Amy (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 1) (17 page)

“Then I shall never be married,” Amy said tearfully. “And neither will Connie. Hope will never marry Mr Burford. We shall all die as old maids.”

Amy wept for a long time that night.

She woke early, her temples aching and her eyes heavy. Her head was still spinning with a multitude of thoughts, so she crept out of bed, threw on a robe and slipped out of the room without disturbing Belle. The junior servants were already up, creeping round the house with buckets of coal to sweep and relay the fires, throwing open curtains and clearing half-full glasses of brandy. Amy knew their routine, so she was well able to avoid being seen.

A narrow corridor past the day nursery, now a school room, led to the curving passage to the chapel, sitting silent and disregarded above the kitchens. Once upon a time there had been a resident chaplain, and the household had not needed to walk to the church at Lower Brinford. Amy’s father had dispensed with the chaplain, his large stipend and his even larger appetite for mutton and port. The chapel remained, seldom used, but still a refuge for those who needed it.

Amy seldom saw anyone else at prayer, although occasionally she disturbed a scullery maid or chamber maid weeping over some slight or imagined injury. They always jumped up and scuttled away when she arrived. Today the chapel was empty. Amy sat in her accustomed place, and let her thoughts chase themselves round in her head, however they chose.

Foremost in her mind was the dreadful prospect of eternal spinsterhood. She and all her sisters would grow old and wrinkled and infirm without ever knowing the pleasures of marriage. She was not quite sure what these were, for running a household seemed impossibly difficult, and having children was a dangerous and frightening business, but all ladies wished to be married so it must be a wonderful state. Indeed, if she could have married Mr Ambleside, she was sure it would have been excessively pleasant, for had he not said that he would take care of her, and relieve her of all anxiety? But that started her crying all over again, for it was Connie who would now be so well taken care of.

She wished now that she had taken better advantage of her season in London. Not that it was a full season — not much more than a month, shared with Belle, but that was all the time Aunt Lucy could spare away from her busy life in Liverpool. And that was very curious, that Aunt Lucy had come all the way from Liverpool and rented a house and taken them about, when Mama and Papa had not gone to London at all, not then and not later, either. They had both said that they hated the place, and Aunt Lucy had no children of her own so why should she not? But Aunt Lucy had got quite cross about it, and there was some difficulty over money, and after that Aunt Lucy had gone back to Liverpool and all visits came to an end. None of the younger sisters had had a proper season at all.

Yet now Mama was quite happy to go to London, spending weeks at a time there, and returning with such a bloom on her cheeks that no one could doubt her enjoyment of the capital. Perhaps, then, she would now countenance a proper season for some of her daughters? Or a visit, at least. Aunt Tilly lived there, after all, Mama’s own sister, and even if Mama herself did not wish to go, they could stay with Aunt Tilly. The daughter of an earl must be a perfectly acceptable chaperon and guide to the entertainments of the city.

Or if not London, perhaps Mama might take one or two of them with her when next she stayed with her father or brother. Amy had so often wished to see Hepplestone or Tambray Hall, for she had heard so much of them from Mama. Hepplestone was even mentioned in one or two illustrated guides as being one of the finest houses in England.

This seemed such an eminently reasonable plan, that Amy determined to ask her mother directly to arrange it. So, later that morning, when William returned from the village with the day’s post, she took her mother’s letters and parcels up to her sitting room.

“Your letters, Mama. Several today. And three parcels — more new books, I believe. May we read them when you have finished with them? For I am sure Belle has read everything in Papa’s collection three times over.”

Lady Sara was sitting at her desk, writing a letter, but she slid it under the blotter when Amy entered.

“You are very prying, Amy, to ask what is in my post. And if these
are
the books I am expecting, they would not interest you. Put them over there. I cannot think what you are about to be bringing them yourself. That is what the servants are paid for. They get lazy and slovenly if they have too little to do.”

“Yes, Mama. I beg your pardon. I did not think.”

“You never do think, Amy, that is the trouble. Now run along.”

“Mama…”

Lady Sara set her pen down with a sigh. “What is it now?”

“I wondered, Mama, whether you might ask Lord Harkwood if I might be invited to Hepplestone? Or perhaps Uncle Edmund might ask me to Tambray Hall.” Seeing her mother’s astonished face, she rushed on, “Or Aunt Tilly, you know. I think it would be good for me, and perhaps I might meet some gentlemen and… and…”

“What an extraordinary idea! I never heard the like. Amy, if you have frightened away all your suitors, there is very little to be done.”

