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

by May Burnett

  How much longer would the ambitious commercial classes be content with the subordinate role they were assigned? It had been the discontent of the bourgeoisie that led to the French revolution, although from what Cherry had read, parts of the working masses had also been mobilised through promises like Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. The last of those three was clearly over-egging the pudding, and should have tipped off the more astute poor that it was all a pretty lie.

  From her knowledge of the English working classes, Cherry doubted they would fall for this sort of nonsense, at least not in sufficient numbers.

  She dipped the quill into the inkwell, and wrote,

  Maxim 34: Do not believe promises that sound too good to be true, especially from men with political ambitions.

  She interrupted her labours to gnaw an apple and afterwards found it hard to concentrate again. Maxim: Do not interrupt you work for needless trifles? But eating was necessary to hold body and soul together, as Lady Spalding used to say.

  Her mind circled back to the question she had been weighing for almost twenty-four hours now: should she go through the wall to the Lobbock estate in the early afternoon, as she had told Mr. Durwent she might? She did not doubt that he would be there, unless some urgent business prevented it.

  But what good would it do, to see and almost certainly kiss the man again? Anything more was impossible, and sinful. Even kissing was scandalous, considering how recent a widow she was. Yet after the way he had betrayed her trust, did she owe Max another year of her life, or indeed any loyalty? Had her bereavement taken place during the early years of her marriage, she would have been too devastated to even think of dallying with other men, or escaping Buckley with a cunning disguise. Given her current danger, it was for the best that she was not paralyzed by grief.

  Unlike Patch and to a lesser extent Prune, Cherry was not deeply religious. The years in London had taken a toll; her husband had considered attending church a waste of time and had no belief in the hereafter.

  Maxim: Do not entrust your spiritual welfare to another person.

  Her actions must be guided by what she owed herself, her own honour, as defined by Cherry, no one else. But that conclusion was no help to her in the imminent decision: to meet Mr. Durwent, or to stay here, in hiding?

  The welcome arrival of Prune interrupted her ruminations.

  “Cherry, did you meet Mr. Durwent in that red wig you mentioned the other day? At dinner last night, with the Selbingtons, he asked after a Mrs. Sophia Jones. She supposedly had played with us in our childhood. That was when I remembered the last novel I had sent you.”

  Oh no. “What did you say?”

  “When I realised he must be talking about you, I said I remembered you, and Mabel quickly turned the subject. She must have guessed also, after all she is co-owner of this house. Paul will have told her he gave the key to Patch. Oh, what at muddle!”

  “No great harm was done,” Cherry said, putting an optimistic face on it, “I merely needed some fresh air, and went walking along the lane, disguised with the red wig and these clothes you had provided. I met him and we fell to talking. I was afraid that he might be an emissary from Buckley, the man from whom I had to escape in London.”

  “That suspicion is quite absurd, Cherry. Durwent sat beside me at dinner last night, and was perfectly genteel. He is actually buying the estate, and expected to take possession within days. Mabel and Paul are over the moon.”

  “Understandable. I suppose that Mabel’s engagement to young Minton will soon be announced now,” Cherry said. “What is Paul going to do with his share?”

  “Paul? I have a suspicion he has matrimonial plans too,” Prune said, “but it would be premature to speculate.”

  “Well, whatever they are, I wish him well.”

  “Matt and I were in Norwich yesterday to sell some of your jewels. The jeweller was not at all helpful, a boor of a man. First he cast doubt on our right to sell such expensive pieces. A good thing that Matt was along, he turned huffy and told me to sell ‘Aunt Agatha’s legacy’ somewhere else, hardly stuttering at all. When we finally got down to brass tacks, the man claimed he did not have enough cash on hand for the more expensive pieces. In the end we sold only the rubies, for three hundred pounds. Matt has hidden the rest; you can have them back any time.”

  “Well, that is enough to live on for a good while,” Cherry said, hiding her disappointment. “I am much obliged to you and Matt for your efforts.” It was an unfortunate fact that when you were in trouble, jewels were never worth as much as they had cost when you bought them in happier times.

  “Here is the money.” Prune produced a heavy hand-embroidered purse from the bottom of her basket and pressed it into Cherry’s hand. “But let me beg you to reconsider, and not disappear as you were threatening to do. Since Durwent has nothing to do with this enemy you have in London, and you have now been here for almost two weeks, can we not conclude that nobody is pursuing you, and you can safely stay at the Hall?”

  “I don’t know,” Cherry said doubtfully. “And there were two other men, according to Matt. Buckley just might not have found my trace yet.”

  “He may never find it. From your description I imagine such types are at home in the city and prefer to confine their nefarious activities there. Maybe he’s waiting for you to come back, and will pounce the moment you show your face back in London? Outside his home turf he might prefer not to engage.”

  Cherry wished she could agree to this theory, but a man obsessed with having a particular woman, who had spent a fortune on acquiring title to her debts and house, would not easily give up merely because she travelled a few days’ distance. “I find it hard to know what a man like that would or would not do. And there is another complication: Durwent knows me now as Mrs. Jones. If he sees me with my own hair and using a different name, what will he think?”

