Amberley Chronicles Boxset I: The Impostor Debutante My Last Marchioness the Sister Quest (Amberley Chronicles Boxsets Book 1) (38 page)

Chapter 4

“Jonathan is looking for a young lady of breeding and with good connections,” James told his brother George and sister-in-law, Marianne, two days after he had met his friend.

They were having tea at Amberley House in Mount Street. The Earl and his Countess were already dressed for a charity concert in favour of officers’ widows and orphans, to which they would proceed afterwards, before going on to a dinner party.

“Can you think of anyone suitable? He’s a good fellow, though too much devoted to business. His wife will have to put her foot down and make him enjoy all the other pleasures of life. If she gives him children, she’ll be able to wrap Jonathan round her little finger easily enough.”

“Just how rich is he?” Having inherited his title and wealth, George found it hard to believe that a contemporary of his younger brother could have amassed a very large fortune. True, there were many successful commercial ventures, but the risk was very high. George preferred the safest investments. Most of his fortune was in the funds.

“At least half a million, but it’s not something I have ever asked him.” James grinned. “It should be enough to make Jonathan acceptable to some aristocratic family, despite the connection to trade. Once a fortune exceeds a certain threshold, people tend to find the source much less shocking. He’s not bad-looking either, though no Adonis.”

“You are no fit judge of another man’s attractiveness to females,” Marianne told him. “I would like to meet this Mr. Durwent myself, before I recommend any of my friends to his notice.”

“I already suggested that you might include him in your house party in June, and if he has already made a choice, his chosen lady and her family. Of course I should have spoken to you first -“

“No, that’s quite all right, we’ll be glad to have them, and it will be amusing to see if he can fix his interest with a young lady.” Marianne seemed to run through her guest list in her mind. “If he’s still at the courting stage, it might not be ideal – Rook has said he would come, and you know how girls throw themselves at him wherever he goes.”

“If the woman he chooses prefers a hopeless passion for Rook to marrying a solid fellow like Jonathan, she’s a ninny, and he’d better find that out
before
he proposes,” James said. “It might not be a bad test of the lady’s steadfastness.”

“But a rather unfair one, surely,” George objected. “Since he shaved off his moustache last year, and cultivated that mysterious air, young ladies everywhere find Rook well-nigh irresistible. The heir of a dukedom, with his good looks - I still cannot understand how Minerva could have preferred Henry to him.”

“Henry is a good man,” James defended their younger sister’s choice. “And if I were a female, I daresay I would also think twice before taking on Rook. Looks and a title aren’t everything.”

“Evidently not, at least in Minerva’s eyes. I must say, when we saw her last week, she seemed content enough. And Henry is making quite a name for himself with his speeches. Several of my fellow peers have been wondering how I could let such a firebrand into the House, who works directly against our own interests.”

“And what do you tell them?”

“What can I say, since he’s family now? Of course I have to support Henry. I do wish at times he were not quite so radical. But I’m not going to say so to him; I would not want to crimp his style.”

“Good of you,” James acknowledged. “So can I write to Jonathan that he’ll be welcome at your house party? It begins on June twentieth, doesn’t it?”

“I shall write to invite him myself,” Marianne decided. “And I look forward to seeing Charlotte and your children there as well. Charlotte hardly comes up to London these days, we all miss her.”

“Will Mother be there?”

George grimaced. “She has not made up her mind. She knows that Charlotte and you, as well as Minerva and Henry will be present, so her hesitation is already a hopeful sign. It is really high time we buried all these pointless resentments.”

“Indeed,” Marianne said. “It gets very tiresome, and so I have told her.”

“Mother may not want to meet Jonathan,” James pointed out. “Ever since I came down from university she has objected to our friendship, though of course I never regarded it. But it would be most unfortunate if she slighted my friend in any way.”

