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

by May Burnett

  Margaret arrived back at the Hall in high dudgeon, only slightly leavened by perplexity. Her mother and Mrs. Carney were placidly sharing a late breakfast. Margaret sat down on one of the empty chairs, poured herself a cup of tea, and asked, “Have either of you the least idea why the ladies of this village are suddenly ignoring me?”

  Mrs. Bellairs stared. “What can you mean? You must be mistaken. These are our friends.”

  “Just what happened?” Mrs. Carney cocked her grey head attentively.

  Margaret described her odd experience. “I have not the slightest idea what can be the reason,” she concluded. “Mrs. Dorringley dislikes me, and Mrs. Harris is not happy that her daughter’s beau is no longer courting her, though I have made it clear that I no longer want his attentions. But surely none of that would justify such an extraordinary insult.”

  “I shall have to ask Ernest … err, the Vicar,” Mrs. Bellairs said, troubled and alarmed.

  “And I hate to contradict you, Mother, but these are not, and never have been our friends. Have you forgotten how they all acted when we had to leave after Father’s death? Apart from the Vicar, we do not possess a single true friend in this entire neighbourhood. Indeed, when I reflect on the past, and consider today’s incident, I can only look forward to our departure.”

  “Maybe Mr. Trey has heard something?” Mrs. Carney said. “Why don’t we ask him?”

  Margaret had already thought of Mr. Trey on her way home. “He is not here this morning. He went to inspect the Milldales’ old Dower House with Sir Reginald. When he comes back, he will likely know something; in this cursed village, no secret is kept for more than a few hours.”

  “There is no reason for such intemperate language,” her mother admonished. “Are you quite certain that you have not given any cause for offense to our neighbours, Margaret?” Mrs. Bellairs was sounding distinctly worried now. “You are sometimes too outspoken for your own good, more assured than an unmarried young lady has any right to be.”

  Margaret mentally counted to thirty as her temper mounted. At that moment, she would have agreed to marry almost anyone, to escape this constant criticism and belittling.

  “It would have to be something much worse than that, to justify such a reaction,” Mrs. Carney commented placidly. “Why don’t you get dressed for outdoors right now, Mrs. Bellairs, and we can go consult the Vicar without delay?”

  Once her mother went away to follow this sensible suggestion, Mrs. Carney said to Margaret, “Don’t worry over it. These benighted souls will have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. We shall have this sorted out in no time at all.”

  “Thank you,” Margaret said. “I hope you are right. I am a little disenchanted with Bankington just now, I confess.”

  “No wonder after such an affront.”

  Just before the older ladies were about to set out on their reconnaissance mission, a messenger delivered a small parcel from Milldale Manor to Margaret, as well as a note to Mrs. Bellairs.

  “What does Lady Milldale write?” Mrs. Carney asked, as Margaret tore the wrapping paper from her own package. It proved to contain the notes she had left on the Milldale piano, a letter on pale blue paper, and a short note from Lady Milldale. The note said, You forgot this in the music room. You will understand that we would prefer not to have any further association with you. For shame!

  Margaret frowned. She put the familiar sheet music down on the table and was just about to inspect the blue letter when Mrs. Bellairs clutched her bosom, gasped, and cried, “Margaret!” in a choked voice.

  “What is it?” she asked impatiently.

  Her mother wordlessly handed her the note she had received, similar to Margaret’s, if a little longer. With growing wrath she read,

  Madam,

  I regret to have to inform you that the musicale we had planned for the coming week will not be taking place.

  It is with deep sorrow and incredulity that I apprehend your daughter’s disgrace. If you were aware of it, how could you allow her to associate with innocent young people, pretending to a respectability she has forever forfeited?

  Please do not reply to this note. It will be the last communication between your household and mine.

  “What have you done, Margaret? What can she mean?” Mrs. Bellairs asked brokenly.

