“Amy will find a husband to take care of her, you may be sure.”
“Will she? For I have selfishly driven away all her best options. I thought I was acting in her best interests, but now it is clear that I have destroyed her prospects of a good match. My wretched impulsiveness! It will be the ruin of me, I am certain. Whether I marry Connie or not, I should like to be assured that Amy will have every chance of finding a husband worthy of her.”
“Sometimes a little impulsiveness is no bad thing. As for Amy, all she needs is a little change of scenery, I believe, and fresher society.” Miss Endercott chuckled. “Now there I might be able to help out. No, do not worry about Amy, Mr Ambleside.”
~~~~~
Now that he had a plan, after a fashion, for testing Connie’s attachment to him, he lost no time in putting it into operation. The very next day, he dressed with unusual care and directly after breakfast rode to Allamont Hall. The day was warm for late spring, the air heavy with the threat of rain, and he was glad to hand his horse to a willing stable boy. Inside the house, the rooms were cool, with windows wide open to admit a refreshing breeze.
In the drawing room, the doors were open to the terrace, although the ladies were all indoors. To his relief, Amy was not there. The hour was so early that he guessed she was still engaged in her lessons. Belle and Miss Bellows were absent, too. But the four younger Miss Allamonts were there, sitting round a table with feathers and ribbons and bonnets and lace. Four pairs of eyes gazed at him with interest.
“You are early today, Mr Ambleside,” said one of them. Was it Grace? He rather thought it was. She giggled, and that set all of them twittering, like a flock of birds.
He managed a small smile. “The day is a fine one, and I wished to take advantage of it. I cannot tell how, for I did not direct him, but my horse came here of his own volition.”
That set them off again.
Now that his mind was made up, he was disinclined for polite nothings in the drawing room. Better by far to get it over with. “Do you not find it too warm to sit inside? May I tempt you to walk with me on the terrace, Miss Constance?”
They knew, of course. Connie blushed crimson, and the others all looked at her, wide-eyed, and then at Ambleside. He hoped it would discourage them from joining the party, and so it transpired, for after only the slightest show of reluctance, Connie jumped up, took his arm and walked sedately beside him through the open doors, the others whispering as they left.
“We will walk across to the far side,” he murmured. “That way we shall remain within sight of your sisters.”
He had not thought much about the words he would use. He knew he ought to speak of love, but he could not bring himself to use the word. Instead, he talked of admiration and esteem and devotion, for he was certain he would be devoted to his wife, in time. Then he pointed out the advantages of the match, his income and house, and how she must like to be so near to her old home.
She laughed a lot and cried a little, and once jumped with excitement, all the while clinging to his arm. As soon as he got to the question itself, she burst out, “Oh yes! Yes please! Oh yes!”
Her delight was so infectious that as the two walked back into the house together, the lady radiant with happiness, the gentleman’s smile was entirely genuine.
With the excited babbling of the other girls, and a stiff but mercifully brief interview with Lady Sara, followed by champagne and a summoning of all the indoors servants so that Connie might be congratulated, the morning sped by. It was only as Ambleside rode home, trying to forget Amy’s wan face when she shook his hand and wished him joy, that he realised he had said nothing of the late Mr Allamont’s views on such a marriage, nor had he told Connie anything of his natural daughter.
He had an uneasy feeling that he had made a mess of things again. So much he should have explained, just as he had done with Amy. At the thought of her, he closed his eyes, letting grief wash over him. What a fool he was, to be so ridiculously downhearted, even though he knew he was doing the right thing. He reminded himself of Connie’s face, lit up by happiness. When the threatened rain became reality, he returned to Staynlaw House drenched, his mood as grim as the weather, and only a long soak in the bath and several glasses of brandy restored him to some semblance of equanimity.
