Amy (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 1)

by Mary Kingswood

  The high-backed chair drew her to it. Without thought, she slid her hands over the back, the arms, the seat. Then she pulled it away from the desk, moved the crepe aside and sat down, her hands resting on the desk. A year ago, a month ago, even a few hours ago she would never have dared. But her world had tilted out of alignment, and nothing was certain any longer. Was her father an evil man? Her mother had said she hated him. Mary had called him a beast, and hinted that she knew something wicked about him.

  She had to know. One by one, she slid open the desk drawers. Ink bottles, pens and wipers. Paper. A ruler. Several books of household accounts. A number of snuff boxes, which was odd, for Papa had never taken snuff. A book of drawings of men and women in strangely contorted attitudes. A leather strap — ah, she knew what that was. Papa had never used it on her or her sisters, but poor Ernest and Frank had been punished from time to time, and the servants, too, when they transgressed. A drawer full of bills, each marked ‘Paid’ in her father’s neat handwriting. Some metal chains and loops — she could not guess their purpose. Several bottles and lozenge boxes prescribed by Mr Torrington. A set of keys. Three drawers were locked but the keys would not fit.

  Nothing else. No letters, business or personal.

  Amy stood again, carefully replacing the chair exactly as it was, so the legs rested in shallow indentations on the carpet. Now she examined the bookshelves, but there was nothing new there. Sermons and other religious texts, a few philosophical works, some histories. A few ornaments. On the lowest shelf, the red books. She could never remember seeing her father reading, except from the Bible or a book of sermons, but the red books — those were always out on the desk. In them, he kept detailed records of their lessons, of texts read and translated, of tests set, questions asked and answered correctly, of musical works performed to satisfaction. Everything was recorded, from the moment of her birth onwards, her height measured, food consumed, first steps taken, every mishap set down for posterity.

  She opened one at random. From the date, she was five years old. Her lessons for the day were counting, walking in a straight line with a book balanced on her head, and an exercise on the pianoforte. Then practice writing letters and numbers, and an hour with the atlas, learning the major rivers of England. The nursery tea that day was —

  The door flew open and the housekeeper flew in, rushing across to the casement window. Leaning out, she pulled it shut with a snap. Only when she turned to leave did she see Amy at the other end of the room.

  “Oh, Miss Allamont! I did not see you there. Beg pardon, but one of the gardeners noticed the window open. I shall make sure the housemaids are more careful in future.”