  Margaret felt her head close to exploding. “I have no idea what she means, Mother. Someone must have slandered me, and these people – who show ever more clearly that they are not our friends – are all too ready to believe whatever lies they have been told.”

  “I have never seen anything like this,” Mrs. Carney said. “They are all acting as though you had done something shameful, Miss Bellairs, and as you say, someone must have maligned you. But justice and fairness would require listening to the other side as well, before condemning anyone in such round terms. This is hardly very Christian.”

  Margaret laughed scornfully. It was that or cry, and she would not waste a single tear on these vultures. “Oh, but Lady Milldale has always prided herself on her strict morality and Christian virtues. Apparently fairness or charity are not numbered among them, but then it has always been easier to see the splinter in another’s eye.”

  She remembered the blue letter and unfolded it for perusal, already fearing the worst. Even so, her breath hitched in indignation and she had to read it three times until the outrageous contents sank in.

  “My adored Margaret, my own pearl,

  The months of your absence from Italy are growing long and I miss you – my bed is cold, and your little Corina is crying for her mamma. How well I remember all those heated nights we passed, the kisses and more, oh my beloved – come back to me! Even if we cannot marry as long as Perrine lives, we can still be happy, as we were before you so cruelly departed. You do not belong in England – hurry back to my waiting arms, and my lonely bed.

  Yours forever,

  Arturo

  Margaret stood stock still, the thoughts tumbling in her mind. She had never known anyone by name of Arturo, much less had an affair and illegitimate child, but that was irrelevant. If Lady Milldale had found this missive in her music pages, and told all her friends about its damning contents, Margaret’s sudden pariah status was explained. At least she had sent the incriminating letter back, so that Margaret knew exactly what she was dealing with.

  “That sly, conniving little beast,” she muttered, picturing Betty Harris as she had sneaked out of the drawing room the previous day. That letter must have been in her reticule even then. When had it been found? It hardly mattered.

  Suddenly she felt like laughing. All those years of being protected and hedged around, treated like a child in need of guarding, and a little girl like Betty who dressed in badly cut provincial dresses could destroy her good name with one stroke.

  “It is a serious matter,” Mrs. Carney said, watching her face with a worried expression. “Does this other note give more of an explanation?”

  “Indeed it does. It would seem that a love letter from some Italian named Arturo, addressed to me, was found with my new music.”

  “Who is Arturo?” Mrs. Bellairs asked in confusion.

  “Nobody. He never existed. According to the letter, not only am I his mistress, but I have borne him a little girl that I left behind in Italy.”

  “What?!” Her mother shook her head. “Even if I was not at my best in those days, surely I would have noticed such a thing?”

  Margaret prayed for patience. “Of course you would. It is perfectly clear to me what really happened. Betty Harris has been jealous of me from the first day of our return. She was at the Manor yesterday, and heard talk of my playing; I even mentioned in her hearing that I had left the new music on the piano, when I thanked Lady Milldale for the use of the instrument. Betty slipped out ahead of her mother and sister, just before I left. She must have put this fictitious letter into my music. It would only take a moment and she is familiar with the Manor.”

  “You really think she wou
ld have done something so – so dastardly?” Mrs. Carney said sceptically.

  “She wouldn’t!” Mrs. Bellairs said, shaking her head. “Nobody could be so devious, and she is only a young girl!”

  “Who else had a motive to blacken my reputation?” Margaret wanted to shake her mother for her obtuseness. “If I truly had a lover in Italy, is it likely he would write to me in English? He would use Italian. And the handwriting is big, but not particularly masculine.” She held the letter out to Mrs. Carney, who quickly perused it and returned it gingerly, as though handling a poisonous spider.

  “If you are right,” Mrs. Carney said, “it is still a very serious affair. Miss Harris will never willingly admit to her slander. Your chances of an advantageous marriage, and indeed of living among genteel society, will be ruined as long as the slightest doubt persists. I must say, that is one of the most perfidious acts I have ever witnessed in my long life. Nobody could anticipate such a thing happening, out of the blue.”