  Prune shrugged. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t convince him that you had good reasons. You used to be able to pull the wool over any man’s eyes if you wanted to. Or have you lost your powers?”

  “Not entirely,” Cherry admitted. “Mr. Durwent is attracted, and the thing is, I am attracted as well.”

  “What could be better? If you marry him – after the year of mourning, to be sure - we will be neighbours. It would be the best possible thing that could happen.” Prune smiled in happy anticipation.

  “I don’t think marriage to Mrs. Jones is on his mind, Prune.”

  “Then we must put it there. Yesterday at the dinner party Durwent implied that he was thinking of matrimony, and had just bought a town house in Mayfair. Everything is aligning, why should it not work in our favour for once?”

  “Prune, please stop! A rich man with an estate and a house in Mayfair will look to the young girls of polite society. You have no idea how the world works outside of Bellington.”

  “Maybe not, but I remember how you just had to crook your little finger when you still lived here, to have any man’s attention. Patch and I faded into the background.” She said it without rancour. Indeed both Cherry’s sisters had borne this unfair circumstance with surprising grace, considering how young they had all been.

  “I was ten years younger! And there was no reason to suppose then, that I would not be able to have children. Prune, please stop this daydreaming, it will only lead to humiliation to pursue such ambitions.”

  “I don’t agree, but will leave you to think it over. And please think also of your poor sisters, lugging all these baskets with food through the town day after day, when you could have been sitting at the table with us, eating freshly cooked, healthy fare. This cannot go on, Cherry.”

  Cherry found herself wavering. “What will Sir Charles say if I suddenly arrive?”

  “What can he say? You know him. He is so cantankerous on every other day of the week that it will not make any difference. He will not throw you out, because he likes to have an extra victim to bully.”

  “I remember,” Cherry said ruefully. �
�How can you stand it? I would have murdered him long since, had I not left with Max.”

  “The thought does cross my mind on occasion,” Prune admitted. “For myself I no longer care much what Sir Charles says, and I do my best to keep my children away from him. I was unhappy when he sent the boys off to school so young last year, but sometimes I think it may have been for the best. However hard school life may be at their tender age, at least they are not exposed to his constant malice. The one thing I cannot forgive him for,” - there was suppressed but strong emotion in her words - “is the way he is destroying Matt.”

  “I am sorry,” was all Cherry could say. “I will sleep on your suggestion. Tomorrow night it will be two weeks since I arrived in Bellington. There may be something to what you say - that if Buckley has not found me in this time, he might not be trying or able to do so. I will also consider how I can tell Durwent I am really your sister, without provoking a scandal. He seems like a man who would not needlessly gossip or malign a lady, if I tell him some sad story.”

  “Why not the truth?”

  Cherry looked at Prune, arrested. “Are you sure you are Prune, and not Patch? What a revolutionary notion.”

  “He either can be trusted, or not, Cherry. I liked him when we met yesterday, but I cannot judge his character on such a short acquaintance. Whatever you decide to do, you know I will support you.”

  “I thank you – and also once again for that unpleasant journey to Norwich, on my behalf. I am grateful that I have sisters, more than I ever thought I would be, when we lived apart.”

  “You didn’t forget us – I still have your music box and all your gifts, though Sir Charles will not let me display them.”

  “Those were mere trifles compared to your help now. I hope I will be in a position to return it someday.”

  “That would mean that Matt and I are in bad trouble, so I hope you won’t,” Prune said pragmatically. “I have to return to the Hall for lunch.” They took leave of each other with a hug. Cherry watched her sister depart with hurried step, rushing back to her little daughter and husband. How much strain had she put on her already harassed sisters by her secretive arrival and strange necessities?

  And where had she put the red wig? How had it got so twisted? She fetched her hairbrush.

  Mrs. Jones would make one last appearance, in order to gauge whether Durwent could or should be trusted with the truth.

  Chapter 15

  Dear James, Jonathan wrote,

  I have now spent three days in this little town which puts me in mind, not altogether happily, of the place where I spent my own childhood. To my surprise I am buying an estate here, called Lobbock Manor. The four owners, siblings of the name of Selbington, and I will sign the contract tomorrow in their solicitor’s place in Norwich.

  What decided me was the sight of at least a dozen – I could swear – old masters hanging in the gallery of the house. What is the name of that fellow who painted faces composed of fruit and vegetables? There is a portrait like that, sadly darkened but restorable. And a Judith and Holofernes I believe to be of the school of Rubens (at the very least.) You will be able to view my new art collection soon enough, as I plan to transfer it to London.

  There are upwards of five hundred hogs that will also pass into my possession, but for the time being, I shall refrain from introducing them to Mayfair.

  The search for my twin sister is progressing well. At dinner with the local Vicar last night, I made the acquaintance of Miss Patience Trellisham, a cool handsome blonde, and Mrs. Matthew Spalding, who is a strong candidate. I fancied there might be a slight resemblance to Emily in her profile, but I cannot be certain, since to my vexation, I still have not met the third sister face to face. I hope she is not sick; the damp house in which she lives does not look at all salubrious.

