Dulcie (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 4)

by Kingswood, Mary

  “Or perhaps they undertake those duties a little too forcefully,” she said, remembering with a shiver her father’s strictness, and the terror she had often felt in his company. He had been so rigid in the rules he set, which had to be obeyed in the smallest regard, with no latitude permitted. So much of each day had passed in fearful obedience. Was it any wonder that her tongue occasionally betrayed her when released from that control, and her thoughts were not always pleasant? But her father no longer ruled her life, and she could curb her waywardness if she tried, she was sure. A bubble of hope rose inside her, making her smile with delight. “You encourage me, cousin,” she said to Mark. “I shall improve, I am determined on it, and I have made a start already. My stay at the cottage has been salutary.”

  He patted her hand. “We can all improve, cousin. Even James has become more settled since his marriage.”

  “So I have observed,” Dulcie said. “He has grown dull, too. Alice is a good influence on him, or perhaps it is the responsibility of fatherhood that mellows him.”

  “Fatherhood and marriage generally,” Mark said. “The state of matrimony is a calming influence on anyone. See how settled Amy and Belle are, and Connie, too. Now it is your turn, cousin. You might do worse than to consider Lord Kilbraith, perhaps? That would be a good match for you.”

  “I believe his interests lie elsewhere,” Dulcie said, laughing. “He asked most particularly after Mary earlier.”

  “Ah, did he so? But that is not likely to come to anything, for she has no dowry to speak of.”

  “He does not impress me as a man who would let such a trivial detail become an obstacle.”

  “No, but his father might. Lord Kilbraith is the heir now, he must take thought for the wellbeing of the estate and the family line, not merely his own desires. Your dowry would be a welcome addition to any man’s income. I have to tell you, Dulcie, that my father is pressing me to pursue you and your dowry, now that James is no longer available.”

  She laughed at his woebegone face. “And you have no inclination? Not even with the possibility of inheriting the Hall if my brothers cannot be found? Should I be offended, Mark?”

  He gave a wry smile. “I should have not the slightest objection, my dear cousin. Quite the contrary, I assure you. I am convinced that we should deal famously together, and if I felt for one moment that such an outcome might appeal to you, I should be courting you in good earnest. However, I am truly hesitant to offer for a lady who is so far above me in wealth and prospects. You will dazzle the ton in London, I make no doubt, and will find yourself a far better husband than I should ever be.”

  She could find no answer to that. She had never particularly liked the wild Mark, but at least he been entertaining company. The pompous man he had become was even less to her taste.

