Her mother said serenely, “I daresay Lady Hardy wished to speak to me about some matter or other, and finding me unavailable made do with you, Amy. As the eldest, you must expect these attentions. It was very civil of her, to be sure, for she could have no cause to speak to you in the regular way.”
On reflection, Amy thought this was as good an explanation as any other.
Once the Willowbye family had returned home, the Allamont ladies fell back into their usual round of activities. Or rather, some of them did so. Amy and Belle kept strictly to the routine their father had laid down for them, so that every hour was filled with study. But the younger girls were more lax, and Amy was forced to reprove them.
“Stuff!” Grace said. “I shall keep on with my tapestry, and when the weather improves I shall take out my sketchbook and easel, for those are enjoyable pursuits, and useful as well. But Greek? What is the point of that?”
“But Papa said—”
“Papa is not here any more, Amy. We are not forced to do as he tells us any longer.”
Amy was speechless at such willfulness. However, if her sisters would not listen to her, they must surely listen to their mama. She went directly to Lady Sara’s new sitting room, a former guest bedroom now refurbished in splendid style with furniture sent from London. Here her mama spent a good part of every day, sitting at an elegant escritoire to compose letters to her many relations, or reclining on a chaise longue with a book.
“Yes, what is it, Amy?” She carefully marked her place in the book before closing it and laying it down.
Amy curtsied. “Mama, I wish you would instruct the others on the necessity to be properly employed. They are not studying as they ought, and Grace in particular is getting quite wild and rude.”
Lady Sara picked up a box from the table beside her. “Will you have a bon-bon, Amy? They are delicious.”
“On a Tuesday? Papa said we may only have bon-bons on Sundays and Holy Days.”
“And I say we may eat them on a Tuesday if we wish.”
Amy waited, but her mother said nothing more.
At length, Lady Sara picked up her book. “Is that all?”
Still Amy waited, frowning, for surely her mother would address her complaint? She could not ignore the younger girls’ behaviour, could she?
Sighing, Lady Sara set her book down again. “Amy, I do not at all like this tittle-tattling about your sisters. It is sly of you. You have all been taught correct manners, now it is for each of you to regulate your own behaviour. See about your own conduct before you take offence at others. Go now. And tell Miller the fire is getting low again. I cannot abide the cold, she knows that. I must have a good blaze.”
Amy crept out of the room, quiet as a mouse. Belle found her, hours later, sitting on the stairs, crying.
“Why will no one listen to me?” she sobbed. “Papa set very clear guidance for us all, and as soon as he is gone, everyone sinks into idleness. Even Mama,” she added in a whisper.
“Hush, now,” Belle said, holding her tight. “Papa’s rules were… quite strict, you must agree. Few of our age are still at their lessons every day, like the most regimented kind of school. Even I feel…” She stopped, then went on in stronger tones. “Even I feel that we might relax the lessons just a little. Not all of them, of course, but those where we clearly have no aptitude.”
“But those are the very areas where most improvement may be gained by diligent application,” Amy protested.
Belle smiled. “Now you sound just like Papa.”
That made Amy sob all the harder. “But if we do not follow Papa’s rules, how shall we go on? Who will guide us into proper ways?”
“Why, Mama, for one,” Belle said, then, perhaps feeling that this was not to be depended upon, she added, “and our own good sense. Eventually, our husbands will direct us.”
“And how shall we choose our husbands, without Papa’s advice?” Amy wailed.
~~~~~
Winter began to drift towards spring, and the girls turned their attention to trimming bonnets ready for their half-mourning. Their hour in the winter parlour each day with their needles was now become a happy foretaste of social occasions to come. This was an agreeable subject for them to talk about, especially as their mother no longer sat with them to guide their conversation into proper channels.
The subject which never lost its appeal was that of Amy’s prospects for a husband. Amy herself took no part in these, nor Belle, but the younger girls had no such restraint, and the various names on the list were gone over and over, until Amy was exhausted with it. Sir Osborne was not mentioned much, above Grace saying every ten minutes, “Oh, why does Sir Osborne not come? I am sure he would quite like to marry you, Amy, for he talked to you for ever when he was here last.”
“Only because his Mama made him,” Amy said crossly. “And he knows where to find us. It is not as if we lived at the other end of the county. The Manor is under ten miles from here by road, and less across the fields.”
“That is a long way when the weather is so foul, and the lane churned to mud,” Belle said.
Amy wanted to point out that neither consideration weighed with Mr Ambleside, but somehow could not quite find the words.
“There!” Belle said. “Connie, I have finished adding the ribbons you wanted to this bonnet, and I confess I am very pleased with it. You will look so fetching in it. What do you think?”
Connie reached across the table for it, turning the bonnet this way and that. Then she pulled a face. “I do not like it at all. I think it would look better in lilac, and with feathers instead of this bow. Can you remake it, do you think? Your fingers are so nimble, sister.”
“I will try,” Belle said. “Which feathers, these? Do you not think them a little excessive for mourning wear?”
“I think they will look charming,” Connie said. “Besides, we cannot be too particular if we want to be noticed by gentlemen, you know. Amy should wear more feathers, if she wishes to secure a husband.”