  On the other hand, I have met a pretty lady of mystery, Mrs. Sophia Jones. If only she were unmarried, five years younger, and a debutante of the ton, I could end my search right here.

  Lady Amberley’s gracious invitation to her house party has been forwarded with my other mail. I am writing directly to her, to accept on my own behalf, and thank you again for your assistance.

  Please convey my best wishes to Charlotte, and to Henry and Lady Minerva, when you next see them.

  Jonathan signed the letter and put it aside, after glancing at his timepiece. Was it time yet for his walk to the Lobbock grounds, and another encounter with Mrs. Jones? He had already penned his letter of acceptance to Lady Amberley, and a short report to Emily, who was impatiently expecting the results of his mission. In her last letter, his sister had declared her firm intention to travel to Bellington and meet her new sibling as soon as possible. At the current season she was confined to her home by hay fever. Poor Emily was teary and red-nosed from April to June every year.

  Jonathan was in two minds whether he should keep the almost-assignation with Mrs. Jones. The woman was invading his thoughts and dreams in a most alarming fashion. A rural femme fatale, who would be very hard to forget – yet forget her he must, if he was to meet and woo a suitable young lady by the time of the Amberleys’ house party. Through well-connected friends he had already secured and accepted invitations to several balls and select entertainments throughout the month of May, where he could look for the debutante who would be his future wife. Why was the prospect so dreary all of a sudden?

  What would his wife be like? The best he could hope for was a girl like Miss Selbington, pretty, unaffected and well-born. Yet she and her younger sisters had not been able to rouse even the slightest interest in him at last night’s dinner. Was he already so far under the spell of Mrs. Jones? What was it about her that attracted him like a bee to a flower? Jonathan was no innocent young lad, whose head could be easily turned, or indeed turned at all. He had had mistresses more beautiful than Mrs. Jones, but not one that he would have preferred to her if it came down to a choice. He kept imagining Sophia Jones in elegant clothes, expensive jewels, and – most of the time – nothing at all. But he also wanted to find out what she thought, her tastes, her opinions. That was the most alarming part.

  Given his strange susceptibility, it would be wiser to give her a wide berth, especially as he still had some business letters to write, and the books of the hog farm to go through. The saw mill was a lost cause. There were not enough trees and construction projects in the area to make it worth saving. The hogs, on the other hand, were surprisingly profitable, from what he had gathered when talking with the farm manager, Jeb Jeckings, this morning. The sounds and smell were unfortunate, though Jeckings assured him one could get used to it. A good thing that he would be returning to London soon – although the city, come to think of it, had its own noisome smells.

  When the hour arrived, Jonathan found himself getting ready and leaving the inn as though pulled by a string. All his doubts had been a waste of time; he could not keep away from Mrs. Jones.

  On the way he passed by the derelict house again. Upon impulse, he approached the door and with some difficulty employed the ancient knocker, stiff from disuse. The clanking reverberated, but there was no reply, not the slightest movement.

  He could have sworn the house stood completely empty. As he turned away in frustration, he chanced to glance upwards. Dark grey clouds were massing overhead. If a shower prevented his meeting with Mrs. Jones, fate might be taking a hand to protect him from himself. Still, so far the ground and air were dry, and clouds could disperse as quickly as they came, especially at this time of the year. April was notorious for volatile weather.

  He proceeded towards the Lobbock gate, and opened it with the large key that might soon ruin his tight-sewn pocket with its size and weight.

  From thence Jonathan proceeded to the main house, some eight minutes’ walk from the gate, and was pleased to see a stout fellow with a cudgel guarding the place.

  The man must have been told who Jonathan was, for he greeted him politely enough. His name was Pollock; he had used to work as groom here,
before the estate was locked up and the staff dismissed. “If you should need an experienced stable hand when you buy the place, Sir, I am still at liberty,” he concluded with simple dignity.

  Jonathan told him to come and see him once the sale was complete, in about a week’s time, and to tell other former employees to do the same. It would take that long for the draft to clear, so far from his bank in London.

  The prospect of renewed employment immediately lightened Pollock’s expression. He was holding his head higher than before when Jonathan left towards the direction of the folly. It was a shame to have simply dismissed all these people, and kept on only the gardener, who was a drunkard and incompetent. Jonathan kicked at a weed sprouting right in the courtyard, imagining that it was the gardener’s behind.

  A single drop of rain splashed on his neck. Not the best conditions for a rendezvous. Most likely Mrs. Jones would not even be there, in this uncertain weather. His mind projected a picture of her linen dress plastered to her body by rain, having to be taken off for health’s sake, and he swallowed. Since when had he found rainwater erotic?

  Despite his doubts, she was there, exactly where he had seen her the last time. Mrs. Jones was scrutinizing a raspberry she held in her right hand before very slowly, almost ceremonially, popping it between her lips and white teeth. He groaned involuntarily, imagining his own tongue in place of the sweet fruit, and she quickly turned in his direction.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Jones.”

  “Well met, Mr. Durwent.”

  “I was not sure that you would come for berries in such uncertain weather.” As he spoke, drops began to fall, the first of a heavy spring shower, if he was any judge.

  She pointed. “The folly– over there!”