Amy (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 1)

by Mary Kingswood

  He knelt down to cup one heavy bud gently in his palm, and then looked up at her with a smile of such affection that her heart almost stopped beating. For an instant she could not breathe, let alone speak.

  In that moment she knew, beyond all doubt, that she truly loved him.

  Quite overcome, she turned and fled.

  15: Letters

  “How can I bear it?” Amy whispered. “And yet I must. He will marry Connie, and I shall be happy for them both.”

  Belle held her tight, rocking her gently. “Hush, hush. Crying never made anything better. There, now, you must not take on so. You knew all this, and nothing has changed.”

  “I have changed,” Amy wailed. “I love him, Belle, truly I do, but I never realised it before now. What am I to do? You must tell me what I should do.”

  Belle hesitated. “It is not a straightforward matter. You have already refused him, and he has transferred his attentions to Connie. He cannot draw back from that without making her very unhappy.”

  “No, no! I do not wish him to desert Connie. That would be a despicable act, which would leave him exposed to the world’s censure. I meant only what must I do to make this bearable?”

  “If you truly believe that this is for the best, then you will be able to bear it. But if you have doubts…” Belle was silent for a long time, gently rocking her sister in her arms. “Amy, dearest, you have, I believe, two paths before you. On one path, you move aside and let Connie take the man you love away from you, the man who, I believe, truly loves you as much as you love him. On the other path, you stand up for yourself, for once. Tell him how you feel—”

  “I cannot! No, never that! For that would place him in an impossible position.”

  “Then speak to Connie. If she only understands that your affections are engaged—”

  Amy shook her head sadly. “As are hers. How can I deprive Connie of her chance of happiness? How can I even consider such an act? Besides, Papa thought Mr Ambleside unsuitable for me.”

  “Then he is surely unsuitable for Connie too,” Belle said testily. “He is the same man, with the same past, whether he marries you or Connie.”

  “Oh. I had not thought of that.” Amy pulled herself out of Belle’s embrace, and sat up straighter. “That means that Connie should not marry him either. Oh no!”

