Amy (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 1)

by Mary Kingswood

  Amy’s heart sank to her boots. She had barely begun to hope, and now it was all snatched away. But no, there had never been any hope, since it seemed that Mr Ambleside had always preferred Connie, and his regard for her had never wavered. He had tried to offer for her, been rebuffed, and had gone away to the wilds of Northumberland to nurse his broken heart. As soon as word came that his suit might be received more favourably, he flew like the wind back to Connie’s side. It all made sense. She had only to regret her foolishness in allowing herself to think of him as a possible suitor.

  The Allamont sisters walked the rest of the way home in silence, each sunk in her own thoughts, whether happy or sad.

  ~~~~~

  Amy was very low for some days. It would not be the least bit surprising if Mr Ambleside had a preference for Connie, for what could be more natural? She had never noticed the preference herself, but she was not a very observing person in that way. And if Connie had a preference for him, in return, then there was no more to be said. She could not set her own barely-formulated hopes against Connie’s happiness.

  It was dispiriting, however. Now that the very possibility of a match was lost, she was sure that Mr Ambleside would have suited her very well, and she would have liked to marry him above all things. Such an amiable man, and always so kind to her. Then there was his lovely house, and the gardens — oh, the gardens! So much better situated than at the Hall, and with a better aspect, and not much done to them yet. She could see so many possibilities — a stream here, a rose garden there, a shrubbery walk, some woodland… How wonderful it would have been to have the ordering of it.

  But it was not to be. Her list of suitors was diminished. Not that she had any expectations of Sir Osborne, nor of Mr Wills, either, who had gone to London. Only her cousin James, who seemed to have no shame, regularly paid court to her in the most outrageous fashion, finding some excuse to ride over almost every day.

  “I have brought you a new book just come from town,” he would say cheerfully, forgetting that they were not permitted novels. Or perhaps, “Here is a piece of music I thought you might enjoy learning.”

  “Why do you do such things?” she said to him crossly. “This music is for the pianoforte, and I am trying to master the harp.”

  “Well, that is prodigiously funny!” he said. “I have brought entirely the wrong thing. But it is of no consequence. I will take it away again. What do you like? You must tell me, so that I can woo you in proper form, coz.”

  “I wish you would not woo me at all. You never looked at me until I had seventeen thousand pounds.”

  “And the Hall,” he said, his expression serious for a change. “Never forget the Hall, Amy. Should you not like to be mistress of Allamont Hall? You would not even have to change your name, and we would get along famously, you and I. What could be better?”

  “Almost anything,” she snapped, her patience quite exhausted, but he laughed at her again, his good humour irrepressible. She went on, “Besides, my brothers are to inherit the Hall. There is still hope that they will be found. Mr Plumphett has put notices in all the newspapers.”

  “Ha! Ernest and Frank? They are gone for good, I wager. Off to the New World to make a better life for themselves. That is what I should do, if ever I were to run away from home. Stow away on a ship going to the West Indies, and then become very rich. They have slaves there, you know, so everyone is rich.”

  She was too cross to answer him. If only she could consider Mr Ambleside a suitor! Her cousin’s attentions would not plague her half so much if she felt there was even the smallest chance with Mr Ambleside. But it seemed he was lost to her, and the disappointment made her short-tempered.

  ~~~~~

  Amy had dutifully reported Lady Hardy’s words on the indulgence of grief to her mother, who accepted them with her usual placidity.

  “Lady Hardy is all consideration,” she murmured. “Her care for me is beyond anything. I cannot conceive how I should go on without her guidance.”

  She did, however, exert herself to attend church thereafter, and occasionally accompanied her daughters on their visits in the neighbourhood.

  Amy had no expectation of seeing Sir Osborne or his mother again for some time, since the two families were not on regular visiting terms, and the Hardys had their own chapel to keep them at home on Sundays. To her astonishment, however, Lady Hardy condescended to visit Lower Brinford church the very next Sunday, throwing Mr Burford into spasms of nervous stuttering, and rendering even Mr Endercott less than articulate. The presence of two titled ladies at once overwhelmed their ability to form coherent sentences.

