How much Connie longed to answer in the affirmative! Yet honesty compelled her to say, “Not the least bit. He is the same as ever towards her.”
“But is he affectionate with her?” Ambleside said. “He never seemed to me to be a man in love. Indeed, he always seemed most attentive to you, Miss Allamont. I confess, I have found his behaviour confusing. A gentleman should always make his intentions clear.”
“He is certainly very kind to me,” Connie said, remembering the chivalrous way he had intervened the previous night when she had been quite overcome. “I do not think he treats me any differently from before, however. I am just a friend to him, his brother’s future wife, so he believes. As to his intentions, those are clear enough, surely?”
“And yet I wonder,” Ambleside said. “There has been no notice of the engagement in the papers.”
“The betrothal is a great secret,” Connie said. “It is too soon after the death of Jess’s father, I understand.”
“That was more than a year ago. It does not seem to me that his heart is entirely lost to Miss Drummond. Living under his roof, there must be opportunities to draw him into a closer attachment to you, Miss Allamont.”
“A man cannot be manipulated into marrying if his heart is not in it,” Burford said in mild reproof. “Nor should he be.”
“Perhaps, but he might be manipulated out of an inadvisable marriage,” Ambleside said.
“Oh, no!” Connie said, rather shocked. “Manipulation? No, that would be quite wrong.” Once again she was relieved to have escaped marriage to Ambleside, a man who thought nothing of manoeuvring others to get what he wanted, as he had with Amy.
“Any sort of manipulation is abhorrent to me,” Belle said firmly. “A man must make up his own mind, without interference. A woman may hope to show herself off to advantage in front of him, to beguile him, perhaps, to put him into a romantic frame of mind…” She smiled knowingly at Connie here. “But marriage is too serious a business to be subjected to scheming by those whose interests may not coincide with those of the parties concerned.”
“I hope we all have Lord Carrbridge’s best interests at heart,” Ambleside said. “Are we not all agreed that Miss Allamont would be a more suitable wife for him?”
It was a sentiment that Connie herself had thoughtlessly espoused, but now that she had had some little experience of London society, she could no longer sustain the idea. The previous evening had proved to her just how unsuited she was for life in the haut ton, while Jess had stepped into the role as if born to it.
“I do not believe Miss Drummond is at all unsuitable,” Connie said with some heat. “She is far more at ease in London society than I am, and if the Marquess truly loves her…” She trailed off, miserably aware that she was acknowledging the end of all her hopes. Then, straightening her back, she went on, “It was foolish of me to suppose that I could ever entice a Marquess, and I have quite given up the idea. Jess is a much better match.”
“I am not well acquainted with Miss Drummond,” Burford said calmly, “but I know her brother well, and the family is very long-established in Scotland, even if they have fallen into a degree of poverty of late. It is perhaps not the best match Lord Carrbridge could have made, but there is nothing to be said against the lady, nothing at all.”
“Then it appears to be an excellent match and I wish them both joy,” Ambleside said, with his ready smile. “Let love take its course with no intervention, as far as I am concerned.”
At that moment, Mrs March returned from the kitchens, and, all private conversation being at an end, Connie soon after prepared to leave.
“But you will come often to see us, I hope,” Belle said wistfully.
“Of course, and you will call at Marford House, but we will meet a great deal in company, I am sure.”
“I doubt it!” Belle said, laughing. “You move in very exalted circles now, sister dear. We have so few acquaintance in London that we will not receive many invitations. Perhaps we may meet at the theatre sometimes.”
As she walked back to Marford House, Mrs March walking two paces behind her like a maid, Connie was thoughtful. The idea that London society was stratified was not a new one, but the realisation that she and sisters fell into different levels of it was shocking to her. At home, there was no distinction between a nobleman and a respectable gentleman. The nobility were accorded their due deference, of course, but every rank dined and mingled with every other. But here, rank was everything. It made her uncomfortable, she had to admit, and she missed the freedom of country life.
