Amberley Chronicles Boxset I: The Impostor Debutante My Last Marchioness the Sister Quest (Amberley Chronicles Boxsets Book 1) (40 page)

Chapter 8

That night the redheaded Mrs. Jones haunted Jonathan’s dreams. He awoke badly rested and dissatisfied. Maybe all those weeks since he’d last been with a woman were making him overly susceptible to female charms. In an ill humour he washed and dressed, relieved to see that there should be time enough for breakfast before his appointment with Mr. Selbington.

He had reckoned without the eagerness of that young man, who arrived a full twenty minutes early, and found Jonathan in the common room, eating rashers of ham and bacon that he washed down with ale, not trusting in the quality of the inn’s tea.

“Mr. Durwent – Sir?”

A fresh faced blond young man of maybe twenty-five stood before him, comfortably and soberly dressed in dark brown cloth.

“I am Paul Selbington. Oh, sorry, I am interrupting your breakfast.” The young man actually blushed, like a debutante hearing her first innuendo.

“Sit down,” Jonathan said, gesturing at the empty chairs all around him. “I’ll be finished in ten minutes. Would you like some ale?”

Selbington declined the ale, but requested tea from the blonde barmaid, who brought it right away. It was as black as tar. After the first cautious sip, Selbington did not attempt to drink any more.

“Tell me about Lobbock Manor, Mr. Selbington. How long has it been in your possession?”

“Uncle Jasper died some six months ago, there was probate, and so on … now we are finally able to sell it, but the location is a bit far from larger towns, and with the bad harvests in recent years, the local gentry are not in a position to buy another estate. Well, except for Lord Pell, I daresay, but he already has so many larger houses.”

“And your sisters and you are quite determined to sell? Are all the owners of age?”

“Yes, the four of us are all over twenty-one, Gertrude only by a few weeks.”

“Why don’t you keep the estate yourselves?”

“None of us has the means to pay off the other three,” Selbington said frankly. “And to be honest, it is too large for me. I am quite happy in my own small house, where I can accommodate a family when the time comes, as well as two or three pupils I tutor. I am quite at ease there, with a cook-housekeeper and two maids. Why needlessly complicate my life?”

These words uncomfortably echoed Jonathan’s own feelings, but clearly this stripling did not have his own drive and ambition and
plans
. Nonetheless he felt compelled to issue a warning.

“You future wife, if you should marry, may feel differently.”

The young man shook his head, smiling. “I shall take good care to marry a woman who enjoys my modest style of living, and does not plague me with empty ambitions.” How could he be so confident? But possibly he already had a young lady in his sights.

“I am done – let’s be off.” Jonathan pushed away the greasy remains of his food and took a last swallow of ale, to dilute the taste.

“It’s quite close, we could easily walk, but I have the gig.”

This vehicle looked old but solid, painted in a dull black colour, and was drawn by a somnolent bay gelding whose best days were also behind him. There was just space for both of them on the bench, neither being fat.

“You are the late Sir Jasper’s nephew, and a gentleman of education,” Jonathan said. “Do you really feel no compunction at selling the estate of your forebears?”

“My mother’s forebears,” Selbington corrected. “The Selbingtons are a junior branch of the Sussex family.” He did not add, but Jonathan knew, that the head of the main branch was the Earl of Brincastle. “I have been a scholar since I first learned to write, first in ambition and then in fact. Dealing with tenants and servants is not how I envisage my days.”

Jonathan was silenced. He had to admire a man who knew so clearly what he wanted out of life, even if his priorities were alien to him.

They came to the wrought iron gate he had already seen the previous day, and inevitably his thoughts returned to the red-headed Mrs. Jones. He might ask Selbington if he knew her, but this was hardly the moment. He would sound like a womaniser who could not keep his focus on business even for half an hour.

Selbington descended and opened the gate with a heavy iron key, while Jonathan held the reins; unnecessarily, as the bay showed little propensity to move. They drove between the two pillars, closing but not locking the gate behind them. The drive passed between the oak trees, and took a turn.

