Amberley Chronicles Boxset II (Amberley Chronicles Box Sets Book 2)

by May Burnett

  “That should not be too difficult,” Miss Bellairs said, considering, and began to list the men she thought might be suitable, and where they might be found. She even knew the local rates of pay, though she added that her information might be somewhat out of date.

  He listened carefully, but could not help wondering at the incongruous nature of their conversation – a princess with immense dignity, lovely and just a little sad every now and then, discussing such mundane details?

  Presently Miss Bellairs opened her sketchbook to show him with quickly drawn lines how the façade might not only be restored, but improved. William, no mean draughtsman himself, recognized talent when he saw it and was impressed. Her drawings were both precise and artistic.

  Some of her ideas were impractical, but others were very good, and could be implemented without significant extra cost.

  He caught himself almost regretting that women could not be architects. Miss Bellairs certainly showed the necessary qualities, in greater degree than some of his colleagues.

  Even Manning, that inveterate misogynist, was slowly unbending towards this extraordinary young lady by the time they finished their discussion.

  Chapter 5

  Margaret’s mother and Mrs. Carney returned from their round of calls in the best of spirits. “We are invited to two dinner parties and an outdoor entertainment,” Mrs. Bellairs informed her daughter. “There was also talk of a possible ball, but I daresay nothing will come of that.”

  “And of course you accepted all these invitations?” Margaret asked with resignation. She wanted to continue sketching the alterations she had discussed with that tall, personable architect. Having avoided the calls themselves, she would no doubt learn every word that had been exchanged during their simple dinner.

  “Well, of course. And just think, Sir Reginald Milldale’s nephew, Lord Laxeley, is expected for a lengthy visit this Sunday,” Mrs. Bellairs said. “A Viscount, young and unmarried! What could be more fortunate?”

  “Surely he comes to Derbyshire to visit his relations and hunt, Mother, rather than to look around for a wife. “

  “What does that signify? A man may travel for one purpose, and yet fix upon another prospect when the occasion arises.”

  “I wish you had not committed us to so many entertainments. We are not in a position to reciprocate, with the house understaffed and undergoing repairs.”

  “We do need more servants,” her mother said critically, as the inexperienced but willing kitchen maid served them the simple food she had just prepared. “Have you done anything about it, Margaret?”

  “Not yet. Today I was busy going over the house with the architect Anthony sent, and his assistant.”

  Her mother started in surprise, and even the phlegmatic Mrs. Carney blinked. “All by yourself, in an almost empty house? I don’t know that this was altogether proper. You should have let them go alone, or waited for my return.”

  “Stuff and nonsense. You know full well that I am not a shy debutante, Mother. I am twenty-two and have seen something of the world. Anyway, both of them were perfectly respectful.”

  “That is not the point … it is the appearance of the thing. Margaret, it is high time you learned to be more prudent.”

  Margaret took a deep calming breath, too vexed by the reproof to venture an immediate reply. Why could her mother not see that she was too old for this sort of stricture, had lived through too much to be treated as some fragile maiden? In Italy she had been freer, when her mother was sunk in despair and her Italian relatives had paid her little attention. Margaret had dedicated her days to gathering information for the War Office. Quite successfully, until that horrid mistake with the lost letter and precipitate flight. And yet now she was not allowed to talk to an architect about roof repairs? Really?

  Even now she owned the sum of eight hundred guineas, the balance of the salary the War Office had paid for her spying, albeit grudgingly and belatedly. Her brother-in-law had discovered that the officer who had recruited Margaret had embezzled the bulk of her salary, and made the War Office repay the difference. Anthony had never impressed her more than when he handed her the heavy leather purse with the money she had earned, unbeknownst to her mother and sister at the time.

  Dangerous and underpaid as that work had been, at times Margaret missed it. She had been so clever – hiding how well she spoke Italian and German, sneaking around at night, copying and sketching, sifting gossip for the few nuggets of valuable intelligence… In retrospect, it had been far more interesting than her current life as the pampered sister of Lady Pell, whose only purpose in life was finding a suitable husband.