For the first time, she began to wonder if she really wished to be a Marchioness at all, even if he could be turned away from Jess. The Marquess had seemed to be the perfect husband, his title and estates dazzling her, and how could she help being attracted to him, as delightful as he was? But if the price of such a match was to lose her sisters, then she determined that she would not marry at all, and Jess was welcome to him.
14: A Drive In The Park
The Marfords were to hold a ball of their own, which was, Connie deduced, to be a splendid affair to which all the haut ton were to be invited, and which would be the talk of every salon in town. Connie had no involvement in the preparations, for her experience of arranging little dinner parties at Allamont Hall was not in any way comparable to the organisation involved in a ball during the London season. She imagined that entire wars must have been managed with less preparation than Lady Moorfield and her helpers thought necessary.
The helpers consisted of her three daughters, all stout and all blessed with lisps or buck teeth or twitching eyelids, or some combination thereof. Lady Harriet’s advice was also called upon at frequent intervals, but she rarely expressed an opinion.
“It is best to keep one’s head below the parapet on these occasions,” she whispered to Connie. “If I say that the flowers should be pink, Aunt Juliana will be sure to decide immediately on yellow, and if I say yellow, she will instantly favour pink. So I keep out of it, and I advise you to do the same.”
“I shall,” Connie said. “Although I should prefer white flowers, myself, in silver vases.”
“Oh. That does sound elegant. But still, she will not listen, so it is best to say nothing and stay out of the way.”
The gentlemen had much the same idea, expressing their feelings quite openly.
“We shall be the first into the ballroom on the night, and the last to leave it,” the Marquess said firmly. “More than that cannot be expected of us.”
“You are so clever about arranging these affairs, Aunt Juliana,” said Lord Reginald. “If we try to interfere, we should only slow you down.”
Jess, too, managed to absent herself during the planning sessions, disappearing for hours at a time with Mrs March to chaperon her. Connie had no notion what she got up to, for she returned with no parcels, and appeared not to be making calls. When asked, she talked vaguely about parks and galleries. It was very odd.
Connie had not the least desire to wander about London. Shopping held no appeal since she had little money to spend, and she had few acquaintance of her own to call on. Nor was it in her nature to sit quietly with a book or a piece of needlework. She liked to be in the centre of things, with chatter all round her. So as often as not she would find herself drawn into the preparations for the ball, writing lists of guests, or flowers, or food items, or extra servants to be hired, or orders for the chandler or vintner.
When the guest list was being drawn up, Lady Moorfield said, “Now, Connie dear, who do you know that will be in town? We shall invite the Melthwaites, naturally, and you may add his papa to the list, too, although the Earl seldom goes into company these days, and the Countess never leaves Hepplestone. What about your papa’s side of the family? I do not recall any Allamonts for many years. Your grandpapa, now, he was a very lively soul, and an excellent dancer, as I recall, and his brother Henry, too.” She sighed, and paused momentarily, lost in some reminiscence. “Ah, well, they are long dead. So
many of them are dead now. But since Mr Walter Allamont’s time, I cannot think of anyone.”
Connie said timidly, “Might I be allowed to invite my sisters, Lady Moorfield?”
“Your sisters, eh? Remind me, what are their married names?”
“One is Mrs Ambleside of Staynlaw House, Higher Brinford, and the other is Mrs John Burford, of Willowbye, Brafton West.”
“I do not know of any Amblesides or Burtons,” Lady Moorfield said, wrinkling her nose.
“Burford. His family lives near York.”
“Never heard of them. Are they acquainted with anyone of importance?”
“I… do not believe so, no. Not that I have ever heard. Just a few old school friends. But since this ball is to be my official come-out, it would be pleasant to have someone from my own family present.” And someone she knew, with familiar, welcoming smiles, rather than the endless haughty stares she was becoming used to from the higher ranks. London was filled with strangers.