“When he is at Amberley as an invited guest? She had better not try,” Marianne said with a martial gleam in her eye. James regarded her with admiration. The young Countess had wrested control from her formidable mother-in-law within the first year of her marriage, a feat he had considered impossible at the time. She was usually so polite and soft-spoken that it was easy to underestimate Marianne.

“If we are to invite your friend’s bride-to-be, we’ll need at least ten days’ notice, or the invitation might arrive insultingly late,” George observed. “That does not leave him much time. If he has not yet made up his mind, he’ll meet several highly eligible young ladies there, but whether any of them would even look at a fellow in trade, no matter how rich, is something I could not say.”

“The twins are looking forward to seeing Verena again, and to meeting their new cousin,” James said, diplomatically changing the subject. Marianne had been brought to bed of her second child, conceived during a long journey around the Mediterranean, some five months previously. To her mother-in-law’s great disappointment, it had been yet another girl, and was baptised Amelia. That her late sister’s name had been preferred to her own had deeply offended the dowager Countess, the more so as this was the second Amelia in the family; their cousin Belinda Seymour in Yorkshire had also given the name to her oldest daughter. As yet nobody had named any girl child Millicent.

“Verena is also excited at seeing her cousins again, especially baby George,” Marianne responded. “Isn’t it practical that our children are all of similar age?”

“Indeed, you can bring Violet out together with Verena,” James suggested. “If they ever stop fighting so much.”

Marianne smiled ruefully. “Your Violet is so very pretty that this idea would give pause to many mothers. But I have confidence in Verena, she’ll hold her own even against her cousin’s competition.”

“I hate thinking of them in competition,” George said. “They are just little girls, and we are borrowing trouble by thinking that far ahead.”

“Can you tell yet what hair and eyes little Amelia will have?

“She has the family chestnut hair, like yours, and her mother’s green eyes,” George said proudly. “She will be a beauty, rather in Minerva’s style, I expect.”

“It’s much too early to tell,” Marianne cautioned, but it was obvious she did not disagree. “Amelia is a darling child, so quiet and easy, no trouble at all.”

“That does not sound like an Ellsworthy,” James said, vaguely alarmed. “I’m not sure it’s even a good thing in a baby.”

“As long as she’s healthy, nothing else matters,” George said, and neither his wife nor his brother gainsaid him.

***

It was a mercy that his sister did not live in Scotland or Yorkshire, for Jonathan was heartily bored with the long ride northwards by the time it was half done. The roads were better than even ten years ago, but still not as even and well-maintained as he could have wished, and the hired coach was only moderately well-sprung. The constant jolting made it difficult to read or write. He had been planning to draw up business plans for two of his companies, but on the first day the movement of the coach defeated him. Before he married, he’d have to buy his own, much better travelling coach, ready in time for the wedding journey.

He already owned a curricle and two expensive bays, suitable enough to get around in London and environs, and in bad weather one could hire conveyances of all kinds and sizes. Permanently stabling a coach and several horses in London was very expensive. At the outset of Jonathan’s city career it would have been a wasteful extravagance. These days, however, for a man of his wealth not having his own coach was living like a miser.

Hendrickson, the investigator, would await him in the Bellington inn to deliver a final report in person. Jonathan was of two minds whether he should dismiss the man afterwards, or keep him on for whatever errands might be necessary. His first impulse was to let the man go – but had he not just realised that his instincts were still those of a struggling, much poorer man? Hendrickson did not come cheap, as such services went, but retaining him for a whole year would not put any noticeable dent in Jonathan’s resources. After giving it thought, he resolved that since he was travelling without servants, it might be prudent to keep this one minion at his beck and call, at least until he saw the whole situation more clearly.

Maybe he should have brought his valet after all. A gentleman of standing, as he aspired to become, would hardly be travelling unattended. But who knew what awkward details he might find out about this twin sister – details he would not want his London servants to gossip about.

When the coach arrived in Bellington in the early afternoon after four days on the road, the weather had cleared, and Jonathan had mastered the trick of working in dim, swaying confines. He was greatly relieved, however, that it would no longer be necessary, and stared with interest at the small town through which he was passing.