“But until I marry, none of my sisters can. And we know so few gentlemen here. I thought…” She bobbed a curtsy. “I beg your pardon, Mama, but I thought you might wish to help.”

Lady Sara turned and looked fully at her daughter. “I have always done my duty towards you girls. I ensured that when you went into society, you were correctly dressed, you knew how to behave, you did not disgrace me. I have taken you to balls and dinners and other evening engagements, and when our mourning is over, I shall do so again. No one could reproach me for any neglect of my daughters. You have every opportunity to meet eligible gentlemen within our present society, and your father has left you very well provided for — surprisingly so, in fact. It is now for you to use your dowry and your charms to secure an offer of marriage.”

“Papa always said it would be for you to find us husbands, but perhaps he was mistaken on that point.”

“Your father was mistaken about many things.”

“Oh no! Surely not!” Amy cried out before she could stop herself.

Lady Sara smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Ah, Amy, you think your father was a saint, do you not? A fount of all wisdom and a paragon of virtue. Well, you may disabuse yourself of such ideas. He was a small-minded, vindictive, selfish and tight-fisted little man. I hated him. You and your sisters are his progeny, made in his image, raised according to his precepts, not mine, for he would never allow me near you. Every time I look at any of you, I am reminded of your father. I will not allow you to contaminate the purity of
my
family with the Allamont taint. The sooner you are all married and away from here, the better. Now go away.”

17: Staynlaw House

Disbelieving, Amy fled. She was too shocked to weep. Instead, she went to her father’s book room. Shutting the door behind her, she leaned against it and gazed around the room as if she had never seen it before. When he was alive, her father had dominated the space to such an extent that she had seen little beyond his face, with its heavy brows and stern mouth, his bulky shoulders and bony knees, and the chair that was as much a part of him as his clothes. Now, the room was empty and lifeless, the air stifling and musty. The curtains were pulled back but no windows opened to freshen the room.

Amy crossed the floor and pushed open the casement. At once a breeze with the faint scent of roses drifted in, lifting the curtain edges, since the servants had not bothered to tie them back. Slowly she walked round the room, noticing the half-empty display cabinets, the books set sideways on the shelves to fill the space, the lack of pictures. It had never struck her before how bare the room was.

She found herself at the far end of the room, behind her father’s mahogany desk. The high-backed chair was still draped in black crepe, the Bible on the desk untouched, the ribbon marking the reading unmoved since the autumn. Her mother, she presumed, had given no orders to the servants, and so everything was just as it had been left, just as it had been when her father was alive.

As she stood there, she could see him in her mind sitting in his chair behind the desk, reading from the Bible as he did each morning and evening, his voice authoritative, certain, his finger stabbing at the most significant passages. On the other side of the desk, her mother sitting serenely in her ornate chair, then the sisters on two rows of plainer chairs, two of them empty for Ernest and Frank. Behind them, the servants standing in silence. On her chair near the door, Miss Bellows, neither family nor servant.

The high-backed chair drew her to it. Without thought, she slid her hands over the back, the arms, the seat. Then she pulled it away from the desk, moved the crepe aside and sat down, her hands resting on the desk. A year ago, a month ago, even a few hours ago she would never have dared. But her world had tilted out of alignment, and nothing was certain any longer. Was her father an evil man? Her mother had said she hated him. Mary had called him a beast, and hinted that she knew something wicked about him.

She had to know. One by one, she slid open the desk drawers. Ink bottles, pens and wipers. Paper. A ruler. Several books of household accounts. A number of snuff boxes, which was odd, for Papa had never taken snuff. A book of drawings of men and women in strangely contorted attitudes. A leather strap — ah, she knew what that was. Papa had never used it on her or her sisters, but poor Ernest and Frank had been punished from time to time, and the servants, too, when they transgressed. A drawer full of bills, each marked
‘Paid’
in her father’s neat handwriting. Some metal chains and loops — she could not guess their purpose. Several bottles and lozenge boxes prescribed by Mr Torrington. A set of keys. Three drawers were locked but the keys would not fit.

Nothing else. No letters, business or personal.

