Connie (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 3)

by Mary Kingswood

  Oh, indeed,” Belle said, laughing. “And his appearance and fortune and title have nothing to do with it, I suppose.”

  Connie lowered her head shyly. “He is very attractive, it is true, and I confess, I like him very much. It would be the easiest thing in the world to fall in love with such a man, so I must be very careful not to be drawn in. If he should happen to fall violently in love with me, that would be a different matter. In such a case, I would certainly consider the match.”

  “Who would not?” Dulcie said. “And then, you know, you would be a marchioness and able to introduce the rest of us into superior society. He has a house in London, Lady Harriet said, and they always go there for the season. I should like of all things to go to London. You must try to make him love you, Connie, for our sakes as much as your own.”

  “I shall try, then, but how shall it be managed? I cannot always be talking about dragons,” Connie said. “Belle, may I ask an impertinent question? How was it that Burford came to fall in love with you, when we all thought him so attached to Hope?”

  Belle blushed, and stared into her chocolate for a moment. “I believe he truly was attached to Hope, but he found I was better suited, I think. He talked to me a great deal about books, which is not a subject that interests Hope.”

  “He never was able to talk to Hope at all,” Dulcie said. “All that dreadful stammering — he could hardly get out a single word. I could barely keep myself from laughing. Oh, I am sorry, Belle. I am sure he is very worthy—”

  “You need not be afraid of offending me, sister. He is shy, that is all, especially with young, pretty women. So fluent in the pulpit, and so inarticulate on social occasions. Foolish man,” she added in fond tones. “But if you wish to know what tipped the balance, it was poetry, and in particular, love poetry. We were reading aloud and—” At this point her blushes overcame her.

  The others laughed. “Never mind, we will not tease you for all the details,” Connie said. “But which poet? Where can I find this magical poetry?”

  “I will find the book for you,” Belle said, laughing. “Then you may try if it works just as well on Lord Carrbridge.”

  ~~~~~

  The Marquess and his sister were the only ones at breakfast. Their great-aunt, the Dowager Countess of Humbleforth, was a very elderly lady, who never emerged from her bedchamber until well after noon, so there was the faintest hint of reproach in the two footmen at the requirement to open the dining room so early in the day. Their faces betrayed no resentment, but their steps were slower than usual, with a degree of lethargy only an inch away from insolence.

  Brother and sister ate in silence for some time, before pushing their plates away with matching sighs of contentment.

  “I must say, the old bird keeps a good kitchen,” the Marquess said, as soon as the footmen had withdrawn. “That was an excellent repast. I must drop a crown for the cook before I leave.”

  “There are two, at least,” Harriet said. “And three footmen. She had a pair of black pages for a while, but she found them less appealing when they grew up. She must have more than twenty servants, including the grooms, and what she needs them all for I cannot imagine. The house is not large.”

  “I thought she had her own chaplain, too. What happened to him?”

  “He went off to be a bishop years ago, Dev. Or a deacon, I am not quite sure. Really, considering you are to inherit all this, you might take some interest in Great-aunt Augusta’s affairs.”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “I know, I know. I have neglected the old lady shamefully. But I have written to her every week without fail, since I first went to school. And she writes back, although I have no recollection of any mention of the chaplain. She tells me all the scandal and gossip. She never stirs from this house, but she knows everything that goes on in the county. She must have a troop of spies who keep her informed.”

  “One spy, I believe,” Harriet said, smiling. “Miss Endercott, the clergyman’s sister. She is acquainted with everyone, and I suspect she is not above listening to the servants’ tattling. Now, they know all our secrets.”

  “Oh, I hope not. But tell me about Miss Drummond. Ah, I can see that you do not like her.”

  “She is a fortune hunter, Dev. She has not a farthing to her name.”

  “Oh, I know, but a pretty young thing with a lively disposition — she might be an amusing diversion while I am here.”

  Harriet made a disapproving sound. “Really, Dev! Is it not time you gave up these diversions and settled down with a wife? Twenty six is a fine age to be setting up your nursery.”

  He laughed. “You need not worry, sister, I have no designs on Miss Drummond’s virtue. As for the settling down, I am in no hurry. Marriage is a serious business, and I need to be sure I am choosing the right person.”

  “True enough. She will need to bring both breeding and a good fortune to the match, and then managing Drummoor is a great responsibility.”

  With a bark of laughter, he said, “No, the right person for me. I have servants and agents to manage Drummoor. I want to be swept off my feet, Hatty, lifted on clouds of adoration for my wife. Although, sadly, the fortune is an absolute prerequisite, too, unless one of my elderly relations sees fit to visit St Peter soon.”

  “As for fortune, you could do worse than Constance Allamont. She will have twenty thousand in her own disposal.”

  “She is very charming, to be sure, but why Constance especially? The youngest is very pretty. At least, I think she was the youngest. They are dreadfully alike, the Miss Allamonts. It was most inconsiderate of their papa to give every one of them the exact same shade of hair colour. Tell me why you would have me marry Constance?”

  “They have to marry in order, under the terms of their father’s will, or the dowry is lost. The two eldest are accounted for, so Constance is next.”

  “Of course, I remember Great-aunt Augusta mentioning something of it. So Constance must be next, eh? Interesting. Perhaps I will call at Allamont Hall today, to see if the ladies suffered no ill effects from all that delightful dancing. And the way takes me past the schoolhouse, I believe?” He flashed her a mischievous grin.

  Harriet shook her head at him. “Oh, be careful, Dev. Be very careful how you proceed with that one. Remember the last time. The Drummonds are not nobody, and she has a brother.”

  “I will be careful,” he said, and winked.