Despite the weak sunshine penetrating fast-moving clouds, very few people were visible. A mongrel sat scratching his ears in the middle of a side road, unconcerned about traffic. London with its bustling streets and elegant shops seemed a lifetime away. Small towns had neither the charm of the true countryside with trees and meadows, nor the fascination and anonymity of great cities. They represented the worst of both worlds, or so Jonathan had always thought. His father’s vicarage had been in a place even smaller than this Bellington, which Jonathan estimated as housing six thousand souls, give or take a thousand.

The inn was called the Red Boar, and looked somewhat better than he had feared. Mr. Durwent was expected, and the best room, - not that this was saying much – was immediately put at his disposal. The boot boy carried his valise and bag up to the first floor under Jonathan’s watchful eye.

He found a message from Hendrickson on the mantelpiece, that he would be in the inn’s common room at four.

Two more hours? Jonathan was impatient to proceed with his mission. With any luck, the investigator would have discovered more about the mysterious Charity since he’d dispatched his last report to London.

The sooner he accomplished what he had come here to do, the sooner he could return home, to begin his bride search. Surely three to four days would be enough.

Chapter 5

Prune Spalding thought her little girl was finally asleep, when Annie asked, “Can I listen to the Music Box?”

She bit her lips and nervously looked about her. The nursery might be far from the library, where her father–in-law spent his afternoons, but you could never be entirely sure he would not suddenly appear and upbraid her for spoiling her daughter with useless frivolity. He particularly hated the music box. For a man in his seventies he was uncannily spry and quite unpredictable. His hearing, unfortunately, was still acute.

“All right, just once though,” she said to her sick child, and went to fetch the music box from the bottom of the chest where it lay hidden with other objects Sir Charles considered inappropriate. All the lovely shawls, bracelets, and fans that Cherry had sent her over nearly a decade were packed out of sight, patiently waiting for the day when Sir Charles shuffled off his mortal coil and released his family into unaccustomed freedom. Given his good health it might well be another ten or twenty years. Prune did not know if she could survive that long without bashing his head in. 

The carved box of sandalwood inlaid with mother-of-pearl always fascinated her children, but its tinkling melody carried further than Prune could have wished. For once she was in luck; the last note of the melody died away without interruption, and her little girl’s smile rewarded her for the risk she had taken.

“Can I have a box like that when I’m big?” Annie asked, while Prune quickly wrapped the forbidden object in a pillow slip, so it would be less visible till she put it back in its place.

“You can have
this
box,” she offered. “When you are big, you will be able to play it whenever you like. You will also learn to play the piano, so you can make your own music.” She hoped with all her heart that her rash promise could be fulfilled. Sir Charles detested music and had sold the harp that had been part of his wife’s dowry twenty years ago, “so none of the brats would waste their time on this nonsense,” he had said at the time. Prune suspected that Lady Spalding, her mother–in-law, missed the instrument, though she never would say a single word of protest and criticism against Sir Charles. Perfectly normal and assertive with everyone else, Mama-in-Law was a cipher where her husband was concerned. Well, anybody
would
be who had the bad luck to be married to Sir Charles. Patch, the most musical of the three sisters, had longed to play an instrument throughout her youth, but there was never the slightest question of going against Sir Charles’ edicts. Patch had contented herself with singing in the choir of St. Stephen’s, a blameless alternative even he had not been able to forbid, as his jurisdiction did not extend to the Lord’s abode; a fact that no doubt annoyed Sir Charles.

Noting the time by the slant of the sun outside the window, Prune left her daughter with the nanny and went to change for tea, a daily ritual at Spalding Hall. When she entered the drawing room in her modest dark blue afternoon gown, Mama-in-Law, Patch and Aunt Horatia were already assembled. She greeted them and sank down on her particular armchair, accepting a cup of tea with a tiny amount of milk and no sugar from Mother-in-Law. Prune was hoping to lose weight by eschewing sugar, but so far it did not seem to make any difference.