  Emerging from the church, Lady Sara smiled benignly at Lady Hardy, and the two ladies exchanged stiff remarks on the weather for a minute or two. Amy stood meekly behind her mother, feet together, hands clasped in front of her, hoping that she would not be required to speak. Better still, perhaps her ladyship would not even notice her there.

  But Lady Hardy noticed everything. Her eyes raked Amy from head to toe. “Humph. Good day to you, Miss Allamont.”

  “Good day, my lady.” Amy curtsied. By the time she had risen, Lady Hardy had turned away and was making her farewells to Mr Endercott, who was bobbing his head up and down like a chicken.

  “What is she doing here?” Belle whispered in Amy’s ear. “I have never seen her here before.”

  “Hush!” Amy hissed, agitated. “You know Papa does not like us to speak on Sundays unless addressed.”

  Belle looked as if she would say more, but instead she subsided, nodding. It was the turn of Grace and Hope to ride in the carriage with Mama, so the remaining Allamont sisters walked home, with not a word spoken the whole way.

  Two days later, soon after breakfast, Amy was in the music room, practising upon the harp. She had tried a range of instruments over the years, achieving proficiency with none of them, but Papa had insisted that every young lady should play, so she continued to make the effort.

  A short knock on the door was followed moments later by Young, the butler.

  “Begging your pardon, Miss, but Lady Hardy is here.”

  “Oh.” Her bewilderment was absolute. “What is to be done? I daresay Mama is not yet dressed.”

  “I do not know about that, Miss, but it is you Lady Hardy is asking for.”

  “Me?” Amy jumped up in agitation, knocking over the music stand. “Only me?”

  “Yes, Miss. I have taken the liberty of showing her ladyship into the book room.”

  “The book room. Yes. The fire is lit?” He nodded. “Good. The book room. Lady Hardy.”

  Seeing her frozen in terror, the butler helpfully held the door open for her, and then there was nothing for it but to walk through, head held high.

  Trembling with fear, Amy crept down the stairs. What could Lady Hardy possibly want with her? Could she wait until her mama was by? No, she could hardly leave the relict of a baronet waiting while her mother was laced into her gown.

  In the hall, she froze again. But there was Young, ever helpful, holding the door of the book room open for her.

  “Miss Allamont, my lady,” he announced.

  And then the door clicked shut behind her, and Amy was alone with Sir Osborne’s mother.

  Lady Hardy was sitting in Papa’s chair by the fire, the great leather wings dwarfing her, whereas Papa had filled it comfortably. How incongruous to see Lady Hardy’s thin frame sitting there, like a child trying to fill the place of a grown man. She was so thin, and in her purple coat she looked like a stick of rhubarb. She looked Amy up and down, and Amy could not tell whether her assessment was favourable or not.

  “Come forward, child. Do not loiter by the door as if you wish to run away.”

  But she did wish to run away! If only she could. If only her mama were with her. Or Belle — she was so sensible, she would know exactly what to say. But obediently she crossed the floor to stand before Lady Hardy, just as she had stood before her father so many times, reciting Greek or Latin or French, o
r an extract from the Bible or Shakespeare. She dipped a curtsy, then stood in the correct position, feet together, hands clasped before her.

  “Well, now, I daresay you know what I brings me here, eh?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Ah, I like that. A little dissembling is no bad thing. But we can speak plain, I think. You are aware that my son is a delicate boy, not well suited for vigorous pursuits. His health has always been a concern to me, ever since he was an infant. I dared not even engage a wet-nurse, for fear of contamination or neglect. And indeed, my own health suffered abominably as a result, and I have had a multitude of afflictions ever since. But I make no complaint, for a mother must do everything in her power to ensure her child’s good health, and I am happy to say that my efforts have paid off a thousand-fold. For look what a strong, sturdy young man he has become. It is most gratifying, although I dare not lessen my vigilance for an instant. All my efforts could be undone in a single careless moment. A little rain — seemingly so harmless — yet a delicate constitution may take a chill and fall into a decline.”

  Amy knew the truth of that only too well. Dear Papa had seemed so fit and healthy, yet a chill had turned to something far worse in days. She hung her head, remembering.