  “And it is too much to hope that the story will remain here in Derbyshire,” Mrs. Bellairs said bleakly. “Sir Reginald and Lady Milldale have friends and relatives all over England. An account of the accusation is likely on its way to London even now. What will Anthony and Emily think?”

  “I had better write to warn them,” Margaret said glumly. Her anger was still white-hot, but she had to be practical. At least Emily would know it was all lies, and Anthony would take her word for it.

  She went in search of writing paper, her mood swinging from fury to bitter amusement at the absurdity of life, and of all social aspirations. In her heart, she did not give a fig for the good opinion of these provincial boors, or even the wits of the ton. Anyone swayed so easily by the clumsy lies of a jealous twit was not worth her time, or worrying over. She would keep her head high, and face down the absurd allegations.

  Only, why were people so incredibly stupid?

  Chapter 21

  William, Sir Reginald and Lord Laxeley contemplated the torn wallpaper, cracked window panes and dirty wooden floor in the entrance hall of the Milldale dower house.

  “The place was last used by my aunt Phyllida,” Sir Reginald explained. “My father’s eldest sister. She lived to her late seventies, and was very eccentric in later years. Eccentric is actually an understatement. She would not tolerate any unknown person entering the house, including workmen, and distrusted even her closest family. I remember one occasion when my mother brought her freshly baked biscuits from our kitchens, and was accused of trying to poison her for her trouble. We children were all deathly afraid of Aunt Phyllida, and the village people thought she was a witch.”

  “How long ago did she die?” William asked. From the derelict state of the house, it could not have been very recent.

  “In 1805, more than twenty years ago. How time flies… I should have done something about the house then, I suppose, but during the war we all had other worries, and to tell the truth I still have an almost superstitious dislike of the place. But something has to be done – I cannot let it fall to pieces until it becomes dangerous. What I really need, Trey, is a rough estimate how much it would cost to repair the house, so it can be sold off or let; if the cost comes to more than I care to spend, it will have to be razed.”

  “The staircase is splendid.” Lord Laxeley peered up the carved banisters in the dim light that passed through the grimy windows. “Mother told me about Aunt Phyllida, that she gave her nightmares as a child. Do you suppose Phyllida’s spirit still lingers here?”

  “Nonsense,” William said. “Ghosts are mere superstition. And if your aunt lived to a ripe old age, why would she haunt the house? It is not as though it were the scene of some crime or tragedy.”

  “Indeed, that is one thing to be thankful for. In the years since her death, nobody has seen any ghost. We can assume she has gone to meet her maker in the usual fashion.”

  They inspected the whole building from top to bottom, discussing the repairs that would be needed to render it habitable again. A real pity if the house were demolished, William reflected as he expounded on the current cost of timber. The structure was basically sound and the proportions were pleasing, as Margaret Bellairs had mentioned. How did she know that? Maybe she had played hide-and-seek in this empty house as a child. She had likely been an adventurous, intrepid girl, who would not hesitate to explore the abandoned home of a supposed witch.

  The sum that would be needed to reclaim the house, according to his calculations, was near the upper limit of Sir Reginald’s budget; thus the baronet was still of two minds as they finally emerged into the cool autumn morning. They stopped of one accord, blinking at the brighter light, and gulping the fresher air.

  “I had better get back to my regular job,” William said.

  Sir Reginald nodded. “Thank you, Trey, that was very helpful. Before we part, by the bye, the musicale we had planned for the coming week is off, most regrettably.”

  “I hope not because of any illness or accident? For my part, I am sorry to hear it; I was looking forward to your nephew’s cello duet with Miss Langley, and especially to Miss Bellairs’ performance on the piano.” And he had been supposed to sing. At least that was no great loss to anyone.