“Well, if Sir Osborne does not come up to scratch, I daresay Mr Wills may come back any day,” Grace said dubiously. The young ladies all knew how compelling the delights of London were to a young man.
“I think Amy had much better marry Cousin James,” Hope said. But all the others exclaimed at that.
Small but steady improvements in the weather enabled Amy to escape from the house sometimes. The garden was her especial domain, and her project to extend the shrubbery was well in hand. She was engaged in instructing the gardeners in their digging one day, when Mr Ambleside rode in through the gates and began up the drive. Seeing Amy, he dismounted and, leaving one of the under gardeners to hold his horse, came loping across the lawn towards her.
“Miss Allamont! How delightful to see you thus engaged in pursuit of your horticultural schemes. This is indeed an ambitious project. Will you explain your plans to me?”
“Oh — of course, if you are interested.”
“I am most interested. I hope to persuade you to bring your talents to bear on my own grounds before too long. But I must know what you have in mind here first. This new patch of ground — this is to be a new bed for flowers?”
“No, no. This is to be the path. Once dug and smoothed, and the edging put in place, it will be laid to gravel. From here it will sweep away from the house, and meander in a wandering sort of way down the hill to the lake, before turning back at the grotto to begin the return, passing the ice house and then meeting up with the old shrubbery. I shall have rhododendrons all the way down, the taller at the back and the shorter in front, and then underplanted with… well, I have not yet decided that! And beside the lake…”
She chattered on, hardly realising that they were, as she spoke, following the planned route down the hill, until they were quite out of sight of the gardeners on the upper lawn. It was only then, seeing that they were quite alone, that her voice faltered, and she flushed unhappily.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I am allowing my
self to be carried away in my enthusiasm for my plans. I forget that I am detaining you. I daresay you will wish to go into the house.”
“Not at all,” he said gallantly. “I have been exceedingly well entertained by your vivid descriptions. I could see it all in my mind’s eye, taking shape even as you spoke. I have no doubt you will succeed in your enterprise, and the result will be everything you can imagine. It will all be quite delightful, I am quite certain.”
She turned away from him in confusion at the warmth of his praise. “Such nonsense you talk, sir!” she said, before she could stop herself. Instantly she wished the words unsaid. But before she could apologise, she heard him laugh, and looked up at him in astonishment.
“Ah, Miss Allamont, I forget that you dislike compliments. I beg your pardon for distressing you, and doubly so, since I see that we are quite alone, and therefore I must risk your displeasure even further by telling you that I have heard the most disturbing rumour. It is said — and I can scarce find the words, for it is beyond belief — that you are secretly betrothed to Sir Osborne Hardy. Tell me, I beg you, is this true?”
Whatever Amy had expected him to say, these words threw her into the greatest confusion. How could she possibly answer it? She scarcely knew the truth of the matter herself.
“Sir… I hardly know what to say.”
“Yes or no would be an adequate response. But you look conscious. Ah…” His voice dropped abruptly. “Then I have my answer, I think.”
It was a strange thing, but no matter how much uncertainty there was in her own mind, and how little she wanted to discuss the matter with anyone, yet a part of her did not wish to leave him with the wrong idea. She felt very strongly that he must not leave with the belief that she had betrothed herself to Sir Osborne.
“I am not betrothed,” she burst out. “I think Lady Hardy might imagine there to be… an understanding, but it is not so.”
“So you have not yet accepted him?”
“No, indeed.”
“Good, for you must not. He is not at all right for you, you must see that. It would be intolerable for you. No, I could not stand by and see you married to that man.”
Amy was astonished. Mr Ambleside to speak with such force, nay, such anger, yet he had no right! “Sir, you should not speak so to me. Who I marry is no concern of yours. You are not my father.”
“No, certainly not!” He seemed affronted by the very idea. “But anyone can see what an unhappy match that would be. My dear Miss Allamont, I wish you will reject his suit.”
“So I might do, if ever he makes the offer,” she said tartly.
“Oh.” His face brightened. “Then he has not spoken?”
“No. His mother came, and talked in riddles, and went away again, and I do not quite understand what she meant by it. But Sir Osborne — he has never made me an offer. No one has ever made me an offer,” she ended sadly.
“Now that is quite untrue.” His voice was the gentlest imaginable.
“Forgive me for contradicting you, Mr Ambleside, but you cannot possibly know that.”
“Certainly I can, for I have offered for you three times myself.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Did you not know?”
8: A Confession
Amy was too shocked to say a word.
“You did not know!” Mr Ambleside exclaimed. “I suspected as much. Your father—”
He fell silent. Then he held out his arm to her. “Miss Allamont, will you walk with me? I should like to explain a matter which is of significance.”
She suspected that she should not stay with him, that he should not be talking to her in this intimate way, quite alone. Yet she would hear it all, everything he wished to disclose. So she took his arm and they walked slowly down to the lake.
“You are not cold?” he asked. “I would not have you take a chill on my account.”
“No, sir, I am quite warm.”