  Lady Hardy seemed not to notice, however, for she went on, “And it is not just in the matter of care for Osborne’s constitution that I must exert myself. His father was an elderly man when his son was born, and declined into infirmity almost before the child was in breeches. Therefore there has been a lack of masculine influence in Osborne’s life that could have been disastrous. Once again, I was required to exert myself to the utmost to supply the deficiency, and I flatter myself that my efforts were not entirely in vain.”

  Amy wondered whether her visitor would ever pause to take breath, but she seemed able to go on indefinitely. At least it absolved Amy of any need to speak, which was a relief. She had not the least idea why Lady Hardy was talking to her thus, but it was harmless enough. Just reminiscences about Sir Osborne’s childhood.

  “Now that his father has reached his well-deserved rest,” Lady Hardy continued, “I find I must persevere in my efforts to be both father and mother to my poor boy. His situation is such that he needs a very particular kind of atmosphere — a steady, comfortable sort of routine, nothing that would over-excite him or cause him the least alarm. And that is now the dearest wish of my heart, to see him happy and not agitated in any way. A peaceable existence, that is what he needs, and that is what I intend to provide for him. You take my meaning, I am sure.”

  Amy did not understand her in the least, but Lady Hardy expected no reply, for she rose from her chair.

  “I am very glad we have had this conversation, Miss Allamont, so that all is clear between us. There can be nothing official, of course, not until the spring, at least, when you go into half mourning, but I know I can rely on your discretion. There now, child, it is good that we understand one another.”

  Lady Hardy patted her genially on one cheek, and strode from the room, leaving Amy frozen with shock before her father’s chair.

  She was not at all certain what had transpired, but she had a dreadful sinking feeling that, in some unfathomable way, she was now betrothed to Sir Osborne Hardy.

  7: A Walk In The Garden

  The dark days of winter passed away. Christmas was a dreary affair without a formal dinner or ball to lighten the gloom. Many of their neighbours were gone to London, or to visit grander relatives on vast estates, or had their own houses full of cheery cousins and aunts and assorted children, and therefore were far too busy enjoying themselves to trudge through the mud to visit the ladies of Allamont Hall.

  Amy was left to imagine the merriment from which she was excluded. The balls were not missed, although her sisters sighed at their loss, but the dinners, the comfortable evenings with music and cards and not too much conversation — these she regretted deeply.

  Mr Ambleside was still a regular caller, not deterred by the weather, but Amy knew she must not think of him. He came for Connie’s sake, and if he should happen to talk to Amy sometimes, that was just from kindness. He was so comfortable to talk to, and always made her feel as if she were the only person in the world he wished to be with at that moment, but that was just his friendly nature, she knew that. It meant nothing.

  The family from Willowbye were their other faithful visitors. James was the most frequent caller, but Mary came often, too, and Amy was glad to see her. When Mark and Hugo were home from school for Christmas, the whole family stayed at the Hall for several days, and then at last there were lively evenings.

  Amy and Belle were always happy to see Mary, their particular friend. As often as their work permitted, they took her away to their bedroom for a comfortable conversation away from the prying eyes of the younger members of the family. It was only to be expected that the subject that interested them most dearly was Amy’s chance of finding a husband.

  “Are you tempted by James?” Mary said teasingly. “He is younger than you, to be sure, but at least he will not be in his dotage while you are still young. He is quite determined to have you.”

  “Or one of us, anyway,” Amy said. “I do not think he has any particular regard for me. He would as soon marry Belle, I am sure.”

  James was very attentive, of course, and, despite her dislike of him, he could be pleasant company. She had to admit that it was flattering to have a beau fluttering around her. But his attentions were not from affection, she knew that. Once Amy had come into a room to find him deep in conversation with Belle, and he had said cheerfully, “Ah, there you are, coz! But I have not been idle while I waited for you. I have been talking sweet to Belle, for you know, if you will not have me, she will do just as well. I shall get the Hall, at any rate.”

  “Would you have him, Belle?” Mary said.

  “Perhaps, if no one better offered,” Belle said. “The library at Willowbye would be a strong inducement! As for James himself — I am sure he has many good qualities, although I do not find him to have a proper way of thinking on important matters. He has been a little unsettled, but marriage to the right wife would do him good.”

