Dulcie (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 4)

by Kingswood, Mary

  ~~~~~

  Relief. That was Mr Henry Allamont’s overriding emotion. As he looked at Mary, head demurely lowered as she was handed into the carriage, he was grateful beyond words that she was settled at last. And such a match! No one could have imagined it, for at the age of six and twenty, one might have despaired of a match for her at all. Instead, along had come Lord Kilbraith and taken such an immediate fancy to her that nothing would do but he must have her, and at once. It was almost beyond belief.

  She had always had admirers, of course, for she was so like her mother in appearance, it could not be otherwise. She was too spirited for some men, perhaps too quick to express her opinion, but even so, there had been offers. Every one had been declined, and Henry had supposed she had no mind for matrimony. That had suited him very well, and after Vivienne had left him, he and Mary had rubbed along companionably together. The years had passed, and so comfortably that he had managed to suppress any guilt at his failure to find her a husband.

  But then Vivienne had returned and turned their lives upside down. No, he had to be honest with himself, it was Mary’s life that had been most disturbed by her step-mother. No wonder she had accepted Lord Kilbraith with such complaisance. Had he been nothing but a prosperous farmer, she might well have been glad to take him, just to escape Vivienne’s habitual tormenting of her step-daughter. But the heir to an earldom! It was beyond anything, and even though she did not yet return Lord Kilbraith’s affection in equal measure, that would come, in time.

  Henry stepped into the carriage, settling beside Lord Kilbraith, and opposite his wife. Vivienne had that slight smile on her face that signified amused disdain for the proceedings, which was her habitual expression. Not for her any genuine happiness in her step-daughter’s splendid match. She would only be truly happy if it all came to grief.

  Lord Kilbraith’s face, on the other hand, was suffused with joy. As the carriage turned out of the Willowbye gates and began the long drive to Lower Brinford, he reached across to take Mary’s hand, and murmured something to her. She raised her head briefly, gave him a timid little smile, then dropped her gaze once more. Henry’s heart misgave him momentarily. How lowering to see her so subdued, her spirit crushed. She could not refuse such an offer, but she was not entering her betrothal eagerly, as she should.

  The journey passed with no more than the usual irritations of bad roads, choking traffic through the town, an overturned cart and Vivienne’s perpetual needling. The lovers were oblivious, happily, and Henry had long since learnt to ignore his wife’s patter of snide remarks. He had not much liking for her, and no respect, but there were compensations to having one’s wife at home instead of far away. She was very presentable, he had to admit, still a fine looking woman even at forty. It was expensive to clothe her, but she was always a credit to him in public.

  The carriage stopped before the gates of Allamont Hall, as the head gardener’s wife and daughter rushed out to open them. Then they were moving again, crunching over the gravel and drifts of fallen leaves which came close to blocking the drive. The place was going to ruin with no heir at the helm, and not for want of money, either. Servants left and no one took the trouble to replace them. But Lady Sara took no interest in such matters, and was away doing who knew what for half the time, and Belle visited less and less as her confinement drew nearer. Perhaps he might send Hugo to help oversee the finances. The boy had a way with numbers and it might keep him out of mischief.

  The carriage rolled to a halt beneath the towering portico of the Hall. Henry had no fondness for the stark angularity of the house — too modern for his taste — but it was imposing, there was no doubt of it.

  Four pale blurs shot out of the house and down the steps with squeals of glee, pulling open the carriage door before the footman could reach it.

  “Mary! And Lord Kilbraith!” The girls looked expectantly from one to the other, then giggled, hands to mouths.

  “Good day, children,” Vivienne said languidly, brushing past Mary to descend first.

  “Good day, Cousin Vivienne,” the four said in unison, dropping perfectly matched curtsies. Their father might be dead, but his influence still lingered. Even though they no longer dressed alike, their manners and habits remained as he had moulded them over the years.

  Henry was the last to descend. Connie, Dulcie, Grace and Hope steered Mary up the steps to the entrance hall, fluttering around her like a flock of birds, chattering and laughing, guessing the reason for the visit. Vivienne followed with stately elegance. Lord Kilbraith waited for Henry so that they could enter the house side by side in masculine solidarity.

  In the drawing room, various faces gazed at them with interest as they were announced. The Marquess of Carrbridge was there, of course, for he was never far from Connie. The peculiar Sir Osborne Hardy, flaunting one of his violently coloured waistcoats, was talking to the schoolmaster. Henry recognised the parson and his sister, too, and the quiet little governess sat beside Hardy’s friend, Merton. Well, it would save making a round of visits, for the news would be all over the neighbourhood within five minutes.

  “Where is your mama?” Henry asked Dulcie.

  “In her sitting room. Company fatigues her so, these days. Should I send word that you wish to see her? That you have an announcement to make, perhaps?” She smiled conspiratorially at him.

  “Thank you, yes, she should be here.” And why Sara was in her private sitting room rather than receiving guests Henry had no idea. She was behaving decidedly oddly since she had been widowed.

  At the words, Dulcie disappeared from the room. That was pleasing, that she went herself to fetch her mother, instead of sending a servant or one of her sisters. She had changed a great deal since she had been helping out at the schoolhouse, and the improvement pleased him. For many years he had detected a meanness in her that he could not approve, despite his fondness for all his cousin’s daughters, but perhaps she was finally growing into a gentle and well-mannered young lady.