“We shall keep them in mind, my dear, if we do not have as many acceptances as we expect, but we must concentrate on those who have the most influence, and can add to your consequence. You must not cling to your old connections, you know. Once you are married to Reggie, your object will be a very different set of acquaintance, and you will not have time for your sisters.”
“I hope I shall always have time for my sisters, Lady Moorfield,” Connie said with dignity. “Are you quite settled on Lady Hartshill, or shall I cross her off the list again?”
Lady Hartshill epitomised an aspect of high society that Connie found very difficult to deal with. The nuances of rank she understood very well, but there were subtle differences that she felt she would never be at ease with. In the course of their evening engagements, Connie was often introduced to this earl or that baronet, yet Lady Moorfield would whisper confusing instructions — “Just nod and move on” regarding a duchess, while an untitled lady might elicit the comment, “Your deepest curtsy”. Some quite grand-sounding persons she was told to cut entirely. A few of the respected ones, like the patronesses of Almack’s, she knew about but others seemed incomprehensible, and Lady Hartshill fell into the latter category.
Every week, Lady Hartshill held a small, select card party. Not for her the ostentatious balls or routs or masquerades or grand dinners that others revelled in, and she never attended such occasions, either, nor was she well-connected or particularly wealthy. She seemed, on meeting, to be no more than a rather shy, slightly frumpy matron. Yet her card parties were held as a sign of acceptance in good society. The Marfords had been invited to the very first one, just three days after their arrival but never since, and Lady Moorfield fretted about it rather. Had they made some unknown faux pas and been eliminated from the list of desirables? And if so, how could they work their way back into Lady Hartshill’s good graces?
“You had better leave her on the list, Connie dear,” the Viscountess said. “She will not come, of course, and she is not one of those who cares about receiving more invitations than anyone else, but it will do no harm. At least… one hopes it will not. Oh dear, it is very difficult. No, I am quite decided, leave her name. But there again…”
Connie wiped her pen and waited patiently.
~~~~~
One day when they were all at breakfast and the letters were brought in, there was one for Connie. She read it with a smile on her face.
“Do you need me today, my lady?” she said to Lady Moorfield.
“Ah! Do I detect an invitation?” that lady said with a knowing smile. “Who is it from, my dear? You were on very close terms with the Duke of Rockall’s daughters the other night, so it might be from them. Or Lady Gillingham took a liking to you.”
“It is from my sisters. They have rented a barouche for the season and, the weather being so settled at the moment, they propose an outing today, to Hyde Park, Belle says. Please may I go? They will call for me at noon, and I shall be brought back by four at the latest. May I?”
“If you want to tool round Hyde Park, I can take you,” Lord Reginald said, setting down his knife and fork with a clatter. “You had only to ask, you know. Always happy to oblige a lady. We have a barouche somewhere about, if that is your fancy, or I might borrow Dev’s curricle.”
“No, that is not—”
“Borrow my curricle? I should rather think not!”
“Well, it will have to be the barouche, then. Or the phaeton! That would be just the ticket. But you do not want to go so early, Miss Allamont. Five o’clock, that is the fashionable hour.”
“But—”
“Not the phaeton, Reggie, for Mrs March must go too,” Lady Moorfield said. “You must wear your green pelisse with the new bonnet, my dear. That will be perfect, and everyone will take notice of you. There, that is all settled.”
“Oh.” Connie looked from one to another in dismay. “So may I not go out with my sisters after all?”
“You would be better advised to go with Reggie, my dear,” Lady Moorfield said.
“Do you not want to go driving with me, Miss Allamont?” said Lord Reginald in hurt tones.
“Of course, but… perhaps some other time. Today I should very much like to go with my sisters.”
“Better with Reggie,” Lady Moorfield said crisply. “Your expedition will add nothing to your consequence, my dear.”
“What does that signify?” Connie cried. “I should like to see my sisters, and consequence has nothing to do with it!”
