Amy (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 1)

by Mary Kingswood

  As soon as the cousins had left, she fetched her gardening cloak and made her way by the side door to the new shrubbery. The gardeners, and the three boys from the village engaged to help with the work, had gone inside for their dinner, so she was able to prowl about the workings, pacing out widths and testing the firmness of the path, now partly laid to gravel.

  She was glad to be alone. Belle, she knew, would want to discuss it, and gently probe her feelings to determine just how miserable she was. Not as miserable as she ought to be, she decided. The loss of Mr Wills was not so great. The loss of Sir Osborne to the contessa was not unbearable, either. As for Mr Ambleside… but no, she would not think of him. It was too difficult. Should he ever make the offer, she would have to come to a decision, but since it seemed to be a simple choice between breaking Connie’s heart or breaking Ambleside’s, she hoped he would never make it.

  But there was an alternative. Much as she hated to admit it, she still had the option to marry James. There would be no affection on either side in the marriage, which was rather a discouraging thought, for it was no more than a pragmatic choice for both of them. But he was familiar, and there was the comfort of knowing that Papa had as good as pushed them together by leaving the estate in such a way.

  She was so engrossed in her own thoughts that she scarcely noticed the carriage that rolled up the drive. It was not until a voice hailed her — “Miss Allamont! Hello there, Miss Allamont!” — that she turned and saw Mr Ambleside striding towards her, that delightful smile lighting up his face. So handsome, when he smiled! She found it difficult to catch her breath, suddenly.

  “Miss Allamont, I am so glad to find you alone. You are well, I take it?”

  “Oh! Oh yes.” She blushed, but she couldn’t say why.

  “And in looks, as always. I am so glad to see you out of your black, you cannot imagine. It is perfectly acceptable for the dowagers, but such a dreadful colour for a young lady. But here you are, looking such a picture in lavender. So much better.”

  Amy blushed and blushed again. She had never heard Mr Ambleside pay her so many compliments, or speak in so intimate a manner, and she was all confusion.

  He laughed suddenly. “Ah, but I must remember to compliment your appearance more often, for you blush so prettily. It is quite distracting.”

  “I wish you would not, sir!” she snapped. “Such nonsense! I believe I shall go back to the house.”

  “No, do not run away,” he said, reaching for her hand and pressing his lips to it. She had forgotten her gloves, and the warmth of his lips on her hand reduced her to inarticulate embarrassment. To her shame, he continued to hold it, and even dared to turn it over and press kisses into her palm.

  Mortified, she snatched her hand away. “Leave me alone!”

  With that, she would have turned and stormed away, but he was quicker, placing himself in front of her to block her way. She stepped to one side; he matched her. She stepped the other way; he did the same.

  “I beg you to go, sir. It is unkind in you to tease me so.”

  “Tease you? Amy, I would not distress you for the world. I can only beg your forgiveness, for I have quite mistaken your mood, I see. I had thought — Amy, are you not pleased? Are you not happy, now that Hardy and Wills are gone away? For you do not have to worry about them now, you know.”

  He looked contrite, but she frowned. This was unexpected. “You know something of Mr Wills?”

  “I know that you are safe from him.”

  “Safe?” It was too confusing for words.

  “Yes, safe. You need not fear that he will offer for you, or that you might have to marry such an odious man. Or Sir Osborne, either. I have taken care of everything for you, for I do not like you to be troubled by such matters.”

  “Taken care?” she repeated. “I do not understand you in the least.” She was reminded of the time Mama and Papa had taken her to the opera in London, and although it was very pretty to look at, the words were all in Italian, and she had not grasped any of the story. All around her, people had laughed or sighed or shed tears, and she had not the least notion why. It had been very disconcerting. Now she felt at just such a disadvantage.