“Then I must tell you how it all came about. I have wanted to marry you — I have been in love with you — for ever, I think. Certainly since you first came out. You always looked so lost, so anxious not to make a mistake! Poor Amy! So uncomfortable in company, yet so charming and gentle! I could not wait many months before I went to ask your father for permission to pay my addresses. I had no expectation of a refusal, for I am not penniless, as you must know. But he would not hear of it. You were too young. Well, perhaps he was right about that.”
There was a small grotto at one end of the lake with a seat inside it. Amy was glad to sit down, for she was quaking with the suddenness of the declaration.
“So I waited. For two years I bided my time, waiting to see if your affections were engaged elsewhere. When I could wait no longer, I went again to your father. But no. You were still too young. I began to suspect he did not wish you to marry at all. Another two years passed, and when you reached the age of one and twenty, I went again to your father, for although he could no longer prevent me from speaking to you, I still wished for his good opinion.”
He paused. She dared not look at his face, but in his voice she detected a tremor.
“Miss Allamont — Amy — I must tell you now something of which I am quite ashamed. I felt obliged to tell your father of it also, for it is a matter which, while secret now, may not always be so, and I could not in good conscience address you without revealing all. I must have you know the worst of me!”
She sat motionless, dreading to hear his words, agitated beyond measure, yet she could not interrupt him.
“When I was seventeen, I became — entangled — with a young woman, a chambermaid at Staynlaw House. We were both very young, that must be the only excuse, for certainly I had been given strong principles by my father. I knew that it was wrong, but I was weak and foolish. My conscience sent me to my father, where I confessed all. He would have sent the girl away, but I would not have it. How should she suffer the ignominy, the misery, when the blame was mine? She was hastily married to one of the grooms, and settled in one of the stable cottages. Her daughter — my daughter — was born some months later. Naturally I have taken an interest in her welfare and development, although I could not do so openly. I wished her to have an education, but I could not distinguish her by sending her away to school, since that would attract the very notice I hoped to avoid. Her mother has other children now, and is respectable and, I believe, content with her situation. It was no wish of mine to attract undue notice to Margaret. I set up a school in the village, therefore, that all the children could attend, including my daughter. Margaret did well there, and the schoolmaster I engaged recommended her for further schooling in Brinchester, which I was happy to pay for. She is seventeen now, as lovely a young woman as you could hope to meet.”
He paused, lost in some reflection, then he sighed.
“Ah, Miss Allamont, I hope one day that… but I will not speak of that. All this I told your father, for I thought it wrong in me to pay my addresses to his daughter without disclosing my character fully. He was angry. More than that, he flew into a rage. He told me that he should see to it that I would never marry you, for if ever I were to be so fortunate, he would reveal everything about my past and bring disgrace upon me. Upon you, if you were my wife. I would not have believed it of him, but so it is. Can you blame me for withdrawing at once? I could not stay — I could not trust myself to be near you and not speak. So I took my anger to Northumberland, and fumed there amongst the crags and wild places. And the weather! So much rain and wind and snow, it suited my mood admirably.”
He paused, and his voice softened. “And then, one day, a gleam of hope. Miss Endercott sent me word of your father’s sudden death. And here I am. I will say nothing more. It is too soon, for you are still in mourning. I merely wished you to understand that as soon as propriety permits, I will pay my addresses to you in the proper form. I intend to wait the full year of your mourning, for less would be disrespectful to your father, I believe, and could bring censure upon both of us. You will have time, therefore, to c
onsider what I have told you and decide whether it is an obstacle to you. But Amy — you say nothing. Are you shocked? You are, I can see by the colour in your cheeks. Am I now sunk so low in your esteem—? But I must say no more. Amy, will you not look me in the eye, and tell me that you will consider all I have said?”
“I will, sir.” But still she could not lift her head.
“Amy…” He tilted her chin so that her face was towards him.
She dared to raise her eyes. He was smiling! Oh, that smile, such warmth, such affection, and she had suspected nothing.
“I thought it was Connie,” she said, before she could stop herself.
“I… am not sure I understand you.”
“I thought — we all thought — you were in love with Connie.”
“Connie? Good God, no! Whatever gave you that idea? I have never so much as noticed her. I am tolerably certain I could not pick her out of a group, not dressed alike as you always are. I am astonished… I do not believe I have ever distinguished her in any particular way.”
“The visit to Monkswood — you arranged everything, and it was all her idea.”
“Was it? I thought it would please you.”
“You sent flowers when she was painting. Then there was the ball where you danced only with Connie.”
“Did I? Oh, at Graham House? I remember that. It was her first proper ball, and she was obliged to sit down by the lack of gentlemen. I felt sorry for the child, that was the truth of it, for I do not dance at all, as a rule. I assure you, I have never looked twice at any of your sisters. As for the flowers, I never sent them particularly to you but that was my intent. You were all of you learning to paint, and I invited you to bring your easels to Staynlaw House to attempt a likeness of the garden. The others may have painted, I do not recall, but you walked around the garden telling me the names of all the flowers and how best to grow them. How enchanting you were that day, Amy! I hoped my flowers would be a reminder of a happy day for you, and a token of my remembrance.”
Amy (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 1) Page 7