“There it is, Lobbock Manor,” Selbington said, stopping the gig to let him have a good view of the ivy-coated exterior. “I suppose the next owner will change the name.”

The house showed some signs of having been empty and neglected since the winter, but might still easily be reclaimed. The solid building was only two stories high, and dated back to Elizabethan times, if Jonathan was any judge, though there were modern additions. The ensemble was surprisingly harmonious. Jonathan had not expected to like the place so much. Too bad that he was only pretending to be seriously interested.

“Lobbock Hall has been in my mother’s family since 1582. There’s also a dower house, last used by my great-aunt Sybelle, in the same style, and not quite half as big,” Selbington explained. “You cannot see it from here; it is about half a mile behind the main house, and has its own gate.”

They left the gig in the care of a shuffling teenaged groom, the only person in sight. Selbington selected another key, only slightly smaller than the first, to open the front door of the Hall.

“What about servants? You simply locked the place up?”

“We didn’t want to go on paying the wages, if we were going to sell anyway,” Selbington explained.

Jonathan suspected that the heirs didn’t have the money for wages. Had their inheritance not included any capital at all? “I see,” he said noncommittally.

At least someone had put cloth covers on the furniture, and the dust was not quite as thick as it might have been. There were criss-crossing footprints in it. Selbington regarded them with a puzzled air.

“These are not your own prints?”

“Some, and my sisters’ too - but look, the size of those here is larger than my own feet.”

This was true, though Selbington was not small; the oversize prints had been made with rough boots.

“Let me give you some advice: buyers are more likely to take a place when it is clean and dusted.”

“Such a minor detail should not make any difference,” Selbington protested. “Although I suppose you would know. Have you bought many estates?”

“More houses than estates like this, but yes, it is a part of my business. Though I’m mainly in shipping.”

“Not a lot of shipping here, so far from the shore,” Selbington said. They slowly walked through the main rooms and kitchens, and came to a long gallery.

Dozens of pictures decorated its walls. Jonathan stood transfixed.

“Yes, hideous, isn’t it? Who would want a naked woman that fat with a cut-off head in her hands hanging in his house? Enough to give one nightmares.”

“Judith and Holofernes,” Jonathan said in a strangled voice. He could have sworn that it was a Rubens, or at least in his style.

“Yes, I know. A very tasteless subject on which to waste so much oil paint. But the worst is this one.” Selbington pointed to a huge still life with a bleeding dead hare amidst fruit and vegetables, and a very realistic human skull staring out at them through huge eyeholes.

Jonathan slowly let his eyes pass over the collection, his pulse speeding up. “Have you not had these pictures appraised? If they are originals, they should be quite valuable.”

“What, this old stuff? They are included in the sale price.”

“Are you sure?” This was like taking a purse from a dead drunk. Jonathan’s commercial instincts were warring with his sense of fairness. “Maybe your sisters want the pictures?”

“No, except for one of our great-grandmother, that Gertrude already took with her last week. The big ones in here don’t fit on my walls, even if I wanted them, and I don’t.” His sisters probably had even less room in the overcrowded vicarage.

“The whole estate for twenty thousand guineas, my agent told me,” Jonathan said, looking at Selbingon.

“Yes,” the young man said uncertainly. “That is …”

He had the air of one about to offer a substantial reduction. Jonathan quickly said, “I’ll take it. And I’ll throw in an extra two thousand for the pictures and furniture – and library, I suppose there is one?”

“In here,” Selbington said, opening a door from the gallery. The library was panelled in oak, in Elizabethan style. There was a beautifully carved fireplace as well as a huge ancient stove covered in blue tiles. “I already removed the books that interested me, and fit into my house,” he said apologetically, “but as you can see, there are plenty left.”

Indeed there were, most of them bound in leather. There also was another small picture on the wall, of a young Flemish woman in green, holding a flute. It looked like a Van Dyck.

“Those should also have been appraised,” Jonathan said, giving the seller one last chance to change his mind.

“Your two thousand extra will do, nobody here is interested in old books. I know that in Oxford they might find buyers, but piecemeal and slowly. I am not a bookseller.”