  Maybe that experience of a more exciting purpose was what held her back now. Catering to any of her suitors in London for the rest of her life seemed boring and mundane in comparison.

  She could not discuss these complicated feelings with her mother or her sister. If she did not find the right man in the course of the next Season, she might settle for the richest and noblest of her admirers, and give up her dreams of more. Most women seemed reasonably content without passion in their lives.

  For a moment, the picture of the architect appeared before her mind’s eye. After the meal, she would draw him from memory; that usually helped clarify her thoughts and feelings. Not that there was anything to clarify here: he was a well-spoken, respectable and competent man, tall and broad-shouldered, good-looking if you liked redheads. His eyes were grey, and had looked at her with admiration, though he had tried to hide it. It was flattering to know that notwithstanding her mother’s constant warnings, her power to charm was not yet diminishing.

  Over dinner Margaret tried to tune out her mother’s local gossip, but a familiar name drew her attention.

  “Christopher Dorringley is said to be courting Betty Harris,” her mother said. “She has six thousand pounds.”

  And was that the most important fact about her? Margaret remembered Betty as a shrill and nosy blonde, with a mostly silent, thinner twin sister that she bullied mercilessly. “It sounds most suitable,” she commented, relieved that she felt not even a pang that her erstwhile suitor and first love was looking elsewhere. Was Betty Harris the best he could do, though? It is not my business any longer, she silently admonished herself. And after all, it had been years since she last saw Betty. The young lady might be very different from the petulant child.

  “Miss Harris is not half as pretty as you are, Margaret,” her mother said pointedly, “it would be a great pity if she should be married at eighteen, and you –,”

  “Please, Mother, do not keep harping on this subject; I shall marry when I find a man I can endure for decades.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Bellairs said, more tartly than her wont. “One man is much like the other; you must simply hope that the one you pick is solvent and loyal. Anything more is a luxury.”

  Margaret thought of her father, who had been solvent enough at the time of his marriage, but more loyal to the gaming tables than to his family. Why was she supposed to heed marital advice from her mother, who had shown such lack of judgement when it came to her own spouse? She suppressed the retort that sprang to her lips with difficulty.

  Mrs: Carney looked up from on cutting her steak, but said nothing.

  Mrs. Bellairs had already bethought herself of another potential problem. “How many evening dresses did you bring with you, Margaret? It would not do to use the same one twice. For a widow like me it does not matter so much, and I did bring four.”

  “Only three,” Margaret admitted. “I did not expect to go out much while supervising repair works. We can simply decline any additional invitations, after I have worn each dress once.”

  “Margaret, you know full well that we could never be so ill-bred!”

  “These same people who are now inviting us to their parties no longer knew us when we were ruined,” she reminded her mother. “I have little desire to socialize with them now, and see nothing ill-bred in refusing invitations I never sought. You can
always attend without me.”

  Mrs. Carney put down her wineglass. “I quite understand your feelings, Miss Bellairs, but now that this Hall is once again in your family – so to speak – it might be wise to remain on good terms with the neighbouring gentry, no matter how badly they behaved towards you. You must look to the future, not the past.”

  Margaret subdued her temper, always her greatest weakness, with an effort. “I suppose after the first three engagements we can see if any additional ones are even forthcoming. Besides, I could always develop a strategic cold.”

  “Don’t say such a thing even in joke!” her mother protested. “The house is so chilly at night that it might turn reality all too easily. You did order more wood and coal, didn’t you?”

  “Fuel is to be delivered tomorrow afternoon. But we need servants to tend to the fireplaces even more urgently. I shall go to the workhouse in the morning, to see if I find some likely recruits.”

  “The workhouse?” Mrs. Bellairs stared at her daughter. “You cannot be serious! Do you want us to be murdered in our beds by some ruffian?”