  “I opened the window, Miller,” Amy said. “In future, please ensure this room is thoroughly aired each day. Also, you may tell the housemaids to remove the crepe from Mr Allamont’s chair.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  She curtsied deeply as Amy swept out of the room.

  ~~~~~

  Two days later, a groom rode over from the White House with a note for Amy.

  “My dear Miss Allamont, I beg you will do me the favour of dining with me this evening. I have a young relative staying with me who would very much enjoy your company, if you would be so obliging. My carriage will collect you at five. Augusta Humbleforth.”

  “Ooh, Amy!” Dulcie whispered. “A young relative? Is it the Marquess? It must be the Marquess. Is the Dowager Countess match-making, do you suppose?”

  “Nonsense!” Amy said, laughing. “I am no match for a Marquess. I daresay Lady Humbleforth has a great many young relatives.”

  “But none of them have ever visited her in the five years of her residence in Lower Brinford,” Connie pointed out. “It is curious. I wonder what it signifies.”

  “That she has a visitor to entertain,” Belle said. “Let us not imagine there is more to this than actually exists.”

  “True,” Grace said. “Lady Humbleforth is so old that she may not want to be bothered making conversation in the evening, so she invites Amy to take care of it.”

  “But what am I to say to this relative, whoever he might be?” Amy said. “He will be very grand, and I shall have no notion what might interest him.”

  “Any relative of the Dowager Countess will be a true aristocrat,” Belle said. “He will lead the conversation, never fear. You need only be your usual charming self.”

  “Besides, it might be a female,” Hope said.

  Amy brightened. “Very true. That is more likely, is it not? But even so, she will be dreadfully grand, I am certain of it.”

  But when Amy was shown into the Dowager Countess’ drawing room that evening, she found a young lady who was anything but grand. The Lady Harriet Marford was three and twenty, with a head of dark curls, mischievous eyes and a warm smile.

  “Miss Allamont, I am so glad to see you here, you cannot imagine. Here I am, quite prepared for a quiet house party, with no more than twenty or thirty guests, only to find that there are not even enough of us in the house to make up a four at whist! And my great-aunt and Miss Durrell, I find, have the strongest desire to snooze by the fire after dinner, whereas I must have conversation or music or… or something, or I should go quite mad. It cannot be borne, and so I asked my great-aunt to find me a companion for their sleeping hours. And here you are to take pity on me, and I do believe you will do charmingly for the purpose.”

  Amy had scarce got through the door when this deluge of words fell upon her ears. She smiled back at Lady Harriet with equal warmth, for she understood at once that this was not to be the ordeal she had feared. At no point would there be such a lull in the conversation as to require her to scramble for an interesting topic, for the lady would undertake that role entirely.

  “Come and sit here, Miss Allamont, and tell me all about yourself. I see you are in half-mourning too. Who is it for?”

  “My father.”

  “Oh, I am sorry for it. You must miss him dreadfully.”

  Amy was not quite sure how to answer her. She missed the routine, the certainty of knowing what she must be about every hour of the day and what dress to put on each morning. She liked not having to make even such small decisions. But her father himself? She recalled his stern face, his eyes boring into her, the way his fingers tapped on his knee when she took too long to answer a question. She was no longer sure what she felt about him.

  “Everything is different now,” she murmured.

  “Ah, yes, indeed. A household is never the same without a man at its head. With me, it was my mama, but you may spare your condolences, for she had been ill these many years, and it was quite a blessing when the Lord finally decided to take her to Himself. However, it means I am not able to go to town this season, which is a great bore, especially as all my brothers are away from Drummoor at present. The two eldest are tearing about the countryside around the Marquess’ hunting lodge, one is at Oxford and the three youngest are still at school.” She heaved a dramatic sigh. “What dear Mama was thinking of to bring six boys into the world, I cannot imagine. Two would have been more than adequate for the purpose, and a sister or two would have made me so comfortable. And you have five sisters, I hear? You lucky thing! I envy you enormously! Tell me all about them.”

  That evening was one of the pleasantest Amy had passed in many weeks. There was no time to dwell upon her troubles, for Lady Harriet swept her along on a raging torrent of chatter. Amy found it all vastly entertaining. Lady Harriet was sister to the Marquess of Carrbridge, and able to amuse Amy with endless little snippets about him and his brothers, and life at Drummoor in general.

  When Amy explained that she and her sisters had begun to wonder whether the Marquess actually existed, Lady Harriet shrieked with laughter.

  “That is such a good joke! How should you know, indeed, for you have never seen the man. You may take my word for it that he is all too real. I would wish, on occasions, that he were less than real, for he can be the most dreadful tease, as all brothers are. Oh,
but you would not know of such matters, you lucky, lucky thing! Did you hear that, Great-Aunt? Miss Durrell? The Miss Allamonts have never met Dev, and began to suspect him to be a made-up creature, you know. Is it not a good joke? I shall tell him all about it when next I see him.”

  The Dowager Countess smiled and nodded, but said little, although Amy noticed the old lady’s eyes often rested on her. But she could not guess what it might mean.

  ~~~~~

  Mr Ambleside took his time preparing the next stage of his plan, for he felt he had rushed into the engagement too quickly and was determined not to make the same mistake twice. So it was a fortnight before he took Connie to see Staynlaw House. He went to collect her in the carriage, together with Miss Bellows for propriety, and allowed her to chatter in her artless way for the whole journey. Only once did he interrupt, when she talked of setting up her own carriage.