  ~~~~~

  The Marquess showed no inclination to quit the neighbourhood, and meekly accompanied his sister on her rounds of morning visits. His person and his amiability were equally admired by all who met him, and within a week his previous neglect had been quite forgotten and he was widely acknowledged as the finest young man for twenty miles around.

  He was an early visitor to Allamont Hall, and although he did not single Connie out for particular attention, she was gratified that he remembered enough of their conversation at the ball to make more than one allusion to dragons, with a knowing glance in her direction.

  He was very interested in Willowbye and the work, recently begun, to repair and renovate it. “I should very much like to see what restoration you have in hand,” he said to Burford. “We have a similar problem of dilapidation at Drummoor and although I cannot commit to extensive improvements just yet, I should be interested to see your plans.”

  “By all means, come and look around,” Burford said. “I am living in the house now, so I am there most mornings.”

  “We should get up a party,” the Marquess said. “Let us all go and inspect the work at Willowbye. Can you cope with so many, Burford?”

  “Certainly, my lord, so long as you do not expect a two course dinner. If Lady Sara will allow us to use both her carriages, we shall do very well.”

  Lady Sara graciously assented, and Lady Harriet offered her own travelling coach, if more room were needed.

  “I have my curricle, too,” the Marquess said. “We may take half the village, it seems.”

  “Perhaps h
alf the village might stretch the kitchens at Willowbye,” Burford said. “However, I should like to invite Miss Endercott. She would enjoy such an outing, I am sure.”

  “Oh, certainly,” the Marquess said. “What do you say to Mr and Miss Drummond, as well?”

  “Mr Drummond is the schoolmaster,” Dulcie said. “He cannot gad about the country like a gentleman. And Miss Drummond keeps his house and cooks the dinner.”

  “Well, perhaps Mr Drummond had best watch over his pupils,” the Marquess said. “Miss Drummond, however, is surely entitled to a day of pleasure now and then, and her brother must live on beef broth for once.”

  Since he was a Marquess, no one quite liked to disagree with him, but Connie thought it reprehensible in him to take Jess away from her duties for his own amusement.

  The day was fixed and all was arranged. With a little squeezing together, and some changing about, the convoy was only three carriages in the end, slowly ploughing through the mud of Lower and Higher Brinford until they reached the turnpike just outside Brinchester.