  As they filed into the dining room, Mark was forgotten as her heart skipped about at the thought of a proper London season, with a presentation at court, and balls and masquerades and plays and all manner of exciting events, with herself the admired centre of attention. It was a delightful dream, and she could hardly wait for the months to pass by.

  ~~~~~

  Alex watched the other dinner guests without great interest. Most of them he had met many times before, and they offered no novelty to amuse him. He was seated between Lady Sara’s guest, Mr Eddington, and Mr Torrington, the physician, neither of whom seemed inclined to talk to him, so his thoughts and his gaze were equally free to wander. Both were much occupied with Maxwell. Happy as he was to see his old friend again, Alex could not help but wonder why he had come to Allamont Hall at all. He had never visited his mother’s family before, and if he had chosen to do so, the first approach should surely have been to Lady Sara’s father, the Earl of Harkwood, as head of the family.

  Yet here he was. On his way back from the Peninsula to take up his duty as heir to the Strathmorran estate, a matter of some moment, and his family no doubt anxious to have their son restored to them, he had diverted so far out of his way to visit his mother’s sister. She was delighted to see him, that was plain enough to see, her usually serene face alight with joy. She had such a languid manner as a rule, but this evening she laughed and smiled and cast fond glances on her nephew. Alex had never seen her so animated. She was so engrossed in her kinsman that she was almost neglectful of the Marquess, sitting on her other side. It was curious.

  He noticed Mr Eddington momentarily unoccupied, and said, “Lady Sara is in spirits tonight, do you not think?”

  “Yes, indeed. She most certainly is, sir.” Eddington was a nondescript man of some fifty years, dressed soberly but without any pretension to style or elegance. He was an unlikely guest at Allamont Hall, for he made no secret that the source of his wealth was in trade. But then, there was no accounting for the whims and foibles of someone of Lady Sara’s standing in society. Great ladies often took strange fancies.

  Feeling an obligation to make an effort for a guest to the house, Alex said, “Have you known her ladyship long?”

  Was it his imagination or was that a wary look in Eddington’s eyes? “A little while, sir, a little while.”

  “You met in London, I understand? When Lady Sara stayed with the Lady Matilda.”

  Now the expression was definitely wary. “In London, yes. In London.”

  Alex was too polite to pursue a line of questioning that clearly unsettled Eddington, so he tried a different subject. “What think you of Lord Kilbraith? He is a fine young man, is he not? No wonder his aunt is so proud of her new-found nephew.”

  “I wonder he comes here at all,” Mr Eddington said in pained tones, suddenly animated. “All these years with not a visit nor a word, and then he turns up and expects to be welcomed into the family as if he’d never been away. It’s very odd, and so I tell you, sir.”

  Eddington’s attention was diverted just then by a dish of quail’s eggs, and not another word did Alex get out of him for the rest of the meal.

  When the ladies had withdrawn, the talk veered onto the topic of horses. It was not a subject that Alex could listen to without pain, so he turned his thoughts inward. He was luxuriating in a glass of excellent port, and ruminating with gratitude over the small pleasures which his present circumscribed life still afforded, when the Marquess came to sit beside him. Alex had thought him something of a coxcomb at first, but he had shown such concern over Jess’s illness that Alex had come to view him in a much more favourable light.

  “May I have the benefit of your opinion on a matter, Drummond?”

  “Of course, my lord, although I am not sure how much value there is in the opinion of a schoolmaster to a marquess.”

  He afforded Alex one of his lazy smiles. “I shall be the judge of that, if you please. It is about the girls’ dowries.”

  “I know nothing of that.”

  “No, but you are a man of learning, Drummond, and I would wager you know more of the monetary world than most of these fellows. Here is the issue. The girls’ father left one hundred thousand pounds, to be divided between them. You know all about that, I am sure, for it is far from secret. The money sits in an account somewhere, and no doubt is invested in the three percents or some such, so it will increase a little each year, but only a little. However, Burford’s solicitor brother, whose partner manages the account, told Miss Allamont that great sums are deposited every week — every week, mark you — by a man who goes into the bank and hands over a bag of coins. And Mrs Ambleside’s dowry was twenty thousand, Mrs Burford’s was twenty-one thousand and now my future wife will get more than twenty-two thousand, and none of us can understand it at all. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

  “I have not. That is most curious. And no one knows who this man is?”

  “He has never given a name.”

  “Yet he goes to the bank every week? Then if you want to know who he is and what he is up to, you need only watch out for him going in to the bank, and then follow him home afterwards.”

  “But we do not
know what he looks like,” the Marquess objected.

  “The people at the bank do, for they see him often. If you can persuade them to alert you when this man arrives—”

  “Of course! That should be easy enough.”

  “Really? I have always found bankers to be extraordinarily close-mouthed.”

  “Ah, but you would be astonished to discover just what people will do to please a marquess. Well, it astonishes me sometimes, I can tell you. Excellent! Burford and Mrs Burford are to stay with his brother for a week or two later this month in this God-forsaken town in Shropshire where the money is held, and it would only be neighbourly to drop by and say hello, do you not think?”

  Alex laughed at his effrontery. “So you will tell them you just happened to be passing the door, I suppose? In Shropshire?”

  “Phooey, it is not so far, and I have a fine pair to my curricle who need their legs stretching now and again. What do you say, Drummond? You will be kicking your heels for a while, with all your pupils gone for the summer. Should you like to spend a few days in Shropshire?”

  “I should like it of all things. I cannot express my gratitude—”

  “Nonsense. This sort of adventure is much more amusing with company, but my brothers are all larking about elsewhere, and it is not the thing to take Miss Connie with me, much as I should like to — staying at inns and so forth, such a performance with maids and chaperons and hatboxes and the Lord only knows what else besides. But you seem like a sensible sort, Drummond. I shall depend on you to keep me out of mischief.”

  “I shall do my very best, Lord Carrbridge.”

  And Alex was too pleased at the prospect of a change of scenery to worry over the kind of mischief a marquess might get up to.