So be it, then.

“We have a deal, Mr. Selbington. Who is your solicitor?”

The young man blinked in surprise. “But you haven’t even seen the dower house, the grounds, and the hog farm. I’m afraid the saw mill is not in operation right now.”

Jonathan smiled. “I’ll have a look at them, and the books, but I’m satisfied that the price is fair – more than fair. I can get the money to you within the week, once we have all signed the contract. Your sisters are all willing to do so?”

“Oh yes, we are all agreed. They will be happy – five hundred guineas extra for each of them.” He was beaming, the poor fool. “This must be celebrated. Would you do me the honour to come to dinner tonight – er, in the Vicarage?”

“Gladly, but will not your father, the Vicar, or his lady, want to issue the invitation themselves?”

“I know they will be delighted. And my sisters will definitely want to meet you. Six is the usual hour when we dine.”

“Then I accept with pleasure. If you find your father has other plans, simply send a message to the inn. I shall stay there until the formalities of the sale are complete, then I’ll move in here. There is plainly much to do.”

At least now his pretext for coming here was entirely credible. And Jonathan had no choice. He badly wanted to hang that Van Dyck in his own library.

As they were leaving with the gig, he casually asked, “Do you happen to know a young woman by name of Mrs. Jones? With bright red hair?”

“No, I cannot say that I do. Jones is a Welsh name, but common enough in the area. The red hair sounds more noticeable, but still by no means unusual.”

“Never mind, then. What are you planning to buy with your share of the proceeds?”

“Happiness, if possible.” Selbington seemed to contemplate a long-awaited but by no means sure prospect. “If you are going to settle here, you will see for yourself if I manage it. If not, my sisters can have my share.”

“I wish you luck in whatever way you are planning to find happiness, Selbington.”

“Thank you. You have already done quite enough to bring it about.”

Chapter 9

Cherry wiped the grime off the dull mirror with a handkerchief, to catch a clearer picture of herself as Mrs. Jones, the impressed seaman’s lonely wife.

She should have thought of a different name. Sophia Jones was fine, but Mrs. Tom Jones was courting exposure. She added another maxim to the list, for her book of warnings.
When choosing a false name, do not take it from a well-known book
. Fortunately Mr. Durwent had not seemed to catch on; possibly he was not a great reader. Few people were. And he
had
noticed that her speech did not go with her simple attire.

Judging by his reaction to her, the red hair did not diminish her allure; perhaps even the contrary, for Durwent struck her as a sober type who would not easily flirt with chance-met strangers. She had rather invited his bold words, when she thought back to their conversation, and he had backed off right away, as a gentleman would.

Buckley was even more dangerous than she had thought, with such a man as this Durwent in his service. How had he achieved that? Probably by blackmail and extortion, his usual methods. But that did not excuse Durwent. That he seemed so courteous and gentlemanly only made him more dangerous and reprehensible. And he was an excellent liar, to boot.

Cherry did not believe for a minute that Durwent was really here to buy the Lobbock estate. He did not look like a man able to fling twenty thousand guineas around, which she had heard was the asking price. Gentlemen who bought such estates did not travel in hired coaches, or stay at the local inn without a single servant.

The familiar knock on the door cut short these reflections. She went to open and saw Patch, carrying yet another basket.

“Please come in.”

Instead of doing so, her sister stared at her incredulously. “Why is your hair red? How can you look like this, when you are a recent widow? Have you completely lost your senses?”

“Come in,” Cherry repeated, “We can quarrel better inside.” Patch finally yielded to her invitation, and closed the door.

Half a head taller than she, and still as slim as she had been in her teens, Patch looked uncommonly well this day. Her blond hair was arranged on her head in two thick braids, pinned up in the back and partially covered by a tiny excuse for a straw hat. Her classic bone structure and fair skin were not diminished by the flattened hair. Nor did she look her age. Of the three sisters, Prune was the only one who did, likely because she had borne three children and was fond of sweets. Both Patch and Cherry could still pass for twenty-seven, twenty-five in candlelight.

