Amberley Chronicles Boxset I: The Impostor Debutante My Last Marchioness the Sister Quest (Amberley Chronicles Boxsets Book 1)

by May Burnett

  “What do you do when you see it will be a bad marriage?” Jonathan asked curiously.

  The Vicar made a regretful gesture with his hand. “Nothing I can do at that point, except pray to the Lord that I may be mistaken.”

  “And have you been mistaken sometimes?”

  “Once or twice, though it is hard to know for sure what goes on inside a marriage. I am glad we don’t practice confession as the Roman Catholics do; if I were told all the things I already suspect, it would be most depressing.”

  “I imagine Papist priests do not mind,” Miss Trellisham said, “and after a while, may even find confessions entertaining. One gets used to anything, I believe.”

  “That is not always a good thing,” Paul Selbington said to her, “some things, or states, should be resisted and not accepted passively.”

  “Nobody can accuse Patch of being passive,” young Mrs. Spalding said with an affectionate look at her taller sister. “If we could not learn to live with disagreeable circumstances, mankind would have died out long since, I do believe.”

  Several people glanced at Sir Charles before the conversation moved on, and Paul Selbington looked at Mrs. Spalding with momentary pity.

  Jonathan would have bet five to one that Mrs. Spalding was more likely his sister than Miss Trellisham. The latter’s clear-cut features and golden blond hair seemed far too distinctive to come from his rather nondescript parents. That conclusion already helped a great deal. As far as Jonathan was concerned, it was now between Mrs. Spalding and the mysterious recluse in that abandoned old house. “Do you have any advice for me, Mrs. Spalding, how I should ensure that Lobbock Manor remains a comfortable home?”

  “I have not been there in some time,” the young matron willingly replied, “the most important thing will be to clean everything and preserve it from deterioration in the usual way – with beeswax, vinegar, lavender and other remedies that any competent housekeeper will know. Airing all the rooms out and cleaning the chimneys carefully should help. I don’t suppose there will be a plague of mice or rats, with no food stores, but it bears looking into.”

  “It’s not a ruin,” Paul Selbington protested, flushing a little. “I have not noted any plague of rodents, but there is some dust, I must admit. I wonder who made those tracks that we saw inside, with very large boots.”

  “Could it have been the gardener?” Jonathan suggested. “In the afternoon I came upon the man drunk, with a bottle of French cognac. It seems likely that he helped himself to your late uncle’s stores.”

  Sir Charles gave a short bark of laughter. “Did you expect anything else?”

  “Oh dear!” Mrs. Selbington said. “I hope anything is left.”

  “Is the liquor in the cellars included in the sale?” Mrs. Spalding asked with interest.

  “We did not discuss it,” Paul Selbington said, with an uncertain look at Jonathan.

  “Household stores like wine bottles are not automatically part of an estate sale,” Jonathan explained, “unless so specified, as we did with the furniture, books and pictures. I suggest that you remove whatever is still there to your own cellar, or maybe here to the Vicarage. If there should be more than you want, we can come to a separate arrangement about it.”

  “I’ll have a look tomorrow,” Paul Selbington said. “Uncle Jasper was very fond of his drink, and always had plentiful supplies.”

  Dinner was called and they all trooped into the dining room. There being more ladies than gentlemen, the table was unbalanced. Jonathan found himself seated between Mrs. Spalding and Mabel, the oldest Miss Selbington. All the others knew each other very well indeed and engaged in spirited conversation, with the exception of Sir Charles, a disagreeable and obnoxious guest at his hostess’s side. Both families had adapted to him, no doubt through long practice, and ignored his constant jibes and rudeness as though they were selectively deaf. When the man insulted his daughter-in-law for the second time, Jonathan felt the impulse to stand up and punch him in the nose; Sir Charles was practically begging for such treatment. Just as Hendrickson had indicated, both Mrs. Spalding and Miss Trellisham urgently needed rescue from the household of this ogre.