Lady Moorfield frowned and was about to speak, but the Marquess lowered the newspaper he was reading and waved a hand languidly. “Of course you must go driving with your sisters, Miss Allamont. Such family affection is most touching.”
“Dev…” Lord Reginald began, glowering at his brother.
“You may take Miss Allamont another day, Reggie,” the Marquess said. “We shall get up a party, eh? You may accompany Miss Allamont in the barouche with Mrs March, and I shall take Miss Drummond in my curricle, and perhaps the ladies may change places after a while, so that Miss Allamont may enjoy the curricle too.”
“Really, Francis, you are dreadfully high-handed,” Lady Moorfield said petulantly. “I am trying to establish Miss Allamont in society, and you are not helping.”
“Aunt Juliana, when Miss Allamont is married, she will have all the consequence she needs from her husband. I would not have her turned into one of your snooty society matrons who shun their less exalted relations. Besides, I like her sisters.”
And with that he retreated behind his newspaper again, and the breakfast table fell into silence.
~~~~~
Connie enjoyed her outing enormously. It was rather a squeeze with five of them in a barouche designed for four, but none of the ladies were large and their pleasure in the occasion far outweighed any minor discomforts. Ambleside had provided hot bricks and rugs in case of any chill in the air, but the sun shone, the conversation was merry and a delightful morning was had by all.
True to his word, the Marquess arranged a drive through Hyde Park, too, at the fashionable hour. His curricle and the Marford barouche inched their way through the press of walkers, riders and carriages, everyone displaying themselves in their finest clothes. Lady Moorfield having decided to accompany them, she pointed out this or that important person to Connie, whose face ached from smiling. Half way round the park, the Marquess drew aside and insisted on an exchange — Jess got into the barouche and Connie climbed into the curricle beside the Marquess.
“Really, Dev, is this necessary?” Lord Reginald grumbled.
“Got to be fair, Reggie,” the Marquess replied with his charming smile. “Must give the ladies equal enjoyment, you know.”
It was indeed much more pleasant to sit high up beside the Marquess, looking down on everyone passing by, as he contrived to bowl along at a surprising pace.
“We have quite left the others behind, I fear,” Connie said anxiously, but the Marquess only laughed. He nodded to one or two of his acquaintance
, but otherwise took no notice of the crowds thronging the paths. When they left the park, they rattled through the streets at a merry clip and drew up outside Marford House all too soon.
Laughter bubbled up in Connie’s throat. “Oh, this has been the greatest fun,” she cried. “Thank you so much, my lord.”
He turned his charming smile on her. “The pleasure was all mine, Miss Allamont.”
Handing the reins to his tiger, he assisted her to alight, tucking her arm in his as they walked up the steps together. In the hall, he bowed and lifted her hand to his lips. “We must do this again some time,” he murmured, leaving her in such a warm glow that she could do nothing but blush.
It was so difficult, she decided. She was determined to leave him to Jess and not to regret him, and he, it seemed, was equally determined to charm and enchant her. If only he would leave her alone! And yet a small voice inside her objected violently to that idea.
~~~~~
The drives became a regular arrangement, both with the Marquess and his brother, and with the Amblesides and Burfords. Connie enjoyed them all, although those with her sisters were more relaxing than the frenetic drives through Hyde Park. It was more pleasant to sit comfortably watching the scenery go by than to be constantly on the alert for important members of the haut ton who must be greeted correctly or risk the opprobrium of society. Connie had not yet received vouchers for Almacks and was in constant terror of offending one of the patronesses and finding herself forever excluded.
It was strange to her, however, to move in two such separate circles, with no overlap. Night after night her engagements brought her into the same exclusive company, people she scarcely knew and who had little interest in her, except in her relationship to the Marquess and his family, all vying for position in the constant swirl of rising and falling consequence. It was exhausting, especially when she had nothing in common with such people. It would have been the greatest relief to see the familiar faces of her sisters in a crowd.
Connie (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 3) Page 12
