman’s gaming. It was a matter of honour with them, and he would be mortified to have his wife remonstrate with him on such a subject.

  She was forced to look on helplessly as he lost and lost and lost again, yet never saw what was happening. After the first IOU there had been another, and another, and yet another, and although she could scarcely bear to watch, she could not turn away, either.

  “Will you sit?” said a kindly voice at her elbow. “There is a chair over there.”

  But she could not sit. If she sat down, she could not see Hugo, could not watch his face when he realised he had lost not merely a thousand pounds but her entire dowry.

  “Thank you, Mr Burford, but I will stand.”

  “Then allow me to offer you my arm,” he said, and gratefully she let him support her.

  There were only a handful of players left at the table now, and apart from Hugo, she knew none of them. Ernest had great heaps of fish and IOUs in front of him, but one or two of the others had done well, too. Only Hugo was losing steadily and remorselessly.

  He had exhausted his supply of fish again, and without asking Ernest had pushed the paper and ink in front of him. With shaking fingers, Hugo picked up the pen and dipped it in the ink. But then, some disruption further down the table — some wine was spilt, she thought — caused Hugo to look up. And in looking up, he saw Hope watching him.

  His expression shifted, at first half-frowning, almost as if he did not recognise her, but then something else entirely. Perhaps a realisation came to him of what he had done, for, with infinite slowness, he laid down the pen.

  “What is it, cousin? Not backing out now, surely?” Ernest said. “You have been doing splendidly so far. I never set you down for a coward.”

  Hugo rose to his feet, his eyes fixed on Hope. “Not a coward, just a fool.”

  “You are one of the last, Hugo,” Ernest said. “You have a very good chance of taking the house.”

  “I do not want it,” Hugo said with sudden force. “What is a house but stones and wood and glass? It is not a home. It has no beating heart, no soul. It offers no joy, no love. You can keep your house, cousin, for I have something infinitely more precious.” As he gazed at Hope, his eyes lit up with passion. “I have a wife who cares for me, who keeps me warm at night and makes my heart sing during the day, a wife who is the gentlest, sweetest creature who ever lived. I do not need a house when I have a woman like that by my side, a woman I love with every fibre of my being. Good night, Ernest.”

  He walked towards Hope with a smile of the utmost joy on his face, and his eyes aflame with adoration. Tears blurred her view of him as she melted into his arms, and then he was holding her tight, rocking her gently, while she sobbed in bliss against his chest.

  Somehow, she had no idea how, they escaped the room. The entrance hall was so brightly lit she was dazzled momentarily. Several players withdrawn from the game stood about deep in conversation, and servants passed here and there, but Hugo led her with certainty into a darkened room and half closed the door.

  “Do not cry, little wife,” he said softly.

  Her pent-up emotions overwhelmed her, and she pressed him against the nearest wall, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with such passion that her lips burned against his. He utte
red a little groan, his fervour the equal of hers, his lips hot, his arms tight around her back, his body firm against hers. Her heart was so full of joy, she felt she would drown. It was a long, long time before they parted, she with a giggle, and he with a gentle finger running down her face.

  “Well, little wife, this ardour is quite delightful.”

  And there it was again, that fire in his eyes that she had so longed for, but had never, ever expected to see in Hugo.

  “Did you mean all that?” she said shyly.

  “What I said? Every word. I love you so much, little wife, and never realised it until that moment. As long as I have you near me, the world will be a wonderful place. But… how foolish I was to let him draw me in. He wanted me to lose everything, you know, every last penny. How much did I lose, do you know?”

  “I lost count. Maybe ten thousand.”

  He winced.

  “We still have enough. You stopped in time,” she said.

  “But I have thrown away half your dowry tonight. Why are you not angry with me? You should be angry.”

  “Because we are still together. Because you look at me with fire in your eyes and I cannot resist you. Because I love everything about you.”

  He went very still. “Do you? I am not a very lovable person, Hope. I am weak and foolish and I get drawn in against all reason because I care too deeply. I cared too much about this house for far too long.”

  “You are a good person, Hugo. You have always been good to me.”

  “Who could not be, dearest, sweetest Hope? My adored little wife. Will you kiss me again?”

  She was very happy to oblige.

  23: Snow And Rain

  It was some time later — and Hugo had not the least idea how much — when Hope said, “The sky is lightening. It is nearly dawn.”

  “Shall we go and see Ernest? We shall need to find out how much time we have before he reduces the place to ash. There are the servants to be thought about, and a few good paintings to save, even if he decides to turn the furniture into kindling.”

  Hand in hand they walked out of the winter parlour where they had been hiding and across the entrance hall, their footsteps echoing hollowly on the tiled floor. A housemaid scurrying into the book room with a bucket of coal was the only sign of life.