  “Then you have not heard?” A shadow crossed Sir Reginald’s brow. “As you work at Bellairs Hall every day, I suppose you will have to continue to associate with Miss Bellairs, but she is no longer welcome in my home, or indeed anywhere in Bankington.”

  William stiffened; surely he could not have heard right. A pulse began to beat almost painfully in his head. Calm, he had to remain calm. “Only the other day she was an honoured guest in your house, and the Vicarage. What can have changed – just what can you mean, Sir Reginald?”

  “I don’t like to talk about it, a most unfortunate affair …”

  William tried to master his impatience. “You cannot simply go around saying a lady is no longer welcome, without at least giving a reason for such excessive discourtesy. At least, a gentleman would not.”

  Sir Reginald rubbed his ear and scowled. “I will overlook that remark in view of your ignorance of the circumstances. The offense was Miss Bellairs’ own, mixing in decent society under false pretences. It is only by the merest chance that she was found out.”

  Exasperated, William looked from Sir Reginald to Lord Laxeley. “Found out? What is she supposed to be guilty of? I cannot for the life of me imagine anything that would justify what you just said. If Miss Bellairs had a brother, he would be calling you out and demanding satisfaction for such an accusation. Since she has no father or brother to protect her from malice, it seems cowardly to go maligning the lady behind her back. I can only suppose that somebody has been spreading lies about her. Don’t you know better than to listen to slander?”

  “The evidence speaks for itself,” Sir Reginald maintained. Lord Laxeley remained silent, but looked deeply uncomfortable. “Lady Milldale was completely overset. She took to her bed with hartshorn and a tisane, from the shock.”

  “What evidence?” William wanted to shake the older man. Had he had the least inkling of this, he would have refused to assist the baronet with his professional advice, or even give him the time of day. How quickly a strong dislike could form – within seconds, in this particular case. “Have you talked to Miss Bellairs herself, to clear up whatever misunderstanding you seem to labour under?”

  “My wife refuses to see her,” Sir Reginald said. “In any case, what else could Miss Bellairs say, except to deny everything? And not be believed. It is best if such awkward scenes are avoided.”

  “Personally, I am not sure we have the whole story,” Lord Laxeley said hesitantly. “When I listened to Miss Bellairs at the piano the other morning, she was perfectly serene, and played without pausing. Why on earth would she have brought along an incriminating letter to read while practicing? I do not read my correspondence while I play my cello, and Miss Bellairs, whatever else she may be, is a consummate musician.”

  “No
w, we have been over all that,” the baronet said, shaking her head. “A love letter is very different from one’s normal correspondence. And where else would it have come from?”

  “Do I understand you to say that a love letter by Miss Bellairs is the reason for your newly hostile attitude?” William asked coldly.

  “Not by her, but to her. From some Italian lover, a married man. That is what shocked my poor wife most deeply. The point is, it referred to intimacies, and even a child, a little girl.”

  “A child?” William did not know what to think. “What child?”

  “A child she bore to this Italian, presumably,” Lord Laxeley said. “You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw that letter. Never could I have imagined that the proud Miss Bellairs hid such dark secrets under her innocent front.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Laxeley shrugged. “Neither did I at first, but there it was, black on white. Or black on pale blue. It just goes to show that one should never trust one’s dangerous secrets to paper. If I had an illicit lover, I would at least write to her under a disguised name. This letter was addressed to his Margaret.”

  “If Miss Bellairs really had a child, she would not have abandoned it.” William had been fooled by women before, but surely he could not have been that mistaken in her character.

  “She might not have had a choice, once her sister married Pell and moved back to England. I wonder if the Marquis knows about this illegitimate child? His wife must certainly know. The whole family will be tainted by the scandal.”

  “It is likely all a tangle of malicious lies,” William maintained, but black doubt was inexorably creeping into his mind. Could it be? Did the girl he adored, with whom he had fallen in love – no matter how much he had tried to resist – hide a shameful past?