  “That will not be necessary, my dear, and the additional expense is more than I engage for. This one is perfectly adequate for all common purposes. If you need to use the carriage, you may always ask, and if I do not need it myself, I shall be happy to oblige you.”

  “Oh. Very well. But may I have a horse of my own?”

  “We shall see. Something sedate enough for these lanes might be acceptable, but I should not like to see you make a spectacle of yourself on the hunting field.”

  “Oh. A spectacle?”

  “A spectacle,” he said firmly.

  She was a little subdued after that, but Connie’s moods never lasted for more than two minutes at a time, and she was soon in full flow again.

  He noticed that she was wearing rather a fetching gown, the colour entirely suitable for half-mourning, but rather more heavily trimmed than he considered proper. The bonnet looked new, as well, with a rather extravagant feather to one side. She and her sisters had been busy accommodating her new status.

  The servants were lined up on the drive to greet their future mistress. Connie’s eyes were round at the numbers. She was not to know how many of the farm workers had been deployed to stand as grooms and under-gardeners for the day, and their wives as scullery maids. Ambleside made her walk down the entire line, as he named each of them and described their work in some detail. It took an hour. By the end of it, Connie was clinging to his arm rather desperately.

  Then there was the tour of the house, beginning with the cellars and working upwards through the kitchens to the principal apartments, and then to the bedrooms, trailed by the silent Miss Bellows, the housekeeper and butler. Connie was white with exhaustion by the time they arrived at one room, darker than the rest, and fitted with heavy, old-fashioned furniture.

  “This was my dear mama’s room,” Ambleside said. “She passed away in that very bed, and the room has been left unchanged ever since. Nothing has been altered. This will be your room once we are married, my dear. I know you will be delighted to follow in my mother’s hallowed footsteps.”

  “It is… a little gloomy,” she said tentatively.

  “Gloomy? It is exactly as my beloved mama wished it to be.”

  “Perhaps a lighter paper on the walls?”

  “Certainly not! Nothing in this room must be changed, not one thing. It would be disrespectful to her memory. Now, you have seen all the rooms, I believe, so let us repair to the book room, and I will instruct you on your duties, and explain how I will expect you to look after my comfort. I have devised a simple scheme for the arrangement of menus for all meals, and so long as you follow it precisely, we shall get along famously. Economy is important, of course, for although I have a comfortable income, there is no excuse whatsoever for waste, and I shall expect a full and accurate reckoning of every household expenditure, down to the last piece of string. One can never be too meticulous in managing money, would you not agree, my dear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Connie said, her tone subdued, for she had never managed two farthings in her entire life. She walked meekly down the stairs by his side, her head down.

  Ambleside’s heart misgave him at this point. The poor child looked so despondent that his conscience was afire. But he must not give way to sympathy now. That would be fatal. It was essential to hold his nerve in order to test the steadiness of her affection for him.

  So he sat her down in the book room and harangued her on the subject of household economics until he detected tears in her eyes, and thought it best to send for refreshments. Over a carefully-planned array of unappetising dishes, which she picked at in a desultory fashion, he explained in exhaustive detail his thoughts on the raising of children.

  In the carriage on the way back to Allamont Hall, she said not a single word, so he took the opportunity to advise her that, as a married man, he would have many business affairs to take care of which would necessitate him being away a great deal.

  “But you will not mind that, I daresay. It will give you ample opportunity to get into the way of running the house exactly as I wish it, for I am sure you would not want to disappoint me. Yes, we shall do very well together, my dear, do you not agree?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And your gown — something plainer would be more appropriate for our station. I should not wish you to be aping your superiors in the matter of dress.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He nodded, satisfied.

  18: An Invitation

  Amy’s new friend insisted on her attendance every day at the White House.