  By an unfortunate chance, Connie found herself in Lady Harriet’s travelling coach with the Marquess and Jess Drummond, which gave her ample opportunity to watch the lighthearted exchanges taking place between the two. Having settled in her own mind that she would try to attract the Marquess, she had begun to think of him as already her property, and it vexed her beyond measure to see Jess Drummond draw him in with her seemingly artless chatter that bordered on flirtatiousness. She wondered at the degree of ease already subsisting between them when they had met so recently.

  Lady Harriet chattered inconsequentially the whole way, which Connie listened to with only half an ear. It was fortunate that Lady Harriet was perfectly capable of maintaining the conversation by herself, for Connie managed nothing but “Yes, my lady,” “No, my lady,” and “Indeed, my lady?” for the entire journey, so intent was she on watching Jess and the Marquess.

  When they reached Willowbye, they stopped first at the Dower House, where Mary and the two younger boys, Mark and Hugo, were already settled. James and Alice, with their baby son, had set up house in the lodge cottage nearby. The work on both houses had been completed, and Connie guessed that Mary was responsible for the efficient manner in which all had been arranged. The Dower House had been furnished with items from Willowbye, and their shabby and mismatched appearance contrasted oddly with the modern wallpaper and freshly-painted wainscoting. In the lodge cottage, all was new and fashionable, paid for, no doubt, by Alice’s father. Such an irony, that the farmer was better able to afford such expenses than the gentleman at the manor house.

  The carriages having been sent on, they walked up the drive to the house, where a group of gardeners paused from cutting back overgrown bushes and clearing fallen tree branches to bow to them. It was cold enough for their breath to puff into clouds as they spoke, and Connie pulled her cloak closer. She was not a fast walker, and soon lagged behind the others. To her delight, as she rounded a particularly overgrown shrub, she found the Marquess waiting for her.

  “May I offer you my arm, Miss Constance? My sister tells me you are not a strong walker, and might need a little assistance.”

  It was disappointing that the gesture had not been his own idea, but she smiled and took his arm anyway. “Thank you, my lord. Your assistance and your company are both most welcome. Gracious, I have not been here in such an age! It has quite changed. Indeed, I should not have recognised the place at all, if the drive were to be my guide. These bushes were barely as high as my waist, and the trees not much more than saplings. There had been rows of much older trees before then, very well grown, but there was so much dead wood in them, and a number had fallen altogether to leave gaps, and that looks so odd, do you not agree? In any event, Cousin Henry had them all torn up, and new planting all the way down the drive. But perhaps it is time for these to be torn up in their turn, I cannot say.”

  The Marquess had no interest in trees, it seemed, for he said, “How is it that Cousin Henry is your cousin, and his children are also cousins? There must be some second cousins in there somewhere, I fancy. Or perhaps cousins once or twice removed, although I am not sure quite how that works.”

  “Nor I!” she said, with a giggle. “Cousin Henry was — is, I suppose — cousin to Papa. Cousin Henry’s father, also Henry, was brother to Papa’s father, Walter. That is why we all have the same name, you see.”

  “Ah, yes. All is now clear to me. And Cousin Mary — she is the eldest of the children, I think?”

  “Yes, from Cousin Henry’s first marriage. She is said to resemble her mother in every way. Then after Cousin Elizabeth died, there was Cousin Vivienne. She is French, and James, Mark and Hugo are hers, but she went back to France a few years ago, although I do not know why.”

  “If Miss Mary Allamont takes after her mother, then she must have been a handsome woman indeed. It is a great shame when a pretty woman has no dowry.”

  Surely he must be thinking of Jess Drummond now? Yet she could not disagree with him on the point. “Certainly it is,” she said, then added wistfully. “Everyone should be able to marry for love, without considerations of wealth.”

  “How romantic you are, Miss Allamont.” His smile as he spoke was so warm that her heart gave a little somersault. Such a charming man, when his attention was not focused on Miss Drummond.