Amy stood again, carefully replacing the chair exactly as it was, so the legs rested in shallow indentations on the carpet. Now she examined the bookshelves, but there was nothing new there. Sermons and other religious texts, a few philosophical works, some histories. A few ornaments. On the lowest shelf, the red books. She could never remember seeing her father reading, except from the Bible or a book of sermons, but the red books — those were always out on the desk. In them, he kept detailed records of their lessons, of texts read and translated, of tests set, questions asked and answered correctly, of musical works performed to satisfaction. Everything was recorded, from the moment of her birth onwards, her height measured, food consumed, first steps taken, every mishap set down for posterity.

She opened one at random. From the date, she was five years old. Her lessons for the day were counting, walking in a straight line with a book balanced on her head, and an exercise on the pianoforte. Then practice writing letters and numbers, and an hour with the atlas, learning the major rivers of England. The nursery tea that day was —

The door flew open and the housekeeper flew in, rushing across to the casement window. Leaning out, she pulled it shut with a snap. Only when she turned to leave did she see Amy at the other end of the room.

“Oh, Miss Allamont! I did not see you there. Beg pardon, but one of the gardeners noticed the window open. I shall make sure the housemaids are more careful in future.”

“I opened the window, Miller,” Amy said. “In future, please ensure this room is thoroughly aired each day. Also, you may tell the housemaids to remove the crepe from Mr Allamont’s chair.”

“Yes, Miss.”

She curtsied deeply as Amy swept out of the room.

~~~~~

Two days later, a groom rode over from the White House with a note for Amy.

“My dear Miss Allamont, I beg you will do me the favour of dining with me this evening. I have a young relative staying with me who would very much enjoy your company, if you would be so obliging. My carriage will collect you at five. Augusta Humbleforth.”

“Ooh, Amy!” Dulcie whispered. “A young relative? Is it the Marquess? It must be the Marquess. Is the Dowager Countess match-making, do you suppose?”

“Nonsense!” Amy said, laughing. “I am no match for a Marquess. I daresay Lady Humbleforth has a great many young relatives.”

“But none of them have ever visited her in the five years of her residence in Lower Brinford,” Connie pointed out. “It
is
curious. I wonder what it signifies.”

“That she has a visitor to entertain,” Belle said. “Let us not imagine there is more to this than actually exists.”

“True,” Grace said. “Lady Humbleforth is so old that she may not want to be bothered making conversation in the evening, so she invites Amy to take care of it.”

“But what am I to say to this relative, whoever he might be?” Amy said. “He will be very grand, and I shall have no notion what might interest him.”

“Any relative of the Dowager Countess will be a true aristocrat,” Belle said. “He will lead the conversation, never fear. You need only be your usual charming self.”

“Besides, it might be a female,” Hope said.

Amy brightened. “Very true. That is more likely, is it not? But even so, she will be dreadfully grand, I am certain of it.”

But when Amy was shown into the Dowager Countess’ drawing room that evening, she found a young lady who was anything but grand. The Lady Harriet Marford was three and twenty, with a head of dark curls, mischievous eyes and a warm smile.

“Miss Allamont, I am so glad to see you here, you cannot imagine. Here I am, quite prepared for a quiet house party, with no more than twenty or thirty guests, only to find that there are not even enough of us in the house to make up a four at whist! And my great-aunt and Miss Durrell, I find, have the strongest desire to snooze by the fire after dinner, whereas I must have conversation or music or… or
something
, or I should go quite mad. It cannot be borne, and so I asked my great-aunt to find me a companion for their sleeping hours. And here you are to take pity on me, and I do believe you will do charmingly for the purpose.”

Amy had scarce got through the door when this deluge of words fell upon her ears. She smiled back at Lady Harriet with equal warmth, for she understood at once that this was not to be the ordeal she had feared. At no point would there be such a lull in the conversation as to require her to scramble for an interesting topic, for the lady would undertake that role entirely.

“Come and sit here, Miss Allamont, and tell me all about yourself. I see you are in half-mourning too. Who is it for?”

“My father.”

“Oh, I am sorry for it. You must miss him dreadfully.”

Amy was not quite sure how to answer her. She missed the routine, the certainty of knowing what she must be about every hour of the day and what dress to put on each morning. She liked not having to make even such small decisions. But her father himself? She recalled his stern face, his eyes boring into her, the way his fingers tapped on his knee when she took too long to answer a question. She was no longer sure what she felt about him.

“Everything is different now,” she murmured.

“Ah, yes, indeed. A household is never the same without a man at its head. With me, it was my mama, but you may spare your condolences, for she had been ill these many years, and it was quite a blessing when the Lord finally decided to take her to Himself. However, it means I am not able to go to town this season, which is a great bore, especially as all my brothers are away from Drummoor at present. The two eldest are tearing about the countryside around the Marquess’ hunting lodge, one is at Oxford and the three youngest are still at school.” She heaved a dramatic sigh. “What dear Mama was thinking of to bring six boys into the world, I cannot imagine. Two would have been more than adequate for the purpose, and a sister or two would have made me so comfortable. And you have five sisters, I hear? You lucky thing! I envy you enormously! Tell me all about them.”

That evening was one of the pleasantest Amy had passed in many weeks. There was no time to dwell upon her troubles, for Lady Harriet swept her along on a raging torrent of chatter. Amy found it all vastly entertaining. Lady Harriet was sister to the Marquess of Carrbridge, and able to amuse Amy with endless little snippets about him and his brothers, and life at Drummoor in general.

When Amy explained that she and her sisters had begun to wonder whether the Marquess actually existed, Lady Harriet shrieked with laughter.

“That is such a good joke! How should you know, indeed, for you have never seen the man. You may take my word for it that he is all too real. I would wish, on occasions, that he were less than real, for he can be the most dreadful tease, as all brothers are. Oh, but you would not know of such matters, you lucky, lucky thing! Did you hear that, Great-Aunt? Miss Durrell? The Miss Allamonts have never met Dev, and began to suspect him to be a made-up creature, you know. Is it not a good joke? I shall tell him all about it when next I see him.”

The Dowager Countess smiled and nodded, but said little, although Amy noticed the old lady’s eyes often rested on her. But she could not guess what it might mean.