“He is in a rare taking,” Patch said in a low voice. “Something to do with the government. If the papers excite him so, why does he take them?”

Because he
likes
to be angry and excited, and any excuse for bullying the rest of us is welcome, Prune thought but did not say. Instead she smiled and helped herself to a crumpet.

“How is Annie?” Lady Spalding asked. “Have the splotches subsided?”

“Almost completely. I am satisfied that it was not anything contagious, and merely the ham she ate; it must have been cured with mustard.”

“I suppose the poor child cannot help it,” Aunt Horatia observed, “but it is a great nuisance, this inability to consume the most ordinary foods. A good thing that the boys don’t have such a weakness.”

“There are many worse afflictions Annie could have,” Patch said quickly, as Prune bristled. “Are we expecting anyone for dinner tonight?”

“Just the Vicar and his wife,” Lady Spalding replied. “I hope Matt is not late, wherever he may be, when Sir Charles is in such a difficult mood.”

There was a moment of silence as each lady contemplated, from lifelong experience, the dreadful scene they could expect if Matt was even a minute late for dinner.

“I need to drive to Norwich as soon as possible, to see the dentist,” Prune said. Patch threw her a disapproving look. Her sister knew that the proposed excursion had nothing to do with her teeth, but was necessary to sell Cherry’s jewels. Patch had sworn an oath when she was twelve years old, to never tell a lie, and though it had cost her dearly, had not broken her vow in almost eighteen years. It fell to Prune to use prevarication and untruths when required. With a tyrant like Sir Charles controlling every detail of her life, as well as her husband and her vulnerable children, she had long ago shed any compunction or guilt.

Prune had only drunken half of the unsweetened tea when her father-in-law entered the drawing room. It took all her self-control not to shrink back against the armchair, or lower her head and eyes. Sir Charles rarely joined them at this hour, but if he was in a mood, he would want to find victims. Patch remained outwardly unruffled, as usual. Lady Spalding smiled nervously, and spilled a few drops of tea.

“How clumsy you are today,” Sir Charles said to his wife. “One would think that after so many years of practice, you would have learned to pour a cup of tea without mishaps. But some people, it would seem, never learn.”

None of the ladies made a reply to this unamiable statement. “Cat got your tongues?” Sir Charles said, looking from one to the other of them in derision and challenge. “What a collection of simpletons. Where’s that worthless son of mine?”

“Matt went to see someone,” Aunt Horatia said in a colourless voice. “He’ll be back in time for dinner.”

“Who? What folly is he getting up to, without consulting me first? It can’t be anything good, he hasn’t got the sense God gave to a sparrow.”

The sisters exchanged alarmed glances. Sir Charles must not learn of Cherry’s presence in Bellington. “I don’t know,” Prune said, “I’m sure he’ll tell us all about it over dinner.” Hopefully there would be sufficient time to warn Matt, and invent some likely tale that would satisfy the old man.

“I heard your daughter was sick again. You coddle her too much,” Sir Charles said to Prune. “If I hadn’t sent the boys off to school, they would turn out useless, too. Still may.” He looked at her expectantly, aware that he could most easily get a rise out of Prune by maligning her children. But today, worried about Cherry and her jewels, Prune ignored his jibes and merely took another bite of her crumpet.

Unable to pick the quarrel he so eagerly sought, Sir Charles delivered himself of several more insulting and scathing remarks, drank half a cup of tea, which he pronounced too weak and tepid, and stalked off again. A heavy silence remained behind.

***

Matt returned to Cherry’s lodgings only an hour later, without the promised pens and paper, though in compensation he brought a pigeon pie purchased at the inn.

