Belle (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 2)

by Mary Kingswood

  Here Belle stopped, hesitant. She had never in her life been in Papa’s room. She had rarely been in Mama’s room, either, although she had a dim memory of being led there to admire the latest baby. Hope, probably. She recalled very little about the room, other than the wallpaper, which had peacocks all over it. Nanny had chided her for paying no attention to her new sister, but to her six-year-old self, peacocks were far more interesting than tiny, wrinkled babies.

  But Papa’s room was new territory, a foreign country with unimaginable dangers lurking. What did a gentleman’s bedroom look like? How different would it be from Mama’s, or her own modest room in the east wing? But she would never find out by standing outside on the landing. Taking a deep breath, she turned the knob and opened the door.

  It was a room, like any other. This should not have been a surprise, yet somehow it was. There was a bed, the hangings neatly arranged, two wardrobes, symmetrically placed, with a dressing table precisely midway between them and a matching pair of folding screens across the corners. Against the opposite wall, two wash stands, one in each corner. Papa had loved symmetry. There were no pictures on the walls, no ornaments and even the wallpaper was plain, without even a pattern to relieve it. A door led to a dressing or powdering room, but it was empty, with no furniture at all, not even a carpet on the floor.

  The room was free of dust, so the maids must attend to it regularly, but there was nothing in the room to remind Belle of her father. There were no hair brushes, no mirrors, no books or papers, no small personal items scattered about to suggest that anyone had once undressed and slept and drunk his morning chocolate in here. It was as impersonal as an hotel room.

  Belle swung open the door of the first wardrobe. The rest of the room was so empty of any reminder of her father that she had almost expected the wardrobe to be the same. Not so. There were all his clothes, arranged in sequence: breeches, then shirts, then waistcoats, then coats. On shelves were cravats and other garments she could not identify and did not like to examine closely. But the key would not be amongst his nightshirts.

  The other wardrobe contained a similar array, but of evening wear. Belle started with the day wardrobe, working systematically through every pocket. No key. The evening wardrobe was equally disappointing. The drawers of the dressing table contained an array of personal items, but no key. There were several books at the back of one drawer, but mindful of the one in the book room which John had burned, she left them there unopened.

  She looked around the rest of the room. Where else could a key be hidden? She wished she had John’s quick mind and willingness to crawl about on the floor to aid her search, but she would have to do the best she could on her own. The rugs yielded nothing and there was no sign of a loose floorboard that might suggest a hiding place there. There were no ornaments to conceal anything. Even the window had not a single loose piece of wood. She stood in the centre of the room, slowly revolving, looking for better ideas.

  Where else did people keep keys? On chains at waist or neck, of course. On nails in the wall. In reticules and pockets. Inside books. Reluctantly, she took the books from the drawer and shook each one vigorously upside down, trying not to look at the pages. No key fell out. Where else?

  An image rose unbidden in her mind of her last visit to John’s cottage. Samuel had been bringing coal from the cellar, and had locked the door behind him and the key— the lintel! He had put the key on top of the lintel.

  Eagerly, her fingers felt above the door. Nothing. She tried the door to the dressing room. Still no key. She even went into the dressing room to try the other side, without any luck. But now she had another idea — the tops of the wardrobes.

  And there it was. A small silver key with an intricately worked handle, tucked into a notch in the wood on top of the evening wardrobe. Even the housemaid’s vigorous dusting would not dislodge it from there.

  Triumphantly she skipped back down the stairs to the book room and drew out her father’s journal, and eagerly inserted the key into the lock. It fitted! A single turn, an almost inaudible click and the lock fell open.

  And then she hesitated. To read her own father’s private journal, a journal so secret, moreover, that he had kept it locked and hidden the key — that would be a great intrusion. And yet she had to know more about Jack Barnett, and this, surely, was the only way to find out.

  So she opened the journal and began to read.