  “Why, yes!” he said, smiling again. “Lady Hardy wanted a timid little mouse for a daughter-in-law, and Sir Osborne wanted to go to Italy, and who should happen along but the Contessa di Varese, the meekest young lady imaginable, who agreed with everything Lady Hardy said. And now she has seemingly gone off to Italy, with Sir Osborne in pursuit, and his Mama all complaisance.” He laughed. “The Italian was quite a trick to pull off, for Bessie knew not a word of it, you know. But I think she managed it very convincingly, do you not agree?”

  “Bessie?” was all Amy could think to say. She was too stupefied to think straight.

  “Bessie. An actress from Newcastle. The younger of the tutors is her husband, and the older couple her parents. All terribly respectable, you understand. All of them actors of the first water, and fortunately between engagements just now.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now, Wills — that was much easier. He was a little embarrassed for funds, and had some nasty gaming debts, which by the greatest good fortune I was able to buy. He will be less pressured now, and I suggested to him that his gratitude might take him out of the country for some time. I proposed that he visit Bath, a wonderful place for heiresses, so I have been informed. There — you see how I look after you, dear Amy. For I cannot have these men turning their greedy gaze on you, can I? I had to get rid of them for you.”

  As Amy began to understand, her bewilderment was replaced by despair. For if Mr Ambleside had truly chased away her two best suitors, what on earth was she to do?

  “I do not see why you had to do anything of the kind,” she said, lifting her chin. “You have no right—”

  “Not yet, but—”

  “No right!” she said firmly. “It is not for you to interfere with who I marry. You are not my father!”

  He jumped back, as if stung. “Of course not! What a thing to say!”

  “Then you have no business to interfere, none at all. You have destroyed all my chances of finding an acceptable husband, and now I shall have to marry Cousin James.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, making a grab for her hand again.

  She retreated out of reach, the gravel crunching under her boots, clasping her hands firmly behind her back.

  “Amy… dearest Amy, you can marry me. Surely you understand that?”

  “But what about Connie?”

  He made a low growl in his throat. “The devil take Connie! What do I care for Connie? I am sure I have never spoken to her above twice in my life.”

  “Indeed you have, and she is quite in love with you.”

  He took two paces away from her, then two back, and she could see the struggle to compose his features. “Amy,” he said more gently. “Connie is nothing to me, except as your sister. I wish her well, but I have given her no encouragement to develop an affection for me. I have no intention of offering for her.”

  “But she is quite expecting it,” Amy said. “As a gentleman, you cannot ignore that. How can you be so cruel?”

  “Cruel? I—” He stopped, shaking his head. “I cannot understand this obsession with Connie. My only object is you, Amy. If I were a wilder sort of man, I would carry you off at once and marry you this day, but I cannot bring myself to do it. I will wait until the proper time. I had thought to wait the full year, you know, but then Hardy and Wills were clearly not so punctilious. I had to intervene, for you are such a goose, Amy, you might have accepted one of them, and then where would we be, eh? But you are free from them, free to marry me, and as soon as your mother returns I shall speak formally, for it is best to get her approval, you know, even though you are of age. And then I shall have you safe at Staynlaw House, and you will never be upset or anxious or nervous ever again, for I shall take the greatest care of you, dearest Amy, and I shall always be there to tell you what to do and how t
o go on.”

  This was such an appealing prospect that Amy was quite overcome.

  “Now do not cry,” he said. “What have I said to make you cry?”

  “Everything!” she sobbed. “For I cannot marry you!”

  “Why ever not?” he said, exasperated. “Not because of Connie, surely?”

  Was it Connie? No, that could not be it, for Mr Ambleside was clearly determined not to let any consideration of Connie interfere with his plans. Yet still she felt there was something not right about it, something holding her back. What could it be? She had not felt so with any of her other suitors — not with Sir Osborne, nor with Mr Wills, nor with James. With James, in fact, even though she disliked him, the prospect of marrying him was a comfortable one.

  She knew why. Adjusting her feet to the correct position, and straightening her back, she clasped her hands in front of her.

  “I am obliged to you, sir, but I cannot marry you because Papa refused to countenance the match.”