  And that started the tears all over again.

  ~~~~~

  Amy’s solace during this time was in her lessons. She kept punctiliously to the regimen her father had established, even though most of her sisters had all but abandoned their studies. Connie and Dulcie kept up their music practice, and Belle came to lessons with Miss Bellows, and sometimes with Sir Matthew, to keep Amy company, but even she had withdrawn from Greek and Biblical interpretation.

  “Mr Endercott is so dry,” she said, pulling a face. “I do not mind the subjects, but his voice makes me so sleepy. If only he would send Mr Burford, for he is far easier to listen to. And he makes the subject so lively, too. His sermon the Sunday before last was excellent. I do not blame Mr Endercott for not allowing him into the pulpit very often, for he is much the better preacher.”

  “Oh, do you think so, sister?” Amy said. “I am very fond of Mr Endercott’s sermons. He always wanders away from the text.”

  “Exactly,” Belle said. “He rambles. Very tedious.”

  There was an unexpected frustration for Amy, however. With her mother’s continuing absence from the Hall, the management of all the little disruptions to the smooth running of the household fell to her, as the eldest Miss Allamont. The servants were so well-trained, and the routines for domestic management established by her father so perfectly honed by experience, that little intervention was needed. Nevertheless, almost every day some small matter required her attention.

  So it was that the butler sought her out in the music room one day.

  “Yes, Young, what is it?”

  “Mr Plumphett is here, Miss, and wishes to speak with you.”

  “With me? Oh.”

  “I have placed him in the book room, Miss.”

  Amy made her way down the stairs. Had Belle been with her, she would have asked for her company, for Belle always knew the proper things to say, and what needed to be done. But all her sisters were out of doors, enjoying a spell of splendid weather. Amy heartily wished she could do the same. Oh, to be in the garden, in her old pinafore, helping with the weeding and pruning, and getting mud on her hands.

  But she knew her duty.

  “Good day, Mr Plumphett.”

  “Ah, Miss Allamont! So kind in you to receive me. Much obliged. Would not dream of troubling you, naturally, but the matter is rather important.”

  “Please, do sit down. May I offer you any refreshment?”

  “You are all consideration, Miss Allamont. Your butler is already taking care of it. Ah! And here it is.”

  The footman entered with a bottle of Madeira on a tray, and a single glass. The butler poured a small amount, and Mr Plumphett took a sip and settled back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction.

  “Such good Madeira your late father keeps, Miss Allamont, although he rarely drank it himself, as I recall.”

  “Papa was very abstemious in his habits,” Amy said.

  “But generous towards guests. Most generous.”

  He sipped again, and Amy waited, trying to suppress her impatience to get back to the history text she had been reading. Belle, she suspected, would have known how to press him to get to the point. Her mother certainly would, but Amy could not find any words that would not sound rude to her ears. So she kept silence.

  After some polite enquiries as to her health, and a few commonplace remarks about the weather and the state of the road from Brinchester, Mr Plumphett eventually got to the point.

  “Miss Allamont, I have been trying for some time to contact your Mama. It is a trivial matter, nothing to be concerned about, but it concerns one of the bequests in your late Papa’s will, and I must discuss the… um, ramifications with your Mama as soon as possible.”

  “Ramifications?” It sounded most alarming. “Oh, but Cousin Henry mentioned this — it is to do with the foundling home in Brinchester, I believe?”

  Mr Plumphett cleared his throat noisily, and set his glass down with a snap. “You know about the… um, foundling home, Miss Allamont?”

  “Oh, yes. Papa’s charitable work — yes, I know all about it. He was most assiduous in his concern for those poor children, for he visited them every week, without fail.”

  “Indeed, indeed.” Mr Plumphett’s eyes took on a glassy stare, like a fish. He cleared his throat again. “The details need not concern us, but I must get word to Lady Sara, and so far all my attempts to communicate have failed.”

  “Her address in London is no secret,” Amy said. “She is staying with her sister.”

  “The Lady Matilda Heatherington, yes, I am aware. I have written several times, but have not yet had the honour of a reply, even though I requested an early response. I believe I was quite clear in that aspect. I felt obliged to go to London myself, but I was not so fortunate as to gain admittance to her ladyship’s house.”

  “Mama does not reply to any letters,” Amy said. “At least, she never responds to mine! And she does not receive callers very often. One of her business acquaintances, a Mr Eddington, left his card three times, and in the end he wrote a message to be handed to her directly.”

  “Eddington? A business acquaintance, you say? I had thought that we took care of all Lady Sara’s business affairs.”

  “Mama is not quite herself. She is still grieved at Papa’s death, Mr Plumphett.”

  “I daresay, I daresay. Grief takes people in strange ways, Miss Allamont. Why my own brother was so maddened with grief when his wife died that he took himself at once to a monastery. He is there still.”

  Amy could think of nothing at all to say to this, so she maintained a respectful silence.

  “Well, well.” Mr Plumphett swallowed the
last of the Madeira, and stared mournfully at the empty glass. “That is nothing to the point. Miss Allamont, if I leave a letter with you, would you be so good as to put it directly into your Mama’s hand? And make sure she reads it? For then I shall have done my duty, you know.”

  Amy agreed to it. Mr Plumphett handed over a large letter with an imposing seal, and with a last regretful glance at the almost full bottle of Madeira sitting on the sideboard, he took his leave.

  ~~~~~

  Lady Sara returned quite soon after this, looking lively and full of health.

  “London agrees with you, Mama,” Amy said, as Lady Sara regaled them with some amusing gossip over dinner that evening.

  Her mama giggled, almost girlishly. “I believe it does, Amy. For I have never felt better in my life, I declare.” Another tinkle of laughter. “The change of air has quite restored my spirits.”

  “May we all go to stay with Aunt Tilly?” Hope said. “For I think perhaps it would do us all good to have a change of air. I am quite fatigued.”