  8: Sunday

  Alex rode home in the Allamont carriage in a happy frame of mind. He was not even too disappointed at the need to leave early to ensure the coachman and groom were back at the Hall before the start of the Sabbath. He half-listened to Miss Endercott’s murmurings while his mind was gleefully anticipating his trip to Shropshire. He had also seen Jess, who had emerged from her room to sit with the company for half an hour after dinner, and his relief at the sight of her was indescribable. She was pale, and a great deal thinner than she had been, and the Lord knew she had never been plump, but there was no doubt that she was much improved. Maxwell had sat with her, too, and his reminiscences had brought a sparkle to her eye such as he had not seen since her return from London.

  The carriage stopped at the end of the lane, but he tapped on the roof with his cane and the carriage lurched into motion again.

  “Not going home?” Miss Endercott asked in a mild tone.

  “I shall see Miss Dulcie safely to Mrs Lorne’s door, since the carriage cannot get to the furthest end of Church Lane. Then I shall walk home across the field.”

  “How gallant of you,” Miss Endercott murmured.

  The carriage decanted them at the top of Church Lane and, with a clink of harness and rumble of wheels, rolled off into the night. It was not far to the parsonage, where they bade farewell to the Endercotts. Alex and Miss Dulcie walked on in silence, moonlight bathing their steps, surrounded by the nocturnal rustlings and scrabblings in the undergrowth in the gardens they passed. She carried the bundle of her working clothes under her arm, for she had not wanted to change before leaving the Hall, and Alex carried the basket pushed into the carriage by the butler just as they departed. It was rather heavy, so he was optimistic that the contents would prove pleasing — a bottle of Madeira, perhaps, or dare he hope for brandy? There was a delicious smell of pastry emanating from the basket, and that, too, was promising. It was a pleasant end to a pleasant evening.

  It was only as they reached Mrs Lorne’s gate that it occurred to him that Dulcie had been uncharacteristically quiet the whole way home. She was not as much of a chatterer as Connie, but after such an evening a certain amount of comment was to be expected.

  “Are you quite well, Miss Allamont?” he said, as she fumbled with the latch on the gate.

  “Of course. Why should I not be?” But her tone sounded rather cross.

  He hesitated. It would be perfectly natural to accept her assurance and ask no more, and he did not like to pry. If there were some trouble worrying her, then Mary was the best person to comfort her. But then, Mary was undoubtedly asleep, and he did not like to leave Dulcie in any anxiety if it could be helped.

  So, with reluctance, he said, “Have I offended you?”

  The gate open, she walked through and closed it again with a click before turning to him. “I am not sure. Indeed, I do not know what to think. It seemed to me that we were friends, Mr Drummond, yet you have addressed not one word to me all evening. Even when I found myself, quite by chance, standing very near you at one point during the evening, you did not speak. Far from it, for you walked away from me directly. It felt like a slight, although perhaps you did not mean it so?”

  She looked up at him so earnestly, so appealingly and he would not have been human if he had not felt some quiver of delight. How pretty she was! How shapely her lips and smooth her skin! When she was hot and dishevelled and chasing the chickens about he could almost ignore her attractions. But now, in her evening finery, a thin strand of garnets glimmering at her throat, her eyes dark in the moonlight, he could not deny her beauty. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to pull her into his arms and hold her against him, warm and vibrant and unbearably desirable.

  What was happening to him? A month ago he had been grieving for Isobel, his heart secure, but gradually she had faded into a distant memory, her serious grey eyes replaced by sparkling dark ones in his mind. He could barely remember Isobel’s face, and for some time now his dreams had been dominated by a different set of features. The change had come about so gradually as to be almost imperceptible, yet here he was, falling in love with a woman he could never have. How difficult it was to resist her charms, and yet he must exert every effort to do so.

  It was necessary to answer her, yet for a moment his thoughts would not shape themselves into coherent form. “Miss Dulcie… Miss Allamont…” he began, to give himself time to think. “I… I must apologise for my neglect of you, but… surely you must see the reason for it? You are working alongside me in my house, and I must at all costs keep a distance between us.”

  “Oh. My reputation, you mean?”

  “Yours, and also mine. I cannot be thought to have designs on your fortune.”

  Her eyebrows lifted, as if this was a new idea.

  He rushed on, for he was shaking at her nearness and the solemn way she listened to him, her head tilted to one side in the most distracting manner. “It is one thing for a respectable gentleman with his own fortune to aspire to add to that fortune, but I have nothing in the world besides one hundred a year from my mother and the few pounds I can make by teaching. I am barely a gentleman, Miss Allamont, and I dare not pay attention to a woman with twenty thousand pounds to her name, or the world would certainly call me a fortune-hunter, however innocent my intentions.”

  She gazed at him, but it was too dark to make out her expression. “I do see the difficulty,” she said. “I beg your pardon, Mr Drummond. Until now, I had not fully appreciated the awkwardness of your position. Should you like me to leave? I am sure we can arrange for someone from the village to help out. Although I should be sorry to leave now, for the early apples are almost ready, and I have been so looking forward to them.”

  She gazed at him with guileless eyes, and all he wanted in that moment was to sweep her into his arms and hold her tight. If he could only hold her, and bury his face in her hair and smell the sweetness of her, he would be a happy man. But he could not. He must not. She was not for him, that much was beyond question.

  He knew that for his own peace of mind he ought to send her away, but he could not do it. His voice was thick as he said, “No, Miss Allamont, I should not like you to leave.”

  She smiled then, her face lighting u
p as bright as the moon. “Oh, good! Then I shall bid you goodnight, Mr Drummond. Oh, and there should be a bottle of brandy in the basket, if Young has done as I asked. To replace the bottle of yours that I helped you to finish.”

  With a swirl of silken skirts and a waft of perfume, she was gone, and he was left to rue his own weakness, and to wonder how he was to avoid the danger of falling deeply, irredeemably in love with her.