  13: A Little Advice

  Ambleside turned on his heel, and strode off without another word. Better to say nothing. He was on the brink of losing his temper, and who could tell what might be said in haste? Once a thing was done, there was no undoing it, as he knew only too well.

  “Home,” he said to the coachman who was holding open the carriage door, and trying to pretend he had seen nothing of events on the lawn not one hundred yards away.

  He stepped into the carriage, the door was closed and within moments they lurched off, leaving Ambleside to brood on the unhappy encounter. His reflections edged towards despair. So many years he had waited patiently — oh, so patiently! Never rushing, never approaching Amy herself, always taking the most proper course, only ever directing his hopes towards Mr Allamont. That gentleman had dashed those hopes three times, but with his death Ambleside had finally dared to believe that Amy would be his at last. For now that the obstacle of the lady’s father was removed, and her other suitors driven off, what could stand between him and his true love?

  The lady’s father still, it transpired. How could any rational person have foreseen that Amy’s actions would be steered from beyond the grave? And how was such influence to be countered? Who could fight a dead man? It was impossible!

  Sunk in gloom, he spent the rest of the day pacing about his book room, refusing all callers. The next day he rode randomly about the countryside, hardly knowing where he was, until his horse drooped from weariness and he was forced to enquire as to his whereabouts from a farmer and then walk most of the way home.

  By the evening, his despair having given way to the morose conclusion that, after many years of overlooking it, the Almighty fully intended to punish him for his youthful transgression, he began to resign himself to his situation. And once he ceased to rail at his own misfortune, he began to feel uneasy about his interference on Amy’s behalf. When he had been sure of marrying her himself, the necessity had presented itself quite clearly. She would be so much better off with Ambleside himself, who understood her so well and cared deeply for her wellbeing, that he was doing her a great favour by removing any source of confusion. Poor Amy, so easily confused! And if she were presented with more than one possible husband, there was a real risk that she might choose the first who offered.

  Since she was not, after all, to become mistress of Staynlaw House, he realised with a spasm of guilt that his high-handedness had left her only one option — her cousin, James Allamont. He was everything that Ambleside despised in a young man — a personable manner combined with a selfish and feckless character. If the late Mr Allamont had disapproved of Ambleside’s own conduct, how much more must he have disapproved of his cousin’s son? Yet far from disapproving, he had, in essence, thrust the two together by linking the inheritance of Allamont Hall to their marriage.

  And then there was Connie, another source of unease. He had never noticed her, for his eyes and heart were always turned towards Amy, but had he inadvertently led Connie to believe he had an interest in her? And if so, he knew what the correct action was — he must marry her. Amy had called him cruel, and it was indeed cruel in a man to raise hopes and expectations in a lady’s heart without answering them, even if it had been done unconsciously. ‘As a gentleman, you cannot ignore it’, Amy had said, and that cut him more than any other words of hers. Never, never let it be said that he had acted with the least impropriety.

  Then — a happy thought! Perhaps Amy was mistaken. There was just a possibility that she was wrong, or that Connie had expressed stronger hopes than she truly felt. How would he know? He must go back to Allamont Hall, and see if he could observe that affection in Miss Constance which would necessitate an offer of marriage.

  But not yet. He was not strong enough to face Amy with equanimity just yet. Perhaps, however, he could set his mind at rest at an earlier date by taking advice from one who was intimate with the family. Their cousin, Mr Henry Allamont, was the very man. He would surely know.

  No sooner had this pleasing idea occurred than he was ringing the bell violently, pacing about in agitation until the butler arrived.