  “Nonsense, Hope. Fatigued, at your age? Perhaps I should ask Mr Torrington to put up a purgative for you.”

  Hope pulled a face. “I am not so fatigued as that, Mama.”

  “Syrup of figs,” her mother continued relentlessly. “That would soon set you straight.”

  “Truly, there is no need,” Hope said. “Are there any more sweetbreads?”

  Lady Sara smiled, and signalled the footman to refill her glass.

  Amy thought it a good moment to ask her question. “Mama, have you yet had an opportunity to peruse Mr Plumphett’s letter? He was most concerned that you should read it at the earliest moment.”

  “Oh, Plumphett! He fusses like an old woman. I shall deal with all my correspondence in time, Amy, never fear.”

  And with that Amy had to be content.

  ~~~~~

  Ambleside was very restless at this time. He knew he was doing his duty, and there was a certain grim satisfaction in that, but he could not convince himself that he was anything but desperately unhappy.

  Steeling himself to return to Allamont Hall to seek out Connie he accounted one of the most difficult tasks of his life. He had not even been sure he would recognise her.

  Entering the drawing room, the first sight to meet his eyes had been Amy, sitting beside Miss Endercott, her needlework forgotten on her lap. Dear Amy! So sweet, so lovely, so adorable — and so unattainable. The sight had almost over-set him, but he had mastered himself sufficiently to make his greetings to her.

  Then, as always, he had moved on round the circle. Belle was next, the easily recognised Belle, whose plain features could never be mistaken for those of her sisters. How was it that in a family of beauties, one was so much less beautiful?

  He turned to the third sister. It should be Connie, but how could he be sure? And perhaps when he looked closely, he should find nothing but indifference in her, or friendly interest at best. His spirits rose in optimism. But she looked up, smiling at him so happily, so hopefully, that he could not be under any illusion regarding her feelings towards him. His heart sank, but he did his best to conceal it.

  When he had made all the proper bows and enquiries as to health, and answered on his own account, he brought a chair forward to sit beside Connie.

  “We have not seen you for some time, Mr Ambleside,” she began, before he could utter a word. “But you are busy, I make no doubt. Gentlemen are always busy, is it not so? There is always business to attend to, affairs to manage, so many things needing your attention. Whereas we have nothing to do except sit and wait for you to call.”

  “You have many things to occupy you, I am sure, Miss Allamont,” he said, trying to smile, and not quite succeeding. “Do you paint?”

  She laughed merrily. “Not at all! I tried it once, for we had a master come out from Brinchester for a while, and he gave us lessons, you know. Indeed, you were so good as to invite us all to Staynlaw House to practise, as I recall. I had some aptitude for it, and it was the greatest amusement to sit at an easel in the orchard and attempt to capture the precise shade of the blossoms, but over the winter I lost interest and never took it up again. Grace paints very well. She has a wonderful sweeping way with the brush, and she knows just how much water to add to get those very pale, delicate shades, which I could never manage at all. I draw a little, mostly still life, arrangements of fruit and so on, with a length of cloth artfully draped. I am sure you are familiar with the style. I tried drawing faces once, but they were not very like, so I gave that up. But a bowl of apples — I can draw that tolerably well. Although the bowl itself…”

  Mr Ambleside found his eyes inexorably drawn away from his chattering companion, towards the still, pale face of Amy. Miss Endercott, beside her, was saying something, but Amy was not attending. Her eyes were fixed on him, her lips slightly parted. She looked so timid, so shy, so anxious. He had the sudden absurd urge to sweep her into his arms and kiss her ruthlessly. The grief that swept over him was almost unbearable.

  As soon as he decently could, he made his excuses and left.

  Each visit, he found it a little easier to see Amy, a little less overwhelming to listen to Connie’s artless babbling, a little more tolerable to consider himself her suitor. She was, he told himself sternly, no worse than any other young lady of his acquaintance. Excepting Amy, of course, his incomparable Amy. Connie would make him a perfectly acceptable wife, he was sure. Her partiality would make her conformable, he supposed, and no doubt he would grow to love her, in time.