~~~~~

Mr Ambleside took his time preparing the next stage of his plan, for he felt he had rushed into the engagement too quickly and was determined not to make the same mistake twice. So it was a fortnight before he took Connie to see Staynlaw House. He went to collect her in the carriage, together with Miss Bellows for propriety, and allowed her to chatter in her artless way for the whole journey. Only once did he interrupt, when she talked of setting up her own carriage.

“That will not be necessary, my dear, and the additional expense is more than I engage for. This one is perfectly adequate for all common purposes. If you need to use the carriage, you may always ask, and if I do not need it myself, I shall be happy to oblige you.”

“Oh. Very well. But may I have a horse of my own?”

“We shall see. Something sedate enough for these lanes might be acceptable, but I should not like to see you make a spectacle of yourself on the hunting field.”

“Oh. A spectacle?”

“A spectacle,” he said firmly.

She was a little subdued after that, but Connie’s moods never lasted for more than two minutes at a time, and she was soon in full flow again.

He noticed that she was wearing rather a fetching gown, the colour entirely suitable for half-mourning, but rather more heavily trimmed than he considered proper. The bonnet looked new, as well, with a rather extravagant feather to one side. She and her sisters had been busy accommodating her new status.

The servants were lined up on the drive to greet their future mistress. Connie’s eyes were round at the numbers. She was not to know how many of the farm workers had been deployed to stand as grooms and under-gardeners for the day, and their wives as scullery maids. Ambleside made her walk down the entire line, as he named each of them and described their work in some detail. It took an hour. By the end of it, Connie was clinging to his arm rather desperately.

Then there was the tour of the house, beginning with the cellars and working upwards through the kitchens to the principal apartments, and then to the bedrooms, trailed by the silent Miss Bellows, the housekeeper and butler. Connie was white with exhaustion by the time they arrived at one room, darker than the rest, and fitted with heavy, old-fashioned furniture.

“This was my dear mama’s room,” Ambleside said. “She passed away in that very bed, and the room has been left unchanged ever since. Nothing has been altered. This will be
your
room once we are married, my dear. I know you will be delighted to follow in my mother’s hallowed footsteps.”

“It is… a little gloomy,” she said tentatively.

“Gloomy? It is exactly as my beloved mama wished it to be.”

“Perhaps a lighter paper on the walls?”

“Certainly not! Nothing in this room must be changed, not one thing. It would be disrespectful to her memory. Now, you have seen all the rooms, I believe, so let us repair to the book room, and I will instruct you on your duties, and explain how I will expect you to look after my comfort. I have devised a simple scheme for the arrangement of menus for all meals, and so long as you follow it precisely, we shall get along famously. Economy is important, of course, for although I have a comfortable income, there is no excuse whatsoever for waste, and I shall expect a full and accurate reckoning of every household expenditure, down to the last piece of string. One can never be too meticulous in managing money, would you not agree, my dear?”