  At first she wondered if she had misunderstood, for the handwriting was so different from the account books. Where she had needed a magnifying glass to read the accounts, the journal was written in a larger, much freer style. But then she began to see similarities in the formation of the letters and the tell-tale pen-strokes, and realised that it was indeed her father’s, but composed in a different mood. The very first page told her more about her father than three and twenty years of eating at his table had taught her.

  ‘M gave me such news on Friday last that I am like to burst. It is so delicious, yet there is no one I can share it with, no one I can sit with over my port and laugh about it. And it is such a good joke. Part of me wants to tell S just to see if it will wipe the smug superiority from her face. But I cannot. She knows all my weaknesses, and grinds me into the dirt, making me grovel in my own house, so it must be secret. But I absolutely must have some relief for my feelings, and therefore I have decided I will keep this journal. Everything I would have told a good friend, I will write here.

  ‘We have decided that she needs a house. M’s present lodgings will no longer answer, for there will need to be nursery maids and a wet-nurse and all manner of other expenses. And a garden, she tells me, for the child to play in. Then there will be education to be thought of. It will be difficult to find the extra money, for the tenants are having trouble with the rents lately, with the poor harvests, and my own investments are not bringing in what I had hoped. And then S is quite an expense, as always. Why did I ever look so high? A clergyman’s daughter would have suited me rather better.

  ‘So I must economise. The chaplain can easily go, for that will save hundreds of pounds a year in beef and brandy. Nor do we need three footmen. I shall not let any of the servants go directly, for S might object to that, but as they leave, they need not be replaced. I think it can be done. M has her eye on a house already, and she has the most ingenious idea for concealment — it shall be a home for foundling children, and a charitable institute that I may support and visit in perfect propriety. She is so clever, my M! We laughed so much when she came up with the idea, that she clean knocked over the wine, and I do not suppose the stain will ever come out. But I am so excited I shall buy her another carpet. She shall have as many carpets as she wishes.’

  Belle set the journal down, her heart beating fast. The person designated as ‘M’ could only be Papa’s mistress, and ‘S’ was Mama, that much was clear. And here he was, setting up his little love nest — but no, there was already a love nest, the lodgings spoken of, and the house was just a larger establishment to accommodate the increase in the number of mouths to be fed. So the arrangement had been going on for some time already by this point.

  Then Belle noticed the date at the top of the first page — some seven months before Ernest had been born. Papa had four daughters by then, and must have despaired of ever having a son. Now his wife and his mistress were in a race to be the first to produce an heir for him. No wonder he found the situation so amusing.

  But which of them had won? She flipped the pages of the journal, looking for the right date. And there it was. ‘M has given me such a gift as words cannot express. At last I have a son! She wants to call him Jack, and I have no objection. She has succeeded where S has failed miserably, so she may call him what she will. My son Jack. Yes, it has a fine ring to it.’

  The date was two days before Ernest’s birthday. Jack Barnett was the eldest son, the acknowledged son. The heir to Allamont Hall.

  17: Gloves

  Belle’s week had been so busy that she had not ha
d a moment to consider her father’s journal, or to read any more from it. Michaelmas had come and gone uneventfully, and she had thought nothing about it, until Mr Martin, from the bank in Brinchester, had come personally to deliver the income from Lady Sara’s settlement. A day later, two gentlemen from different banks in London had brought the income from her papa’s investments. Finally, the tenants came to pay their rents. Her father had set a fixed day to receive the payments, as she had discovered only two days beforehand.

  “Shall I prepare the garden room for Saturday, Miss Belle?” the butler had said to her one morning.

  “The garden room? Prepare it for what, Young?”

  “For the rents, Miss. The late Mr Allamont always received the rents in the garden room so that the tenants need not tramp through the house. They bring such a quantity of mud on their boots,” he said disdainfully.