  “Papa is hoping to settle him in a career, as well,” Mary said. “He has been very idle since he decided not to go back to Oxford, so now he is to spend time with Mr Whittle learning about farming. If he takes to it, he will be able help manage the estate.”

  “Farming?” Belle said. “That does not sound like James at all. He will not like to get a spot of mud on his breeches.”

  “He has been surprisingly diligent, so far,” Mary said. “He started informally last autumn, but now it is a regular arrangement, agreed between Papa and Mr Whittle. We may make a farmer of him yet. But what do you say, Amy? What is your opinion of him?”

  “I do not like him at all!” Amy said. “I am sorry to say it of your brother, Mary. I know how charming he is, but I cannot forget how he tormented us all when he was a boy.”

  “I am glad to hear you say so, for it would not be a good match for you in the least,” Mary said. “Your dowry would be spent in no time. We have not two pennies to rub together, you know. I am constantly economising, and we may be reduced to just one footman next year.”

  “Perhaps then you should rather reduce your stable somewhat,” Belle said with a smile.

  “What, let any of the horses go? I should sooner starve, and I assure you Papa and James feel exactly as I do on that subject.”

  Amy laughed. “I can believe it! James may not love me, but he dotes on his horses. That is a virtue in a man, I believe. You see, I am determined to find some good in him, for I may have to marry him in the end, if I can find no other. And he has no bad habits, that I know of.”

  Mary’s smile faltered. Then, hesitantly, she said, “He has charm, it is true. But he is not steady, cousin. He would not make you a comfortable husband, I am persuaded.”

  “Oh. Oh dear. Unsteadiness in a man… that is very bad, is it not?” Amy
said, not having the least idea what was meant by it.

  Mary patted her hand reassuringly. “Never mind James. Let us talk of more promising specimens, for you have a whole list of prospects, I am to understand.”

  “But none of them will do!” Amy cried.

  “Nonsense,” Mary said briskly. “Sir Osborne — now that would be a good match for any woman. And if you do not want him, I would be very happy to take him myself. He has money and a title, and as for his appearance! Why, he is the greatest credit to his tailor and his valet.”

  “And he comes complete with his mother, his two unmarried sisters and his good friend, Mr Merton,” Belle put in. “You would never lack a four for cards. Should you like such an arrangement?”

  “Oh, I do not regard that,” Mary said stoutly, “for every man has a mother, and often brothers and sisters too. A woman can scarcely expect to be so fortunate as to marry an orphan and only child. And Mr Merton — he is a good sort of man, I believe, who has Sir Osborne’s comfort always in mind. I find it affecting in Sir Osborne to take such good care of his friend. But I have only a few hundred pounds, so I cannot look so high. I should have tried my luck with Mr Burford if Hope had not got there before me. Perhaps I should set my cap at Mr Wyatt from Higher Brinford. To be sure, he is five and forty, and quite stout, and is afflicted with deafness, but I cannot be choosy in my position, you know.”

  “Why so unambitious?” Belle said at once. “Why not lift your eyes from the curate, and dare to gaze upon the clergyman himself. Mr Sidderfin is only a few years above fifty, and exceedingly well preserved for his age. His gout barely troubles him at all.”

  There could be no serious discussion after this, as the young ladies ranged over the least likely men in several villages in order to find a husband for Mary.

  Amy had told no one her fears that Lady Hardy considered her as good as betrothed to Sir Osborne. She had had to give some explanation for the meeting in the book room, of course, for her sisters were full of excited questions, quite sure that her ladyship had conveyed some private message from her son, or else had wished to ascertain the exact nature of Amy’s dowry. Amy had said only that her ladyship had talked at length about Sir Osborne’s childhood and then gone away again. It was the exact truth, but she felt uncomfortably as if she were deceiving them. Yet what could she say? She was not at all clear herself on the purpose of Lady Hardy’s visit, and how foolish she would look if she talked of a betrothal and it all turned out to be nothing at all. Indeed, she was almost convinced that she had misunderstood altogether.