Amy (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 1) (13 page)

Was it Connie? No, that could not be it, for Mr Ambleside was clearly determined not to let any consideration of Connie interfere with his plans. Yet still she felt there was something not right about it, something holding her back. What could it be? She had not felt so with any of her other suitors — not with Sir Osborne, nor with Mr Wills, nor with James. With James, in fact, even though she disliked him, the prospect of marrying him was a comfortable one.

She knew why. Adjusting her feet to the correct position, and straightening her back, she clasped her hands in front of her.

“I am obliged to you, sir, but I cannot marry you because Papa refused to countenance the match.”

13: A Little Advice

Ambleside turned on his heel, and strode off without another word. Better to say nothing. He was on the brink of losing his temper, and who could tell what might be said in haste? Once a thing was done, there was no undoing it, as he knew only too well.

“Home,” he said to the coachman who was holding open the carriage door, and trying to pretend he had seen nothing of events on the lawn not one hundred yards away.

He stepped into the carriage, the door was closed and within moments they lurched off, leaving Ambleside to brood on the unhappy encounter. His reflections edged towards despair. So many years he had waited patiently — oh, so patiently! Never rushing, never approaching Amy herself, always taking the most proper course, only ever directing his hopes towards Mr Allamont. That gentleman had dashed those hopes three times, but with his death Ambleside had finally dared to believe that Amy would be his at last. For now that the obstacle of the lady’s father was removed, and her other suitors driven off, what could stand between him and his true love?

The lady’s father still, it transpired. How could any rational person have foreseen that Amy’s actions would be steered from beyond the grave? And how was such influence to be countered? Who could fight a dead man? It was impossible!

Sunk in gloom, he spent the rest of the day pacing about his book room, refusing all callers. The next day he rode randomly about the countryside, hardly knowing where he was, until his horse drooped from weariness and he was forced to enquire as to his whereabouts from a farmer and then walk most of the way home.

By the evening, his despair having given way to the morose conclusion that, after many years of overlooking it, the Almighty fully intended to punish him for his youthful transgression, he began to resign himself to his situation. And once he ceased to rail at his own misfortune, he began to feel uneasy about his interference on Amy’s behalf. When he had been sure of marrying her himself, the necessity had presented itself quite clearly. She would be so much better off with Ambleside himself, who understood her so well and cared deeply for her wellbeing, that he was doing her a great favour by removing any source of confusion. Poor Amy, so easily confused! And if she were presented with more than one possible husband, there was a real risk that she might choose the first who offered.

Since she was not, after all, to become mistress of Staynlaw House, he realised with a spasm of guilt that his high-handedness had left her only one option — her cousin, James Allamont. He was everything that Ambleside despised in a young man — a personable manner combined with a selfish and feckless character. If the late Mr Allamont had disapproved of Ambleside’s own conduct, how much more must he have disapproved of his cousin’s son? Yet far from disapproving, he had, in essence, thrust the two together by linking the inheritance of Allamont Hall to their marriage.

And then there was Connie, another source of unease. He had never noticed her, for his eyes and heart were always turned towards Amy, but had he inadvertently led Connie to believe he had an interest in her? And if so, he knew what the correct action was — he must marry her. Amy had called him cruel, and it was indeed cruel in a man to raise hopes and expectations in a lady’s heart without answering them, even if it had been done unconsciously.
‘As a gentleman, you cannot ignore it’
, Amy had said, and that cut him more than any other words of hers. Never, never let it be said that he had acted with the least impropriety.

Then — a happy thought! Perhaps Amy was mistaken. There was just a possibility that she was wrong, or that Connie had expressed stronger hopes than she truly felt. How would he know? He must go back to Allamont Hall, and see if he could observe that affection in Miss Constance which would necessitate an offer of marriage.

But not yet. He was not strong enough to face Amy with equanimity just yet. Perhaps, however, he could set his mind at rest at an earlier date by taking advice from one who was intimate with the family. Their cousin, Mr Henry Allamont, was the very man. He would surely know.