  So for a whole day, Belle sat in the garden room at the marble-topped table that usually held vases and boxes, and counted coins proffered in work-worn hands, scrubbed clean for the occasion, while one of her sisters wrote down the names and amounts. A long, silent queue snaked out of the door and down the path, each man removing his hat as he entered the room and bowing deferentially to the ladies. They gazed at Belle solemnly as she thanked them, but they said nothing except their name and where they were from. Then they went round to the kitchen to be given hot soup and bread and cheese, for some of them had walked many miles.

  She had no idea whether she was being given the right amount or not, or whether any rents were missing, and by the end of the day, exhausted and hoarse, she hardly cared. The only thing that mattered was that there was money enough to pay all the bills and salaries for the coming year. There would be time enough to check the exact amounts later.

  On Sunday, she was so tired that she did not go to church at all, the first time she could remember such a thing happening since she was a child. She stayed in bed until noon, and then rested on a chaise longue with a book and a box of bon-bons until her sisters returned. Her exhaustion lifted, but her spirits did not, and she knew the reason perfectly well. Sunday would bring a whole evening in John’s company, and she was not sure how she would bear it.

  The evening started badly, for as soon as John arrived, he sought her out. “Are you quite well, Miss Belle? I was alarmed not to see you church today, and Miss Allamont told me you had overexerted yourself yesterday.”

  “I am well, thank you,” she said, but she felt her cheeks flushing, and the more she became aware of it, the stronger her embarrassment. “I… I am rested now.”

  “That is a great relief,” he said. “You must take care of yourself, Miss Belle, and not attempt too much. You take your responsibilities very seriously, I know, and your sisters depend upon you, but do not make yourself ill.”

  “You are very kind, sir,” was all the response she could manage, for his solicitude brought her close to tears. Perhaps he saw her discomposure, for he moved away after that, and she had no further conversation with him. There was some small comfort in being near him, and hearing his voice as he talked to others, but she wished with all her heart that they could talk freely again, as friends.

  The Drummonds had also been invited for dinner, and that was an excellent distraction, for their own liveliness, combined with the addition of new faces to the company, made everything easier and the evening lighter in tone than a Sunday evening had any right to be. They made her smile despite the gloom in her heart, and had her younger sisters laughing so often that Mr Endercott was obliged to reprove them for their levity on the sabbath.

  But her own worries would intrude. When she had a quiet moment during the evening, Belle set herself to observe John’s manner towards Hope, and was distressed to see the difference. Where before he had stammered and blushed, or said nothing at all, now he was perfectly composed with Hope, if rather serious. No one who knew him could fail to notice the change, and wonder at it. He was too honest and open for any deception. That made her wonder, too, about her own manner. Was she just as changed? And then there was Hope, quieter and more subdued than usual, her eyes as often on Belle as on John. Did she suspect?