  Young Spalding did not defend his wife, and looked like a whipped puppy when his father turned his attention to him. Had the man no backbone at all? And this was his possible – nay, probable – brother-in-law. Jonathan fell to brooding about the situation, until Miss Selbington addressed him.

  “How soon do you think the sale can go through?”

  “A few days, if everyone is agreed, as seems to be the case.” She was a pretty young woman, about twenty-four, he estimated. “As one of the current owners, have you no misgivings about selling the home where your mother grew up?”

  “In the normal way of things, it never would have come to me. I hope you will be very happy there, with your future family. My own hopes lie in a different direction.” She blushed a little at saying this, as though warning him off. Had she but known it, her blonde prettiness could not begin to make him forget that red-headed siren of the afternoon.

  “Whatever they are, I wish you very happy,” he said. “By the way, Miss Selbington, do you know a red-headed young lady, a little older than yourself, by name of Sophia Jones?”

  “No, I do not recall any Sophia in the immediate neighbourhood,” Miss Selbington said. “Do you, Prudence?”

  “The only Sophia I can think of is Miss Perrot over in Trepsham, but she has light brown hair, definitely not red. Have you met this woman here?” Mrs. Spalding’s smile suddenly died as she spoke, as though she had thought of something unpleasant.

  “Do tell us all about her,” Miss Selbington added mischievously. “She seems to have made a strong impression.”

  “Such vivid red hair is not easily forgotten. But Mrs. Jones claimed that she had played with you when you were all children.”

  Mrs. Spalding and Miss Selbington exchanged glances across him.

  “I remember her now,” Mrs. Spalding said in a casual voice. “I thought she had moved away years ago, and the last name was different when she was unmarried. I shall have to call on her soon.”

  “Indeed,” Miss Selbington said. “Please give her my regards, Prudence. Tell me, Mr. Durwent, what are the newest fashions in ladies’ bonnets in London?”

  He obligingly described them, puzzled by the abrupt change of subject. Was there something about Sophia Jones that made these respectable ladies unwilling to openly acknowledge or discuss her?

  Remembering those luscious lips, it seemed all too likely. It cost him an effort to push the memory aside and focus on the conversation with his future neighbours.

  Chapter 13

  Patch had come to St. Stephen’s early, before seven. She removed wilting blooms, refilled the vases with fresh water from the fountain outdoors among the graves, and arranged the new bunches. She loved these early mornings during the week, when she was all alone with the Lord. The church was so much more peaceful than Spalding Hall.

  She worked quickly, efficiently, with the ease of long practice. Within the hour she had completed all of the day’s tasks, and checked the flower arrangements for a last time with satisfaction. After a short prayer for grace, she went outside to throw away cut-off stalks, and back to the fountain, to wash her hands.

  “Good morning,” a familiar voice said from behind her, and she turned to find Paul Selbington watching her from between two withered gravestones. Her heart gave the familiar lurch whenever he was close.

  “Hello, Paul. You are up early.” To her relief, her voice was cool and composed. Long practice in hiding her feelings was good for something, after all.

  “You looked beautiful at dinner last night, in that green gown,” he said “But far more beautiful now, in the clear light of day.”

  She rubbed her hands dry on the faded apron she had donned over her dress for working with the flowers. If he thought she was beautiful like this, he would think her beautiful in anything.

  “Paul –,�
�� she had known he admired her, would have to be a fool not to have known. “You know I do not like it if you flatter me. You should not talk to me so.”

  “It is not flattery, but truth. Patience, you must be aware that I love you. I have loved you since I was eighteen, for eight long years. I will never love another.” He took a deep breath, never looking away from her eyes. “Will you be my wife?”

  Patch could only gape at him for a few seconds. She had not expected to hear him say the words, though she had dreamed of it countless times. Why today, this morning?

  “It cannot be -,” she started automatically, but stopped in confusion. Was she telling a lie for the first time in all those years? How valid were her long-rehearsed objections, now that her heart’s desire was held out within reach?