~~~~~
Amy’s feelings upon hearing of her sister’s betrothal may be imagined. She was called from the study of a difficult Bible text by the housekeeper bearing the joyful news, her face wreathed in smiles. Even though Amy had known it must come soon, still it was a blow. Despite all her efforts to consider Mr Ambleside as the rightful property of her sister, somehow she could not help thinking of him as hers alone. Now he was indeed Connie’s.
When she made her way to the drawing room, the happiness on Connie’s face lifted Amy’s spirits. Truly Mr Ambleside was well loved, and Connie would make him an admirable wife! And there was another reason for pleasure in the smiles of pride and delight on his face, too, as he looked down at his bride and patted her hand where it rested on his arm. Amy could not be downcast when the match brought such patent joy to both parties.
Then Mr Ambleside glanced up and caught her eye, and a shadow crossed his features. She could not interpret his expression, but it was certainly not a joyful one. There was a bleakness in it that almost broke her heart.
Once Mr Ambleside had retreated to ponder his triumph at home, the sisters gathered around the worktable again, although little work was done that day.
“I always knew how it would be!” Dulcie said. “Did I not say so? Did I not tell you from the first that he loved Connie and no other?” She threw a sideways look at Amy. “There were those who said it was otherwise, but I could tell. How happy you will be, Connie!”
“We must ask Mama about wedding clothes,” Grace said. “She will need a great many, I am sure.”
“There is plenty of time for that,” Belle said. “Connie cannot marry yet, after all. We must get Amy settled first. And then me,” she added in a low tone.
“Oh, such fustian!” Dulcie said. “For Ambleside must be so rich that Connie’s portion is of no consequence, so that does not signify.”
The others all protested. “No, indeed,” Grace said. “For if Connie marries out of turn, we all lose our dowries, and that will not do. Not unless Mr Ambleside is so in love that he will recompense each of us for the full amount in order to marry the sooner.”
Even Dulcie, Connie’s most stalwart supporter, could not quite engage Mr Ambleside for such a vast sum.
“At least with a long betrothal, you will have time to put Staynlaw House in order,” Grace said, and this started another train of interesting speculation.
Amy said little, for although she was happy for Connie, she did not feel herself equal to the task of appearing so. She was troubled, too, by the knowledge she had kept from her sister. She and Belle had agreed to say nothing of Mr Ambleside’s revelations regarding his natural daughter, and that had seemed like the proper decision at the time. Now she wondered whether she ought to have warned Connie, for she could not discover that Mr Ambleside had said anything of the matter to her himself.
Belle had no doubt that they had acted correctly. “It is for Ambleside himself to tell her as much or as little as he chooses,” she said. “It may be that, since his dealings with Papa only concerned you, he considers that he has no obligation to tell her of it at all. Or he may not wish to,” she added sadly, “since it caused you to refuse him. Perhaps he will not risk another refusal, for imagine how humiliating that must be for a man, to be rejected by two sisters one after the other!”
“What about… how I feel?” Amy whispered. “Should I tell her of that?” The two were in bed, with the candle blown out, although there was still a little light left to see by.
“You must say nothing, I believe,” Belle said. “What can possibly be gained by it? Only a quarrel with Connie, and none of us wish that. No, Ambleside is engaged to Connie now, and we must try ou
r best to be happy for them both, and do all in our power to make them so. And you, dear sister, must bring Cousin James to the point. Or find another husband, if you choose.”
“If I choose? What choice do I have? None! We meet so few people, we go nowhere and every likely possibility has turned away from me, for one reason or another. And even James…”
“Even James?” Belle said gently.
“Have you not noticed? James comes less often, and pays me less attention than before. I shall lose him, too, and then what am I to do? No one wants me!”
“Dear Amy! You will find a husband, in time. Many families are in London for the season just now, but when they return to the country we shall receive more invitations. Once we are out of mourning, we shall be able to attend the public balls in Brinchester again, remember.”