  So, by degrees, he talked himself into acceptance of his new situation, and began to be convinced that it would not be such a bad thing at all.

  But one day he received a letter from Sir Osborne, written a month earlier in Italy. Amidst the raptures on ruins and frescoes, was one passage which was like a hammer-blow.

  “I must thank you again, with all my heart, for your efforts to arrange this for us. Italy is everything we had hoped, my dear friend’s health is so much improved, and Mama is quite unaware of the truth about the Contessa. I sincerely trust that you have now obtained your heart’s desire also, and that you and Miss Allamont will be married very soon. Indeed you may already be the happiest of men! I wish you joy of her, Ambleside, and highly recommend Italy for a honeymoon.”

  Ambleside tossed the letter into the fire, and buried his head in his hands.

  16: A Plan

  “What am I to do?” Ambleside cried in despair. “For God’s sake tell me how to get out of this dreadful coil!”

  Miss Endercott shook her head sorrowfully, but did not reproach him for blaspheming. They sat in her rather shabby sitting room, her embroidery frame pushed aside.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, in more moderate tones. “Pray forgive my language.”

  “Oh, I have heard worse. But to be honest, Mr Ambleside, I have not the least notion what you might do.”

  He groaned. “You are my last hope! You have always been my supporter, through all my trials. There is still a case of Madeira for you if I win through.”

  She did not smile at this sally. “Ah, Mr Ambleside, but you see I have already lost hope of the Madeira.”

  “Is there no way out?”

  She shook her head. “I do not see it. You are in too deep with Connie, and cannot honourably withdraw. You must offer for her, I believe. But the case there is not hopeless. She is young, and has changed her mind in the past. She may yet do so again.”

  “It will be too late if we are already married.”

  “You cannot marry until the year of mourning is past, so you have a few months yet. Not a long time, but long enough for an engagement.”

  “I shall not speak until she is out of mourning. I was too hasty with Amy. It is improper to expect a lady to make such a decision while still grieving for her father.”

  Miss Endercott smiled. “You have an excellent understanding of propriety, Mr Ambleside, but less so of the heart of a young lady, I feel. Gentlemen are like fr
uit ripe for plucking. The fruit which hangs beyond her reach is oftentimes more appealing than the one she holds in her hand.”

  “Ah,” he said, taking the point. “So she may tire of me once I have spoken?”

  “She may. It is not to be depended upon. She still sees only the advantages of the situation. But if you can also enlighten her as to the disadvantages…”

  “Yes. Yes, I see.” He was thoughtful. Could it be possible? His heart leapt at the thought — perhaps he could after all set himself free.

  At once his hopes were dashed.

  “But it will not avail you,” Miss Endercott said briskly. “Even if you can save yourself from Connie, it will not bring Amy back to you. If she will not have you, then the case is hopeless.”

  His burst of happiness evaporated instantly. No, there was no hope. Even if he could free himself from Connie, he could not have Amy.

  “Mr Ambleside,” Miss Endercott went on. “I am old enough to be your mother, so perhaps I may be permitted to give you a little motherly advice?” He nodded his agreement. “You feel now as if you will never be happy again. You have gambled on love, and lost, and now you see only dreary duty ahead of you. But love is a fickle guide where marriage is concerned. Respect, enough money to live on, equality of rank — these form a more solid foundation. And honour, Mr Ambleside. Never underestimate the value of honour and reputation. If you do indeed marry Connie, it will be from the purest of motives, because it was the correct thing to do. Society will approve of your actions, you may be sure. And I guarantee, sir, that five or ten years from now, as you sit opposite your wife of an evening with your children about you, there will be no regret in your heart, only contentment.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Indeed I do. What you need is a pleasant, conformable wife, who will devote herself to your comfort and provide a happy home for you and your children. Connie will do as well for the purpose as Amy. So do not repine, for sometimes fate takes unexpected turns which are all for the best, in the end.”

  “And what of Amy?” he said quietly. “Will her fate be all for the best in the end?”