  There was no point in waiting for Sara. “We have happy news to share,” Henry said to the room at large. “Mary is engaged to be married to Lord Kilbraith.”

  The news was no surprise to the four sisters, who had had a hint of it already, but everyone else was astonished, for such a speedy courtship was unusual. The delight was universal, however, and the congratulations that were offered were warm and heartfelt. Lord Kilbraith beamed with happiness, while Mary blushed and smiled and accepted the good wishes with grace. Vivienne smirked in a corner, and Connie sent for champagne.

  Then Sara entered the room, her eyes passing over the assembly, pausing on Lord Kilbraith, and coming to rest on Mary. “What is this about?” she said, and there was a coldness in her tone that chilled Henry’s heart.

  “Mary is to marry Lord Kilbraith, Sara. Wonderful news, is it not?”

  She was silent, her eyes flickering from Kilbraith to Mary and back again, and then to Henry himself. “A word, if you please, Henry. In the book room. Mary, Lord Kilbraith, you may come too.” Without another word, she turned towards the door. Vivienne made to follow, but Sara said to her in an undertone, “Not you.”

  At another time, Henry would have enjoyed the mortification on Vivienne’s face, but now he was too concerned. There was something wrong here, but he could not imagine what it might be.

  The book room had changed since the last time he had been in there. A couple of the girls’ watercolours hung on the wall, vases of fresh flowers splashed colour here and there and the chairs had been rearranged into less formal patterns. Belle’s influence, he suspected, for she had used this room when she worked on the account books.

  Sara waved them to seats, herself taking the window seat.

  “This marriage cannot take place,” she said calmly.

  “Really, Sara, what is it to do with you?” Henry said.

  “Everything. It is impossible. Mary must not marry Maxwell.”

  Lord Kilbraith made a strangled sound in his throat. “No!
”

  “I fear so,” she said calmly.

  “But why did you not tell me!” he cried. “This could have been avoided, and no harm done.”

  “There is still no harm done,” she said crisply. “You will go back to Scotland and be an earl, in time, and Mary will go back to her life as a spinster, which, I suspect, is as she prefers.”

  It was true that Mary looked surprised, but there was no dismay on her face. Indeed, Henry might even say that she was relieved. But that was nothing to the point. “Sara, will you kindly explain yourself? For I still consider this none of your concern.”

  She turned her gaze fully on him, and he was struck, as always, by her serene beauty. So calm, so composed, even now, in the midst of crisis.

  “Can you not work it out, Henry?”

  “Not in the slightest, and I will thank you not to play games, Sara. Can you not speak plain for once?”

  She turned impassively to Lord Kilbraith. “What age are you, Maxwell?”

  “Eight and twenty this past March,” he answered.

  “Now can you work it out, Henry?” she said.

  “Good God!” He groaned, unable to believe it. Then, because he could find no other expression for his disordered feelings, “Good God in Heaven!”

  “Well, I hope someone is going to explain it to me,” Mary said, but there was no anger in her voice, only a great tiredness. “For I think there must be some great secret here, and it seems to me that I am entitled to know it.”

  It was Maxwell, his voice breaking, who gave her the dreadful news.

  “Mary, I cannot marry you because you are my sister.”

  19: Family History

  Her mother was the most serene person Dulcie had ever known. Even in the midst of what must surely be a crisis, she exuded calmness, her composure not ruffled in the slightest.

  “I regret to inform you,” she told the assembled company in the drawing room, “that your congratulations were premature. Lord Kilbraith is not now to marry Miss Mary Allamont. Some confusion over the dowry makes the match ineligible.”

  “Confusion?” Miss Endercott said, as a buzz of excited chatter broke out. “I did not think there could be any confusion regarding Miss Mary’s dowry, my lady.”

  “To those of us who know her well, that is true,” Lady Sara answered. “However, Lord Kilbraith is a stranger, and with so much talk of the Miss Allamonts’ large dowries, he misunderstood. It is an easy mistake to make. However, his father, my brother-in-law, wrote to me to clarify the exact situation.”

  The room was humming like a beehive at the unexpected reversal. Only moments before, all had celebrated Mary’s good fortune. Now she was, it seems, once again condemned to spinsterhood, and at her advanced age, she was unlikely to receive another offer.

  Dulcie was just as taken aback as anyone — or perhaps more so. She moved nearer to Connie, who was sitting beside Lord Carrbridge with a frown on her face.

  “Did you know that Mama had received a letter from Lord Strathmorran?” Dulcie whispered.

  Connie shook her head. “I understood that they never communicated. If there was a letter, I never saw it, and one or other of us always sorts through the mail as it arrives.”

  “Odd thing to do, though,” the Marquess said, in an undertone. “If his father wanted to know the details, he would have written to her father, surely? Not Lady Sara.”

  Mr Drummond moved next to Dulcie and said quietly, “This is a sad outcome, for both of them. I can hardly believe that my friend could make such a mistake, or that the discovery would cause him to change his mind.”

  “I imagine it is his father’s mind which has changed,” Dulcie said. “A lady with twenty thousand pounds or more might be perfectly acceptable, where a lady without would not.”

  “But I understood—” Mr Drummond began, and then added hastily. “But it is of no consequence, for the matter is decided. Miss Dulcie, this is not the moment to be cluttering up your drawing room with unwanted callers. Unlike most here, I have no carriage to wait for, so I shall slip away. May I hope that you will bring me any news you receive on the two principals? I should like to be assured that their sufferings are not such as to prostrate them.”

  “Of course I shall,” Dulcie said, adding with a smile, “And you are never an unwanted caller, Mr Drummond.”

  For a moment, he looked startled, then a warm smile lit up his handsome face. “Why, thank you, Miss Dulcie. If you have an opportunity, pray remind Max — Lord Kilbraith — that he is always welcome at the schoolhouse. I bid you good day.”

  With hasty farewells to Connie and Lord Carrbridge, he slipped away.