“Well?” Patch was looking at her challengingly. “You know how I detest lying in all its forms. That red hair is a lie, can you deny it?”

“A wig, not a lie, and an expensive wig at that,” Cherry corrected. “It has already helped me escape from my London. When a superior force is ranged against you, there is nothing wrong with a stratagem or ruse of war.”

“Whatever happened in London – and your tales make me glad I never was allowed to visit – here in our peaceful Bellington there cannot be the slightest reason to don such a tasteless thing.” Patch stepped closer and peered at the red tresses. “It looks like real hair.”

“It is. Doubtlessly from some poor Irishwoman, who was glad to earn a few pounds when it was cut off her head.”

“How gross, to wear another person’s hair on top of your own.”

“Not that long ago, powdered wigs were all the rage for both men and women. But let’s not quarrel about such an insignificant matter, Patch. Thanks for bringing me this basket – does it hold food?”

“Of course. And I am to tell you from Prune and Matt that they are gone to Norwich today with your jewels; ostensibly because Prune has the toothache and urgently needs a dentist. It never ceases to sadden me how everyone in the family constantly engages in untruths and prevarication.”

“Without Sir Charles, almost none of these lies would be necessary.”

“There is something in that,” Patch conceded. “A sad reflection on how badly life is regulated.”

“So it is,” Cherry agreed, relieved to hear her sister’s tone become more conciliatory. “There are dangerous men staying at the inn, working for Buckley in London, I fear. Since you cannot tell a lie, please stay away from them, and don’t tell them anything about my presence here. They are the reason why I am wearing this disguise.”

Patch raised her brows haughtily. “I am not likely to talk to strangers about you, and if anyone asks, will simply refuse to answer. You know how much practice I have at that.”

Cherry nodded. Throughout their early years, Patch had received many a beating for her endless stubbornness. Had she been born in early Roman times, she would have been a prime candidate for martyrdom.

“I still don’t understand why you are so afraid of this man Buckley. I daresay there are many blackguards in London, but we are far away from his haunts. How did you get involved with him in the first place?”

A good question. It had been Max, of course, who introduced them – Max, who had known perfectly well that Buckley was as unscrupulous as he was rich. Max had flaunted his wife in front of Buckley, but he had bitterly regretted it before too long. Buckley had offered a loan or two when Max had lost a shipment, and from there it had all gone downhill. Till that horrible day when Buckley offered to forgive the loan if Cherry would be his mistress. Instead of knocking him down for even suggesting it, Max had tried to persuade her.
That
was when her marriage had ended, long before the bullet crushed Max’s brains. Cherry could not possibly confide this sordid story to her virtuous sister. The details would die with her.

“It was Max who foolishly introduced him to me, not realising what kind of man Buckley was. He became obsessed with me, and after Max’s death, tried to exploit my difficult position.” How short and bloodless a description for months of subtle and overt pressure and increasing desperation. At least she had salvaged her self-respect and her jewels, as difficult as it had been.

“Did this man have anything to do with your husband’s death?”

“He had loaned him money, but the problems began with an underinsured shipment that sank. Buckley took advantage of Max’s temporary embarrassment.”

Her voice must have betrayed some of her pain and anger, for Patch briefly touched her cool hand to Cherry’s. “It does not seem fair that you should be disgraced and impoverished, because of your husband’s foolish actions. I would not have expected it of him, though of course I did not know Max well.”

“Nobody expected it of him, least of all I.”

“Are you sure that the fellow is a criminal? Then why is he not in prison or hanged?”

“Very sure, and he’s not an ordinary kind of thief, those get caught and hanged quickly enough. Buckley gets others to do his dirty deeds, a type that flourishes in big cities with plentiful corruption. The countryside does not offer sufficient scope to such men. They are very ambitious, completely without remorse, and count human lives cheap. Typically they have dozens of people under their direct control, including some of those supposed to catch them.”