No sooner had this pleasing idea occurred than he was ringing the bell violently, pacing about in agitation until the butler arrived.

“My horse! At once!”

~~~~~

It was late in the afternoon when Ambleside rode at speed up the drive at Willowbye, a time of day when those keeping country hours might already be sitting down to their dinner, and even those with pretensions to fashion would be awaiting the call to dress. Ambleside could think only of his own affairs, however, and gave not the least thought to the inconvenience of his precipitate arrival. He slithered off his horse, called impatiently to the stable lad who was already running to take the reins, and took the steps to the front door two at a time.

He soon discovered that jangling the bell loudly and repeatedly made no impression on the speed with which his urgent summons was answered. By the time the butler had made his stately way from the nether regions of the house, Ambleside was in a lather of impatience. He could not quite bring himself to breach civility by walking straight into the house, however.

“Is Mr Allamont at home?”

“If you would care to step inside, sir, I will enquire.”

Another lengthy delay while the butler vanished again had Ambleside pacing back and forth in anxious frustration. He barely noticed his surroundings, having been familiar with Willowbye from childhood. It was perhaps the oldest house in the district, some parts predating Tudor times, a rambling and decaying pile that required constant expense to prevent it falling down altogether. Inside, it had the chill, slightly musty, feel of a damp cellar.

Eventually, the butler returned. Mr Allamont, it transpired, was indeed at home and would receive his visitor. The formal salons of the main wing of the house were too large for everyday use, so Ambleside was led through to a dark little room at the back of the house, where he found Henry Allamont, shrouded in a shawl, poking a sullen fire to life.

“Ambleside, my dear fellow! How good of you to come. We are so out of the way here, I am obliged to you for troubling to pass this way. There, that will take now, I believe. Tibbetts, a bottle of Madeira, if you please. One of the good ones, mind.”

There were the usual enquiries to be made regarding health, and some commiseration to offer for a scrape that one of the younger boys — Hugo, perhaps — had got into upon his return to school, before Ambleside could begin to steer the conversation towards his own concerns.

“Connie?” Henry said, his face creased by bewilderment. “I had no notion you were thinking of Connie. But I cannot at all answer your question. Girls of that age are a mystery to me. They steal your heart when they are children, so open, so affectionate, so confiding. Then they grow into young ladies and curl up like hedgehogs so that you have not the least idea what they are about. I never know what Mary is thinking in the slightest. But she will know — about Connie, I mean.”

Mary was sent for, and arrived rather flushed, her hair not quite in order. Probably in the kitchens, helping prepare the dinner. Ambleside knew Willowbye was short of kitchen maids, since one had just moved to Staynlaw House, for reasons his housekeeper would only hint at darkly.

“Connie?” Mary said, when the matter was explained to her. “Surely not. I thought your interest was in Amy.”

Her tone was so disapproving that Ambleside snapped back, “She will not have me.”

“Amy? Not have you? Do you mean to tell me that you have offered and she has refused? Why would she do such a thing?”

“It is not for us to enquire on such a delicate subject, Mary,” her father put in quickly. “I daresay Amy has her reasons.”

“Nonsense!” Mary said. “Oh! Unless she is already betrothed? But no, that cannot be.”

Ambleside sighed. Getting up, he crossed the room to stand beside the fire, one arm resting on the mantle-piece. After a spurt of energy, the fire had died down again. “She turned me down because her papa refused the match,” he said heavily. “She feels she cannot go against his explicit wishes.”

“He refused the match? But why—?”

“Enough, Mary,” Henry said sharply. “None of this is our concern. Mr Ambleside wishes only to know whether Connie has developed an attachment to him. Please address yourself to the question at hand.”

She was silent for so long, chest heaving, that Ambleside began to wonder if she would answer at all. But in time she mastered her emotions and when she spoke, her voice was calm.