  He pounced on her hesitation. “Why not? I do not see any good reason, unless you do not feel any affection for me. Can you tell me that you do not? I know you always speak the truth; it is one of the things I admire about you.”

  “I – I,” this stammering was completely unlike her, a sign of how much his sudden declaration unnerved her. “I am very fond of you.”

  “But do you love me?” She could not look away from those blue eyes, staring at her so imploringly.

  “I refuse to answer that question.”

  He smiled and relaxed. “That means yes. You would have told me frankly if it were no.”

  She wanted to tell him that she had never thought about it, but it would have been a lie.

  “Paul, my feelings are neither here nor there. I do not think a marriage between us is feasible. I am four years older –“

  “All the more reason not to delay any longer. I have hesitated, probably too long, because I was not in a position to offer you security should I fall ill, or be otherwise unable to continue with my tutoring. But with several thousand guineas put aside in case of emergencies, -“

  “You are offering now, because of the sale of Lobbock Manor?” If one cared about such things as security and money, she supposed it made sense.

  He leaned against the gravestone behind him, of Theophila Goodley, 1749- 1765, in a stance that bespoke his readiness for a long argument.

  “Within days I should have over five thousand guineas in hand, and will settle the entire amount on you, if you make me the happiest of men. And when I say the happiest, that is not mere hyperbole. I mean it, literally and exactly.”

  She shook her head. “Paul, the money makes no difference to me, I don’t care about it. You must have realised that, if you know me at all.”

  “Of course I do. The modest size of my house, and my lack of ambition, do not bother you either. But I wanted to be certain that you would not be destitute if anything happened to me.”

  “The age difference -,” she began again.

  “Is completely insignificant. You do not look much older at this moment, than that day eight years ago, when I fell in love with you. I was offered a fellowship in Cambridge, you know,” he added, “but I could not take it, because it meant living far apart from you.”

  “There is the uncertainty about my birth,” she said. “You are aware that only one of us is really a Miss Trellisham, the other two were adopted, who knows from where. The Selbingtons are an old and noble family.”

  “That hardly counts, love, since there are about twenty other men between me and the head of the senior branch. Let the noble earl worry about marrying the right pedigree. You were brought up as a lady, and are the perfect lady – the only lady - for me.”

  She had to smile. “I still would like to find out the truth about my parentage.” She began to untie the apron’s strings.

  “When we are married, we can try to discover it, but upon my heart, Patience, it does not matter one whit to me.”

  “What if the sale of the estate fell through? After all, we know nothing about this Mr. Durwent. He seemed confident enough yesterday about his ability to pay your price, but I suspect that he came to the area for something quite different. He never said how he had heard about the estate being for sale, and why he wanted to settle so far from the capital. Cherry is suspicious of him, and believes that he may work for some dangerous man who is after her.”

  Paul frowned, but after a moment’s thought shrugged in dismissal. “How would Cherry know? Has she even met Durwent, when she’s hiding night and day in that old house? I hope she will decide to leave it soon, the place is really not fit for any lady to stay in. I should never have given you the key, but you knew – you have always known – that there is nothing I could ever deny you.”

  Patch did indeed know it, had counted on the fact when Cherry had needed a refuge so urgently. “But in case Cherry were right in her suspicions?”

  “Then we’ll find another buyer eventually. If worst comes to worst, we could even live in Lobbock Manor ourselves and raise hogs. Don’t try to change the subject, Patience. What say you, will you marry me?”

  “Are you quite sure this will make you happy?” She watched his face intently.

  “How often do I have to repeat it? But I will say it every day, as often as you like, it only you’ll agree to marry me. I love you, Patience.”

  She passed her right hand through the cold water in the fountain, looking down into the shallow depth as though searching for inspiration, while he waited with baited breath.

  “I love you too,” she said at last. “Not for eight years, but at least five. It would make me very happy to be your wife, Paul. But I would still like to find out who my parents were, before we can marry.”