“That makes me glad my life is here, far away from London. Of course we also have our problems and sorrows, but nothing like this human scourge you describe. It will do you good to stay away from London yourself, after this.”

“No doubt.” Cherry was already homesick for the capital, but Patch would never understand that. “What sorrows were you speaking of just now? You are always controlled and reserved, and look so cool, that I find it difficult to associate the word with you. Or were you referring to Prune and her family?”

“None of us is completely happy,” Patch said, “but you know it has never been my habit to talk about useless feelings or longings. When I wanted to play the piano as a child, and was not allowed to do so, that was a sorrow; but it is long past. Since then there may have been other unrealistic wishes, but God gives me the strength to carry on regardless.”

Cherry shot her a sharp look. Even this admission from Patch was very unusual. She never betrayed any weakness if she could help it.

“What about Prune? She claims everything is right in her life, and I gather she gets on well with Matt, but it cannot be easy to be Sir Charles’ daughter-in-law. Not for all the tea in China would I have accepted that position.”

“She suffered greatly when Sir Charles sent her boys to school last autumn over her objections, surely she wrote to you about it. And as you say, the old man’s tyranny is a hard yoke to bear. You yourself escaped almost at the first opportunity, and as Sir Charles still spent his days at the munitions works then, it was not as bad as it has become since. I am not so sure that Prune and Matt are happy together. Seeing your husband browbeaten and insulted day after day must undermine any wife’s respect for him. And he sees Prune bullied by his father, and is unable to stand up for her without stammering helplessly. I could not live with a man under such circumstances.”

“No, indeed.” Cherry frowned, thinking over Patch’s words. “That is worse than I guessed from Prune’s letters. She always sounds resolute and cheerful. I invited Prune and Matt to London several times in better days. If they had come, Matt could have looked for a position there; that would have allowed them to strike out on their own. I could not understand why they never did so.”

“How easily would Matt find a position to support his family, with that stutter? Besides, Sir Charles has sworn to disinherit Matt and the children, if they leave Bellington without his approval – which he’ll never give. Would you throw away a big estate and fortune, for the uncertainty of a position you could lose at any moment?”

“It might have been the wiser course, even so,” Cherry maintained. She mentally drafted another maxim for her book:
Do not regulate your whole life in the expectation of an inheritance that may come too late to do much good
. Or not come at all; Sir Charles could be capricious. It would be just like him to disinherit his heirs after all their sacrifices.

She unpacked the basket Patch had brought, and found poppy seed cake, small sausages, hazelnut biscuits, four apples, dried figs, and two mince pies. There also was a bottle of wine.

Cherry was touched. “You carried this heavy weight all this way – thank you, Patch. I hope the day may come when I can repay you and Prune for all you are doing.” She put the hymnal Patch had brought the last time into the basket and covered it with a cotton cloth.

“Charity is your name; surely it is not a surprise to receive it now and then.”

Cherry frowned. “You know I have always hated that name. On the other hand, Patience suits
you
well enough.”

“Not always. Year after year passes and nothing happens in my life. Even
my
patience only goes so far.”

“I am sorry,” Cherry said, “but at least no tragedy has happened to you in recent years. There are worse fates - think of our poor parents. They were close to our current age, when they perished so suddenly.”

“Oh, I often do. I still miss them.”

Cherry was not sure that she did. It had been twenty-two years since their death, and life had moved on. “If we had children, either of us, we might have died in childbed by now.”

“It is a risk I would be quite willing to take under the right circumstances,” Patch replied.

Of course she would; nothing ever daunted Patch.

“Maybe it will still happen – not the death in childbed, I mean, but having a baby. At least you are probably fertile, and could have them, unlike me.” Cherry could not remember such a candid conversation with Patch since before her marriage, and felt a little awkward.

Patch smiled. She had always had a luminous smile, rarely seen, but changing her whole countenance. It turned her from a handsome woman into a beautiful one. “Your word in God’s ear, Cherry. And who knows, we might both be mothers yet.”

All she could give in reply was her own, much more wobbly smile. Her sister’s faith, even against the greatest odds, was the one thing she had always envied her.