  Belle could not see any way out of the tangle that would satisfy all parties. However events turned out, one of them, at least, would be made very unhappy.

  ~~~~~

  The carriage stopped at the end of the lane leading to the school house.

  “That was an excellent evening,” Miss Drummond said for the twentieth time. “Thank you so much for allowing us to ride with you, Miss Endercott, Mr Endercott.”

  Her brother helped her to descend, then turned to Burford. “Will you come in for a while, John? I have unpacked the brandy.”

  Burford followed them down the lane and into the cottage, its lamps casting a welcoming glow into the night.

  “Ah, the place begins to look lived in,” Burford said. “And Polly is working out well, is she?”

  “Exceedingly well,” Miss Drummond said. “Thank you so much for finding her for us, Mr Burford. She is very willing, and will do whatever we ask, which is an advantage in a maid of all work, would you not agree?”

  He smiled, but said, “You must feel the change, though. It is not easy to go from a full complement of indoor staff to one maid of all work, however willing that one might be.”

  “We shall manage very well,” she said cheerfully. “I have charge of the kitchen, and Alex is to make a start on the garden tomorrow. We have already been given some chickens, and a fine cheese, and Mr Garmin is to give us a piglet as soon as the pen is mended. I suppose that will happen a great deal — little gifts instead of payment for Alex’s teaching. So we shall do very well, Mr Burford. Now, I shall leave you two to your brandy. Do not forget to bank the fire, Alex.”

  Drummond poured the brandy, and Burford wondered when his friend might be able to afford another bottle. Then they sat either side of the fire, and talked, as friends do, in a meandering sort of way, as each remark threw up reminiscences or new ideas.

  “I am very cross with you, John,” Drummond said, after a while. “For two years you have been writing to me of Miss Hope Allamont, her great beauty, her many virtues, her amiability, her sweet nature. Naturally, I assumed that a small village like Lower Brinford could not sustain more than one such paragon, yet here I find that she has five sisters, each as charming as another. What a delightful situation you are in! And how you could settle on just one of them, I cannot imagine. When I look at Miss Hope, I believe her to be the pinnacle of womankind, but when I talk to Miss Belle, I find her just as desirable. Is it not so, John? Do you not find it to be so?”

  Burford sipped his brandy but said nothing. He knew his friend’s perspicacity of old, and would let him have his say.

  “You know, I have a good mind to cut you out,” Drummond went on. “A fine handsome fellow like me, what young lady could resist? But where shall I direct my enticements to best effect? I believe Miss Hope is the prettiest of all the Miss Allamonts, so maybe I should try my luck there. She would look splendid on my arm, do you not agree? What a fine couple we should make! What do you think?”

  Still Burford was silent.

  “But on the other hand,” Drummond said, “there is Miss Belle. I admire a woman of intelligence, with strong powers of conversation and sensible opinions well expressed. She would—”

  “You talk such nonsense, Alex,” Burford snapped. “What a dreadful rattle you are. Do not speak so flippantly of the Miss Allamonts.”

  His friend smiled at him knowingly. “A little more brandy?”

  “No, I must go. I depart for Shropshire at first light tomorrow.”

  “Pray give your brother my best regards. I have fond memories of Luke. He knocked me out, once, but was perfectly affable after. Bought me a tankard of something undrinkable at an inn to make amends.”

  “I daresay you deserved it,” Burford said with a slight smile.

  “Oh, undoubtedly. Off you go, then, John. Sweet dreams,
eh?”

  Burford walked home under the stars, the road hard with frost under his feet. After checking that Samuel had banked the fires properly, he went up to his bedroom and prepared for bed. He said his prayers, which took rather longer than usual these days, his conscience being somewhat troubled, and then picked up the book that sat on his nightstand.

  He knew he should not open it, but the temptation was irresistible. Mindful of Samuel asleep in the attic room directly above, he whispered the words to himself, his voice no more than a sigh. But in his mind he heard them as they had been spoken at the time, the first verse in her clear voice, and then his own. And just as on that first occasion, the power of the poetry plucked at his heart like the strings of a harp. Even after he had closed the book and set it down again, the words echoed in his head… love but her, and love for ever… thou best and dearest… deep in heart-wrung tears… dark despair around benights me…

  With a heavy sigh, he climbed into bed and blew out the candle. Then, reaching under his pillow, he drew forth a lady’s kidskin glove. Resting his cheek upon it, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

  ~~~~~

  Monday found Belle very restless. She sat down to her accounts as soon as she rose, adding all the new rents into the latest account book, and continued on after breakfast for several more hours. But then she set down her pen. Her back ached, her temples were beginning to throb and her hand was stiff from so much writing. A walk would be the very thing to set her up, she decided. Besides, she should take advantage of the cold weather before a milder spell turned the frost-bound lanes to bog.

  She had no planned destination, but somehow her feet found their own way to the village and then to John’s cottage. She stood outside, irresolute. He was in Shropshire, she knew that, and Eliza would have finished her work and gone home. Samuel had no doubt gone off to Higher Brinford. The house would be empty.