  They rounded the final leaning tree to see the house before them. There on the drive to meet them was Burford, wreathed in smiles, while Cousin Henry loitered on the front step, as if unsure how to greet guests now that he was no longer master of Willowbye.

  Connie paused, looking up at the house. Here at least was something unchanged since she was a child. The red brick walls and latticed windows were warm and welcoming, although perhaps the rotting window frames and missing tiles were recent developments.

  It was Mary, mistress of Willowbye for more than a dozen years, who led them from room to room. Connie followed the others through the front door and into the great hall, filled with boxes of books while the library woodworm was dealt with. From the great hall, they went through a door to the north wing, and beyond that to the so-called new wing, although it was a century old, at least. Then upstairs to a warren of passageways and bedrooms.

  Mary took most of the others off to survey the attics, basements and kitchens, but Connie had no interest in trailing round the butler’s pantry or the linen cupboards. She began a second circuit of the principal rooms, envisaging each in her mind. This one would be gold, with Chinese wallpaper. Another would look well in a pale green, with cream cornices. The drawing room could be red, with gold decoration. She was so absorbed that she startled when Burford appeared at her side.

  “I do beg your pardon,” he said, jumping back. “I did not mean to alarm you. I have the book you asked for.” He held out a volume bound in red leather.

  “Book?”

  “The Scotch poems of Robert Burns. Mrs Burford said you wished to borrow it.”

  “Oh. Oh, of course. Thank you, sir. You are most kind.”

  He waved an arm to encompass the whole room. “What do you think of it all? So much work to be done, it is difficult to know where to begin. The man I have engaged is very good on bricks and wood and glass, but not so good on paint and wallpaper. And out here…” He ushered her through to the great hall, gesturing with a rueful expression at the unplastered walls. “Look at the state of it! I do not know what is to be done. And your sister has no more idea than I do.”

  “Oh, but that is the interesting part,” she said. “I should love to offer suggestions, if you would like that. I love putting colours together, and choosing wallpapers. Now for this room—”

  The front door flew open. A woman of about forty stood on the threshold, gazing imperiously round the hall. Connie had not much experience of the ton, but even so, she could tell at a glance that the stranger was dressed in the very latest fashions from London.

  “May I be of service to you, madam?” Bu
rford said.

  She raked him up and down. “Who are you? And what are you doing in my house?”

  He said nothing, although his mouth flapped open once or twice.

  Connie looked more closely at the visitor, then gasped. “Cousin Vivienne?”

  4: An Unexpected Return

  A wide-eyed servant was sent off to find Cousin Henry in whatever remote part of the house he might be, and convey the news that his wife had returned after many years of absence. Connie could imagine his astonishment.

  Meanwhile, Cousin Vivienne, wrinkling her nose at the brick dust and smell of mould that still hung in the air, marched around the boxes and through to the north wing. Throwing open a door, she strode through and sat herself on a sofa. She looked about her disdainfully and said, “This was a very pretty room in my day. Henri has let it go appallingly.” Her French accent was quite noticeable now. Looking at Burford, she said, “You. Fetch me some Madeira. And have my boxes taken to my room.”

  “I do not imagine you still have a room after all this time,” Connie said, before Burford had had time to open his mouth. “And Mr Burford is not a servant. He is the new tenant of Willowbye.”

  Cousin Vivienne looked at him fully for the first time. “He should still offer me refreshments, unless he is quite devoid of manners.”

  “I will find a servant,” he said, and rushed from the room.

  “Why does he not ring the bell? Is he brainless?”

  “Not at all,” Connie said. “He knows that it would be pointless to attempt, when the bell ropes are all rotted away. And I expect he wanted to escape from you. He is too polite to express his opinion of your manners.”

  “But you are not, I suppose? Ha! Who are you, child? You are not Mary, I am sure of that.”

  “I am Constance Allamont, Cousin Vivienne, and I am not a child. I am three and twenty.”

  “High time you were married then, child. I should be ashamed to be a spinster still at such an age.”