“The Assembly Room balls? I have been going there for ever, without receiving a single offer. Besides, I do not much like public balls. I should far sooner go to a house party, like those Mama goes to sometimes — Hepplestone, or Tambray Hall, or even Glenbrindle. I should dearly like to see Scotland! And it would be so comfortable, do you not think, to be amongst family and their invited guests, and not crowded into those stuffy Assembly Rooms with any number of strangers who got in by subscription.”
Belle smiled at her. “I do not like balls any more than you do, sister, but we shall never be invited by any of Mama’s relations, I fear. The rift with Papa went too deep.”
“Then I shall never be married,” Amy said tearfully. “And neither will Connie. Hope will never marry Mr Burford. We shall all die as old maids.”
Amy wept for a long time that night.
She woke early, her temples aching and her eyes heavy. Her head was still spinning with a multitude of thoughts, so she crept out of bed, threw on a robe and slipped out of the room without disturbing Belle. The junior servants were already up, creeping round the house with buckets of coal to sweep and relay the fires, throwing open curtains and clearing half-full glasses of brandy. Amy knew their routine, so she was well able to avoid being seen.
A narrow corridor past the day nursery, now a school room, led to the curving passage to the chapel, sitting silent and disregarded above the kitchens. Once upon a time there had been a resident chaplain, and the household had not needed to walk to the church at Lower Brinford. Amy’s father had dispensed with the chaplain, his large stipend and his even larger appetite for mutton and port. The chapel remained, seldom used, but still a refuge for those who needed it.
Amy seldom saw anyone else at prayer, although occasionally she disturbed a scullery maid or chamber maid weeping over some slight or imagined injury. They always jumped up and scuttled away when she arrived. Today the chapel was empty. Amy sat in her accustomed place, and let her thoughts chase themselves round in her head, however they chose.
Foremost in her mind was the dreadful prospect of eternal spinsterhood. She and all her sisters would grow old and wrinkled and infirm without ever knowing the pleasures of marriage. She was not quite sure what these were, for running a household seemed impossibly difficult, and having children was a dangerous and frightening business, but all ladies wished to be married so it must be a wonderful state. Indeed, if she could have married Mr Ambleside, she was sure it would have been excessively pleasant, for had he not said that he would take care of her, and relieve her of all anxiety? But that started her crying all over again, for it was Connie who would now be so well taken care of.
She wished now that she had taken better advantage of her season in London. Not that it was a full season — not much more than a month, shared with Belle, but that was all the time Aunt Lucy could spare away from her busy life in Liverpool. And that was very curious, that Aunt Lucy had come all the way from Liverpool and rented a house and taken them about, when Mama and Papa had not gone to London at all, not then and not later, either. They had both said that they hated the place, and Aunt Lucy had no children of her own so why should she not? But Aunt Lucy had got quite cross about it, and there was some difficulty over money, and after that Aunt Lucy had gone back to Liverpool and all visits came to an end. None of the younger sisters had had a proper season at all.
Yet now Mama was quite happy to go to London, spending weeks at a time there, and returning with such a bloom on her cheeks that no one could doubt her enjoyment of the capital. Perhaps, then, she would now countenance a proper season for some of her daughters? Or a visit, at least. Aunt Tilly lived there, after all, Mama’s own sister, and even if Mama herself did not wish to go, they could stay with Aunt Tilly. The daughter of an earl must be a perfectly acceptable chaperon and guide to the entertainments of the city.
Or if not London, perhaps Mama might take one or two of them with her when next she stayed with her father or brother. Amy had so often wished to see Hepplestone or Tambray Hall, for she had heard so much of them from Mama. Hepplestone was even mentioned in one or two illustrated guides as being one of the finest houses in England.
This seemed such an eminently reasonable plan, that Amy determined to ask her mother directly to arrange it. So, later that morning, when William returned from the village with the day’s post, she took her mother’s letters and parcels up to her sitting room.
“Your letters, Mama. Several today. And three parcels — more new books, I believe. May we read them when you have finished with them? For I am sure Belle has read everything in Papa’s collection three times over.”