  When the weather was fine, they strolled arm in arm around the extensive grounds and Amy became animated, naming each plant or, on the rare occasions when she could not, applying to the head gardener for clarification. Then there was the planting of the beds to admire, the neatness of box hedging and topiary, the splendour of the early roses and some happy arrangements in the shrubbery. It was the only occasion when Lady Harriet stopped talking for any length of time.

  When it rained, they sat indoors, reading aloud to each other, playing easy duets on the pianoforte and examining the latest fashions in the journals sent from London. Once, Lady Harriet taught her to play billiards, and another day they wrote very bad poetry, which had them both shrieking with laughter.

  On one occasion, the Dowager Countess showed them her collection of snuff boxes.

  “Not that I ever took snuff,” she said. “I acquired them as beautiful objects. See the inlay on this one? It is exquisite, is it not?”

  “They are very beautiful,” Amy said. “Papa must have liked them, too, for I found several in his desk just as beautiful as these.”

  The Dowager Countess turned searching eyes on her. “Is that so?” There was a long pause. “It may be — and I could be wrong, but it is just possible that I lent some of my own collection to your Papa. If so, I should be happy to have them back. Now this blue one, this was given to me by — well, I had better not say the name, for you girls might be shocked by the company I kept when I was young. And this — ah, I almost married him! So handsome and charming, but not a feather to fly with.”

  Amy understood, of course. Papa must have stolen the snuff boxes, and it would have been easy enough to do, for they were laid out on tables quite openly. She should have been shocked, but she knew her father a little better now, and such a revelation merely left her sad. The following day, she took the snuff boxes with her and the Dowager Countess accepted them with delight, put them back where they belonged and nothing more was said.

  Each afternoon, the carriage took Amy home to change, then returned her to the White House in time for dinner. She had not looked at a passage of Greek for days, or practised upon the harp, or read her current history book, leaving the Plantagenets stranded in the middle of the Hundred Years War. Occasionally, when Lady Harriet stopped talking long enough to take a breath, Amy wondered if she should feel guilty, but she was enjoying herself too much to repine for the routine left behind. She had never in her life before given herself over entirely to pleasure, and it was delightful. Besides, she told herself, she was only obliging Lady Harriet, and
this wonderful interlude would be over soon enough.

  Even Sunday, usually a quiet day of no visits or excursions, enlivened only by the Endercotts and Mr Burford at dinner, Amy was not allowed to escape. Instead, she was conveyed to the White House even earlier than usual, to accompany them to the splendid church at Higher Brinford. Fortunately for Amy’s peace of mind, Mr Ambleside’s pew was empty, since he had taken to spending Sundays with Connie. She understood why, when the clergyman gave such a dull sermon that she almost fell asleep.

  Eventually the day came when she arrived at the White House to find Lady Harriet waving a letter. “Can you believe it, my dear friend, but I am summoned back to Drummoor. Gil has been sent home from school with some spotty disorder or other, and the housekeeper does not wish him to expire without one of the family at his side.”

  “Gracious!” Amy said. “Is it so bad as that?”

  “By no means, but he will not listen to the servants at all. He will only keep to his bed if I am there to scold him to it. So I must go, and tomorrow, I fear.”

  “Of course. I understand. May I help you to pack?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Oh. I daresay your maid will do it.”

  Lady Harriet laughed. “I have no maid here. No, you will not be able to help me pack because you will be attending to your own packing.”

  “My own…? But I am not going anywhere!”

  “Of course you are, dear Amy. I cannot possibly spare you yet, so you will come with me to Drummoor, I am quite decided. Is that not the most delicious plan?”

  Amy could not utter a word, so shocked was she. Lady Harriet laughed and laughed, and, linking her arm through Amy’s, began to tell her all the many delights of Drummoor which she would soon see. Eventually, Amy managed to say, “Th-thank you! Thank you so much, Lady Harriet!”

  “You must call me Harriet, for are we not good friends? But now you must go home and tell your maid to pack. Bring everything, for the travelling coach has room for any number of boxes.”