  “My horse! At once!”

  ~~~~~

  It was late in the afternoon when Ambleside rode at speed up the drive at Willowbye, a time of day when those keeping country hours might already be sitting down to their dinner, and even those with pretensions to fashion would be awaiting the call to dress. Ambleside could think only of his own affairs, however, and gave not the least thought to the inconvenience of his precipitate arrival. He slithered off his horse, called impatiently to the stable lad who was already running to take the reins, and took the steps to the front door two at a time.

  He soon discovered that jangling the bell loudly and repeatedly made no impression on the speed with which his urgent summons was answered. By the time the butler had made his stately way from the nether regions of the house, Ambleside was in a lather of impatience. He could not quite bring himself to breach civility by walking straight into the house, however.

  “Is Mr Allamont at home?”

  “If you would care to step inside, sir, I will enquire.”

  Another lengthy delay while the butler vanished again had Ambleside pacing back and forth in anxious frustration. He barely noticed his surroundings, having been familiar with Willowbye from childhood. It was perhaps the oldest house in the district, some parts predating Tudor times, a rambling and decaying pile that required constant expense to prevent it falling down altogether. Inside, it had the chill, slightly musty, feel of a damp cellar.

  Eventually, the butler returned. Mr Allamont, it transpired, was indeed at home and would receive his visitor. The formal salons of the main wing of the house were too large for everyday use, so Ambleside was led through to a dark little room at the back of the house, where he found Henry Allamont, shrouded in a shawl, poking a sullen fire to life.

  “Ambleside, my dear fellow! How good of you to come. We are so out of the way here, I am obliged to you for troubling to pass this way. There, that will take now, I believe. Tibbetts, a bottle of Madeira, if you please. One of the good ones, mind.”

  There were the usual enquiries to be made regarding health, and some commiseration to offer for a scrape that one of the younger boys — Hugo, perhaps — had got into upon his return to school, before Ambleside could begin to steer the conversation towards his own concerns.

  “Connie?” Henry said, his face creased by bewilderment. “I had no notion you were thinking of Connie. But I cannot at all answer your question. Girls of that age are a mystery to me. They steal your heart when they are children, so open, so affectionate, so confiding. Then they grow into young ladies and curl up like hedgehogs so that you have not the least idea what they are about. I never know what Mary is thinking in the slightest. But she will know — about Connie, I mean.”

  Mary was sent for, and arrived rather flushed, her hair not quite in order. Probably in the kitchens, helping prepare the dinner. Ambleside knew Willowbye was sho
rt of kitchen maids, since one had just moved to Staynlaw House, for reasons his housekeeper would only hint at darkly.

  “Connie?” Mary said, when the matter was explained to her. “Surely not. I thought your interest was in Amy.”

  Her tone was so disapproving that Ambleside snapped back, “She will not have me.”

  “Amy? Not have you? Do you mean to tell me that you have offered and she has refused? Why would she do such a thing?”

  “It is not for us to enquire on such a delicate subject, Mary,” her father put in quickly. “I daresay Amy has her reasons.”

  “Nonsense!” Mary said. “Oh! Unless she is already betrothed? But no, that cannot be.”

  Ambleside sighed. Getting up, he crossed the room to stand beside the fire, one arm resting on the mantle-piece. After a spurt of energy, the fire had died down again. “She turned me down because her papa refused the match,” he said heavily. “She feels she cannot go against his explicit wishes.”

  “He refused the match? But why—?”

  “Enough, Mary,” Henry said sharply. “None of this is our concern. Mr Ambleside wishes only to know whether Connie has developed an attachment to him. Please address yourself to the question at hand.”

  She was silent for so long, chest heaving, that Ambleside began to wonder if she would answer at all. But in time she mastered her emotions and when she spoke, her voice was calm.

  “Connie has talked of it, yes. She has been… distressed by the thought that you might prefer Amy. The dinner at Graham House — they quarrelled after, which is most unlike them, and Amy and Connie were both in tears. So Belle told me.” Then, she added quickly, “But I do not believe you have done anything to encourage such ideas in her. It is all her fancy.”

  “Who quarrelled?” Henry said. “Amy and Connie?”

  Before Mary could do more than shake her head, Ambleside burst out, “Amy would never quarrel with anyone.” Then more softly he added, “She is such a gentle soul, she would not say a word against her sister.”