“In c-case your alarums are not just imagination,” he told her, “I should w-warn you that there are three men who might f-fit. One arrived two days ago, a small weasel-like man called S-sellers. He claims to be looking for a house to b-buy, and has been walking around and asking questions. Another stranger has been here for a w-week, a big blond red-faced man with a London accent. That means he arrived two d-days after you. The landlord could not find out what his business was, he k-keeps his affairs close to his vest. This man looks like a pretty rough customer, the innkeeper s-said, though he was perfectly civil and paid p-punctually. He reserved another room in the inn for his p-principal, a Mr. D-durwent, who arrived in a coach from London not half an hour before I p-passed by. He took the best room and p-paid for three days ahead.”

Cherry could feel her heart speed up at this evidence that her enemies were so close. But maybe it was all a coincidence; no need to panic yet.

“How do you know the coach was from London?”

“The c-coachman and outrider were paid off, and had a meal in the common room before starting on their r-return journey. They made no s-secret of their destination. It would seem they were hired in London at short n-notice, and don’t know anything about this man D-durwent. He tipped them well enough, judging by the amount of d-drink they consumed.”

Cherry was silent for a minute, afraid to ask. “Did you find out what this new arrival looked like?”

“Around thirty, slim, b-brown hair, gentlemanly speech and dress, rather s-sober appearance.”

“Not Buckley himself, then.” Her relief was out of proportion great. This man, most likely one of Buckley’s confederates, might easily be as dangerous to her. “I cannot thank you enough for bringing me the warning right away. Please tell my sisters too, to be very careful of these men.”

“If you s-say so, though I cannot imagine what danger they could be to us. I’d better leave, don’t want to be l-late for dinner.”

When Matt was gone, Cherry gave silent thanks that she did not have to be present at dinner with the odious Sir Charles. It defied her understanding how Patch and Prune could still be living in the same house as the old martinet, even if he kept his dependents extremely short of cash, so as to prevent any attempt to escape from his reach. He had not even allowed his wife and her sisters to visit her in London, when she had invited them so often.

Patch was the best-looking of them all. Why had she never found a man who could offer an escape in all those years? Surely almost any marriage would be preferable to life at Spalding Hall. Prune had trapped herself by marrying Matt, but then they had been young and in love. No great beauty and without a dowry, Prune might not have seen any other chances.

Cherry herself, though not classically beautiful, had always attracted male admiration, and had already rejected several offers before consenting to wed Max at nineteen. Even now, at nearly thirty, she could easily find a new husband, should she put her mind to it. According to Max, when a man looked at her, he could not help thinking of kissing and bed sport, even when she wore the dullest clothes in her wardrobe and the man knew for a fact that she was virtuous and respectable. During those early years, Max had taken a perverse pleasure in parading her before his friends and associates decked in suggestive clothes and expensive jewels, knowing that they would salivate and remain unsatisfied. He had also claimed that she could have made a fortune as a courtesan. Cherry had been insulted at the remark, but the unending series of male compliments and surreptitious suggestions during her London years had told their own story. It was not always an asset, this ability to attract. She’d had to become very adept at running the other way. Towards the end she had hidden her jewels away – most fortunately, as it turned out – and dressed as severely as she could. Yet it had not helped. Buckley still wanted her.

Soon her sisters, Matt and the older members of the Spalding Household would be sitting down to one of their cheerless dinners. Sir Charles was marginally more pleasant when outsiders were present, so Lady Spalding in self-preservation invited the Vicar, the curate, and a few other long-suffering neighbours on a regular basis.

Cherry had been cooped up in this crumbling house for the whole day. She could not stand it any longer.

Was there any way to observe those mysterious strangers at the inn? If she did not know them, they would hardly know her by sight. Unfortunately most people in Bellington did, as Sir Charles’ family was one of the four most prominent in the place. She could hardly ask the whole town not to give her away.

Was there a way to preserve her anonymity? The widow’s weeds and veil were too noticeable, and too elegant. If she were a farmer’s wife, however, or a servant … she still had the red wig. It was of good quality, made of real hair, and had originally served for a Queen Bess costume. That was not a character she could resume here, but how effective a disguise could she achieve with the materials at hand? Finding out was as good a way as any other to pass the time.