  ~~~~~

  The church at Lower Brinford was unusually crowded that Sunday. The many guests from the Hall filled the Allamont pew and overflowed beyond it. Mr and Mrs Burford joined Miss Endercott, and Dulcie, Grace and Hope sat with Mr Drummond, now bereft of his boarders. The cousins from Willowbye squeezed in beside Lady Sara. None of these were of interest, however, to the whispering villagers in the pews behind them, for they had all been seen many times before. All eyes were fixed on the three newcomers — the Marquess of Carrbridge, Lord Kilbraith and Mr Eddington.

  From her seat halfway down the nave, Dulcie was amused by the way heads craned for a better view. The Marquess had been much talked of in the neighbourhood but rarely seen, although his betrothal to Connie was now known, so his appearance at church was especially gratifying. But the other two — the handsome man with blond hair and the middle-aged man with a slightly provincial appearance — were mysteries indeed, attracting intense speculation behind gloved hands.

  Mary sat with Mr Drummond, too, quietly reading her psalter, but Lord Kilbraith’s eyes had found her as the Hall party arrived, and even now, as they waited for the service to begin, he kept half-turning to see her.

  It was no surprise, therefore, when he sought Mary out as they all left the church.

  “Miss Mary,” he began, with a wide smile, “I was disappointed not to see you at the Hall last night. I had hoped to tell you about my Spanish horse, for he seemed to interest you.”