  “Pray remember how easily we might have ended in the workhouse ourselves. We have little cause to look down upon other unfortunates.”

  Her mother’s instant wrath put her daughter in mind of an angry pigeon fluffing its feathers. “Margaret, do I need to remind you that your family goes back for several centuries? That you were born a lady?”

  Margaret tossed her head impatiently, but encountering Mrs. Carney’s gaze, said merely, “I must still be out-of-sorts from the journey, Mother. Think nothing of it. Indeed, I think I shall retire, to catch what sleep I can before the noise of the repair works.”

  “So early? But it may be for the best. I want you to be in your best looks when you meet Lord Laxeley at the dinner next Monday.”

  Margaret fled before she could express her utter indifference to this prospect. Nonetheless, as she lay in her cold feather bed shortly afterwards – there was nobody to put hot bricks or warming pans in it – she sleepily wondered why she had never met Lord Laxeley in London society. Maybe he was passionate about hunting and preferred life in the countryside.

  That architect, now, at least had a useful function in life and would leave some mark behind. She pondered, not for the first time, if the life of an aristocrat was really the pinnacle of achievement and happiness. When she had been poor, she would have given anything to achieve wealth and rank. Was it perverse of her to now consider them less important? Only last year her main ambition had been to emulate her younger sister’s brilliant match. But closer acquaintance with the aristocracy had shown her impatient spirit that their women led dull lives, enlivened mostly by fashion and gossip.

  Fashion was important to Margaret as well, but she wanted more than that. Not the constant danger and sneaking about of her life in Verona; but surely there could be a happy mean?

  In the past, when Margaret felt discontented and unhappy, she had engaged in music and drawing. As she lost her self in art, almost by magic her course would become clearer. Music especially had been her solace in those times when a black melancholy threatened. A regular schedule of practice had helped to keep her moods even during the past months. In London she had used the magnificent piano in Pell house, but here in Bellairs Hall all that remained behind was a damaged and hideously out-of-tune spinet. Several of the keys were stuck and mice had gnawed at the instrument’s innards. They must have been hungry indeed.

  She began to hum a soft lullaby from her childhood days, but instead of bringing sleep it only made her feel more wide-awake.

  Should she make more of an effort to get along with her mother? Margaret had ruffled her parent’s feelings several times this night, and felt a little guilty over doing so. Was it possible that some of her anger at her father had spilled over on her mother? That would be unfair, and yet … her mother had suffered more than anyone from the late Rupert Bellairs’ weaknesses, and she still wanted to erect a splendid grave monument to him. Why was she so determined to see reality in rosy colours, and pretend that all was well, when it so clearly was not?

  Of course that was what ladies were brought up to do from early childhood. Margaret had been equally optimistic and naïve until they lost everything. That experience had ripped the veil of complacency from her eyes, and ever since she found herself unable to don it again. Life was a hard, dangerous struggle, where everything could be lost so very easily, including the esteem and friendship of one’s neighbours. And now she was supposed to visit with them again, and act as though her ruin and exile had never happened? As though their local acquaintances had not turned their backs on the Bellairs family?

  Maybe it had been a mistake for Anthony to buy the Hall and restore it. What did they have to come back for? An old suitor throwing her regretful looks as he squired his new flame about? Dust and noise and not even a piano to take her mind off the sad memories connected to the place?

  It was a long time till Margaret fell asleep.

  Chapter 6

  Manning had found cheaper accommodations with a local widow, so William was left to dine in solitude in the inn’s common room, rather earlier than he was accustomed to. The fare was simple but the portions were ample, welcome to a man of his large frame. He washed them down with the dark local ale.

  As he was finishing his repast three gentlemen entered separately, and sat down at a table in the far corner, greeting him with nods as they passed. They ranged in age from middle age to the sixties, and seemed to be well acquainted with each other. Presently a whiff of pipe smoke found its way to his table.

  The youngest of the gentlemen – about fifty by William’s estimate – came over and greeted him politely, introducing himself as Mr. Stephen Temple.