“Connie has talked of it, yes. She has been… distressed by the thought that you might prefer Amy. The dinner at Graham House — they quarrelled after, which is
most
unlike them, and Amy and Connie were both in tears. So Belle told me.” Then, she added quickly, “But I do not believe you have done anything to encourage such ideas in her. It is all her fancy.”

“Who quarrelled?” Henry said. “Amy and Connie?”

Before Mary could do more than shake her head, Ambleside burst out, “Amy would never quarrel with anyone.” Then more softly he added, “She is such a gentle soul, she would not say a word against her sister.”

“Oh, but she has a sharp tongue sometimes,” Mary said, with a smile. “She can bite your head off, if the whim takes her.”

“Only when she is confused or anxious or embarrassed,” Ambleside said firmly.

Mary looked up at him, her face solemn. “I declare, Mr Ambleside, you know Amy better than any of us. Indeed, better than she knows herself. You would deal admirably together.”

Ambleside bit back a harsh retort, and attempted to keep his tone even. “Unfortunately, that is not possible. My concern is with Connie. Is she or is she not expecting my addresses?”

Mary rose, and stood next to Ambleside, looking him in the eye. “It is not right that you should be forced into marriage just because a silly girl imagines herself in love. It is doubly wrong when you have so clearly given your heart elsewhere. Such a scheme would bring a lifetime of misery to more than yourself alone. I must beg you to reconsider, sir.”

He knew she spoke the truth. For an instant the bleakness of his future threatened to overwhelm him. But he must not give way to despair. He rallied, and drew himself up a little straighter. “It is not right, Miss Allamont, that I should turn away from my duty. If Miss Constance has formed an attachment such that all her happiness depends on me, I know what must be done. I shall
never
shirk my obligations as a gentleman, never. So I must ask you again — is she or is she not expecting my addresses?”

After a long pause, Mary nodded. “I believe she is.”

He bowed. “Thank you. I shall call at Allamont House very soon. And now, I have trespassed on your good nature for far too long. Good day to you, Miss Allamont.” He nodded to Henry. “Good day, Allamont.”

With that, he whisked out of the room.

Mary sat down again rather suddenly. “Poor Amy! Still trying to follow her father’s strictures, and throwing away her best chance for happiness.”

“We cannot know that,” Henry said, pouring two glasses of Madeira and handing one to Mary. “This may all be for the best.”

“How can it possibly be for the best? Connie is the flightiest creature alive, and Ambleside the most proper. They will never get along. Meanwhile, who is poor Amy to marry? James?” She laughed, but her father showed no sign of amusement.

“Why should she not marry James?” he said, his tone serious. “It would be rather a good match for both of them. He needs a wife to steady him, and she — she would live here, which would do her the world of good. Her own establishment and children to occupy her, and a husband to replace her father in her mind, and
you
to help her out — yes, it will do very well.”

“You mean her dowry will do very well.”

“And perhaps the Hall as well, in time. Yes, that is an advantage too, I do not deny it. We have struggled to maintain our proper place in society for far too long, Mary. I confess that when William died, I cherished a hope that he would take the opportunity to end the feud between us. A modest bequest for me, a dowry for you and, perhaps, the Shropshire house for James, which the family never used — was that so much to expect? Instead we have this extraordinary arrangement with the girls, yet set up in such a way that James might benefit. Why should we not take advantage of that? It is time we enjoyed a little comfort.”

She sighed. “I cannot disagree on
that
score, but I do not like it all the same. Amy has turned down Ambleside out of respect for her father’s memory—”

“Which is an admirable sentiment.”

“Perhaps, but… Papa, should we not tell her the truth?”

“Oh, so you are aware? You are very knowing, Mary, I should have guessed you would work it out.” He sipped his Madeira, looking at her over the rim of the glass. “No. It is not for us to interfere. Let events play out how they will.”