Lady Sara was sitting at her desk, writing a letter, but she slid it under the blotter when Amy entered.
“You are very prying, Amy, to ask what is in my post. And if these are the books I am expecting, they would not interest you. Put them over there. I cannot think what you are about to be bringing them yourself. That is what the servants are paid for. They get lazy and slovenly if they have too little to do.”
“Yes, Mama. I beg your pardon. I did not think.”
“You never do think, Amy, that is the trouble. Now run along.”
“Mama…”
Lady Sara set her pen down with a sigh. “What is it now?”
“I wondered, Mama, whether you might ask Lord Harkwood if I might be invited to Hepplestone? Or perhaps Uncle Edmund might ask me to Tambray Hall.” Seeing her mother’s astonished face, she rushed on, “Or Aunt Tilly, you know. I think it would be good for me, and perhaps I might meet some gentlemen and… and…”
“What an extraordinary idea! I never heard the like. Amy, if you have frightened away all your suitors, there is very little to be done.”
“But until I marry, none of my sisters can. And we know so few gentlemen here. I thought…” She bobbed a curtsy. “I beg your pardon, Mama, but I thought you might wish to help.”
Lady Sara turned and looked fully at her daughter. “I have always done my duty towards you girls. I ensured that when you went into society, you were correctly dressed, you knew how to behave, you did not disgrace me. I have taken you to balls and dinners and other evening engagements, and when our mourning is over, I shall do so again. No one could reproach me for any neglect of my daughters. You have every opportunity to meet eligible gentlemen within our present society, and your father has left you very well provided for — surprisingly so, in fact. It is now for you to use your dowry and your charms to secure an offer of marriage.”
“Papa always said it would be for you to find us husbands, but perhaps he was mistaken on that point.”
“Your father was mistaken about many things.”
“Oh no! Surely not!” Amy cried out before she could stop herself.
Lady Sara smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Ah, Amy, you think your father was a saint, do you not? A fount of all wisdom and a paragon of virtue. Well, you may disabuse yourself of such ideas. He was a small-minded, vindictive, selfish and tight-fisted little man. I hated him. You and your sisters are his progeny, made in his image, raised according to his precepts, not mine, for he would never allow me near you. Every time I look at any of
you, I am reminded of your father. I will not allow you to contaminate the purity of my family with the Allamont taint. The sooner you are all married and away from here, the better. Now go away.”
17: Staynlaw House
Disbelieving, Amy fled. She was too shocked to weep. Instead, she went to her father’s book room. Shutting the door behind her, she leaned against it and gazed around the room as if she had never seen it before. When he was alive, her father had dominated the space to such an extent that she had seen little beyond his face, with its heavy brows and stern mouth, his bulky shoulders and bony knees, and the chair that was as much a part of him as his clothes. Now, the room was empty and lifeless, the air stifling and musty. The curtains were pulled back but no windows opened to freshen the room.
Amy crossed the floor and pushed open the casement. At once a breeze with the faint scent of roses drifted in, lifting the curtain edges, since the servants had not bothered to tie them back. Slowly she walked round the room, noticing the half-empty display cabinets, the books set sideways on the shelves to fill the space, the lack of pictures. It had never struck her before how bare the room was.
She found herself at the far end of the room, behind her father’s mahogany desk. The high-backed chair was still draped in black crepe, the Bible on the desk untouched, the ribbon marking the reading unmoved since the autumn. Her mother, she presumed, had given no orders to the servants, and so everything was just as it had been left, just as it had been when her father was alive.
As she stood there, she could see him in her mind sitting in his chair behind the desk, reading from the Bible as he did each morning and evening, his voice authoritative, certain, his finger stabbing at the most significant passages. On the other side of the desk, her mother sitting serenely in her ornate chair, then the sisters on two rows of plainer chairs, two of them empty for Ernest and Frank. Behind them, the servants standing in silence. On her chair near the door, Miss Bellows, neither family nor servant.
Amy (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 1) Page 15