  “William Trey, at your service,” William replied courteously. One never knew. Mr. Temple might need architectural advice or services.

  “What brings you to our village, Mr. Trey?”

  He explained that he was an architect and had come to oversee the repairs of Bellairs Hall on behalf of the new owner, Lord Pell.

  This information was received with a beaming smile. “Excellent. Mr. Trey, if you are at leisure, would you mind playing whist with us? We meet once a week for this purpose, but are one man short tonight – Colonel Fuller sent a note at the very last moment that he had the gout worse than usual. You would be doing us a favour.”

  “I don’t play for high stakes,” William said. “If it is just a friendly game for moderate stakes, however, I would be pleased to join you for a few rubbers.”

  “Oh, excellent,” Temple repeated. The stakes he named were low enough to preclude any danger of card-sharping, and presently William was introduced to the other two players. The tall white-haired fellow was Sir Reginald Milldale, and the bald, overweight man was a Mr. Peter Harris.

  “You don’t mind our smoking, do you?” the latter asked. “My wife is particularly averse to pipe smoke. That is why we meet here tonight, rather than at my home. We take turns in each other’s houses otherwise.”

  “While I do not smoke myself, I have no objection to the smell,” William said. “In fact I prefer the perfume of a pipe to that of cheroots or cigarillos.”

  “We’ll convert you to a pipe-smoker yet,” Milldale said, taking his own pipe out of his mouth for a moment. “Your deal, Harris!”

  They played for over two hours, the time passing fast.

  At last they totted up the results. Sir Reginald and William had won, between them, the princely sum of three pounds and six pence.

  “You are not at all bad,” the baronet complimented him. They had been partners for the last round. “The name Trey sounds familiar. I used to know a Sir Maximilian Trey in my younger days, though I have lost sight of him over the years.”

  “My uncle. He is still alive and hale.” He did not explain that Uncle Max was a widower; William and his sister Sarah were his closest relatives.

  “I am happy to hear it. Please give him my regar
ds, when you next write to him.”

  “Is your uncle a baronet, like Sir Reginald, or a knight?” Mr. Harris enquired with keen interest.

  William shrugged. “Baronet. He inherited the title and family estate when he was still a child.”

  “Hmm,” Sir Reginald said. “We are having a dinner party on Monday evening, to introduce my nephew Lord Laxeley to the neighbourhood – my sister’s boy. My wife and I would be pleased if you could attend, duties permitting. I’ll send a card around, with the directions.”

  “Thank you. My evenings are free, so I accept with pleasure. If you are sure Lady Milldale won’t mind?”

  Harris grinned. “The neighbourhood has more ladies than gentlemen; it is hard to make up an even table. We’ll all be there.”

  “Not very tactful, Harris,” Temple said reproachfully. “Though there may be an element of truth. I understand that the three ladies from Bellairs Hall are coming too?”

  William listened with increased attention, though he kept his gaze fixed on his tankard of ale.

  Sir Reginald nodded. “Yes. Mrs. Bellairs, Miss Bellairs and a Mrs. Carney, their companion. My wife invited them when Mrs. Bellairs called upon her yesterday. We have not seen the daughter yet.”

  “We all saw Margaret Bellairs last January at her sister’s wedding,” Harris reminded him. “She was in splendid looks then, and I doubt that a few months will have made much difference. A very pretty girl.”

  Pretty? Beautiful or breathtakingly lovely would hardly do her justice, but William restrained himself from objecting. Why should he care how these dotards regarded the young goddess descended into their midst?

  “My wife found it strange that Pell married the younger sister rather than Margaret,” Temple said. “But there is no accounting for tastes, after all.”

  “He must dote on Emily, to buy Bellairs Hall,” Sir Reginald pronounced. “In these times, landed estates are more an expense than a source of income. Lord Pell owns several estates already, apart from his principal seat. In his place I would rather invest my surplus fortune in London properties.”