  Paul stepped away from the gravestone, closer to her. “Is that a firm condition? There may not be any way to find out, at this late date. You are you, the product of thirty years of living your life, and your name, Patience Trellisham, suits you perfectly. Not as well as Patience Selbington will, of course.” Paul took her hand, cold and damp as it was, and pressed his warm lips on its back. “Patience, I promise to help you find out whatever is still possible, both before and after we are married. But don’t reject me for such a paltry reason as that.”

  She did not try to pull her hand from his grasp. Now he was so close, and looking at her so anxiously, all further objections died still-born. Joy blossomed in her heart.

  “You are right. We should do our best to find out, but I won’t say no if we do not succeed. Since it matters to you, I suggest we wait until the sale of the estate is complete, and you have your money secure. Then we can announce our engagement, and have a small wedding as soon as you like.”

  His hand on hers tightened almost painfully. He stared at her. “You really mean it? You are saying yes?” He sounded stunned. “I was quite prepared to lay siege to you for another eight years, if necessary, knowing how stubborn you can be.”

  “We have already waited quite long enough,” she said tartly. “I would like to have children before I’m old enough to be a grandmother.”

  “If I had asked years ago-“

  “Had you been as eloquent as you were today, I would have said yes.”

  They looked at each other in silence, with memories, regrets, and lost years invisibly hanging between them.

  “I would very much like to kiss you,” Paul said at last. “But a graveyard is a gloomy place for a first kiss. What would you suggest?”

  “Are you going to follow my suggestions when we are married?”

  “Only nine times out of ten, so you won’t take me for granted.”

  “I can already see that you’ll make the perfect husband.” Patch could not contain her smile. “I was going back home. You can escort me. The bend of the brook, if there is no one about to see, strikes me as an excellent place for a first kiss.”

  He held out his arm, and she put her hand on it, still cold from the fountain.

  Her head was whirling. What a wonderful beginning to her day! Just yesterday she had been whining to Cherry that nothing ever happened in her life, and here she was, engaged to the man who had haunted her dreams for years. There
still were miracles in the world.

  What would his kiss on her lips be like? She wanted to find out, quite badly. Her steps insensibly increased their pace, and he easily kept up. A good thing that he was so big and strong and fit. She thought of another place where these qualities might come in handy, and blushed at her own imagination.

  But soon she wouldn’t have to imagine any longer. Soon she would know.

  Chapter 14

  Cherry had buckled down to her writing project. Already she had written down over thirty maxims. Each would be illustrated with practical examples, depressingly easy to think of, merely by mining her memory of her own and others’ past scandals and misfortunes. In London, these had always been popular topics of conversation, and the main meat of the ubiquitous scandal sheets.

  Maxim 18: Do not give up your old friends, when you move to a new place or higher social position.

  She blotted the ink from the paper, and put down her quill. How should she illustrate this advice without giving away too much of her own story?

  Not that her social position as Max’s wife had been higher in absolute terms. As the wife of a rich wine merchant, Mrs. Randolph had been a small fish indeed in the huge ocean of London society. She had disposed of generous pin money, and could indulge in diversions like the theatre, concerts, exhibitions, and lectures, that her sisters could only dream of. But Max’s circle of acquaintances and friends had mostly consisted of businessmen in the same trade. They ranked far lower on the social scale than Lord Minton or Sir Jasper Lobbock, though their net worth might be higher. With all their wealth, they would not have been admitted to the houses of the aristocracy.

  During that last year, estranged from Max, Cherry had thrown herself into her charitable committees, where she had come in contact with several ladies of society. They were happy enough to take advantage of Mrs. Randolph’s time, organisational skill, and generosity. When disaster struck, not one of them had shown the slightest commiseration. Instead, she had received humiliating letters suggesting that she resign forthwith from her duties. Even before, she had been excluded from these ladies’ social gatherings, on account of her husband being in trade.