  ~~~~~

  “Wait! Alex! Wait for me!”

  Alex was already striding away down the drive of Allamont Hall, but he obligingly turned and saw Lord Kilbraith leaping down the steps below the entrance two at a time.

  “Are you not going back with the others?” Alex said. “The Willowbye carriage is just coming round now.”

  They moved further down the drive as the hastily recalled carriage circled to await Mary and her family.

  “I could not possibly do so,” Max said. “To sit in a closed carriage with Mary for two hours? With her father glaring at me, and the step-mother laughing at us? It would be insupportable, for all of us. They must be wishing me at the devil. May I walk with you to the schoolhouse? My groom is to bring my horse there later today.”

  “Naturally you may,” Alex said. “Whatever aid we can offer is yours. Jess and I will bear you company while you wait. Max — this is the most dreadful business. You have my utmost sympathy.” He hesitated, not quite sure how far to push the matter. “I am confused, however. I understood you to be aware of Mary’s situation, for I told you of it myself. But I daresay it is an easy mistake to make when you were here such a short time, to suppose that Mary was left a dowry by the late Mr Allamont, too. For they are all called Miss Allamont, are they not?”

  Max was silent, and not knowing what else to say, Alex repeated hesitantly, “A dreadful business.”

  “It is, and you are quite right — it is all a fudge, but you do not know the worst of it. Look, they are coming out of the house. Let us be gone, and I shall tell you the whole of it, for the truth is hard to bear alone. Do you know another way we might go, avoiding the drive, so that we will not be seen from the carriage? I do not wish to add to Mary’s suffering.”

  Alex pointed across the lawn to a gate set in the stone wall, and Max strode off, head down, so that Alex had to half run to keep up. Within moments they were in the woods that fringed the estate, and again Max set a fast pace. Alex said nothing, imagining his distress, for he knew all too well the grief of a lost chance of happiness.

  At length, they came to a stile and Max threw himself onto the step and buried his head in his hands. Alex stood, twisting his hat in his hands, in an agony of suspense but quite unable to offer any solace to his friend.

  “I beg your pardon,” Max said eventually, barely lifting his head. “You must be wondering what on earth has happened.”

  “Just a little,” Alex said. “However, I would not dream of pressing you on the matter if it is a great secret.”

  “You already know the greater part of it, that is, that the Lady Sara Allamont is in truth my mother. This day I have discovered the other part of the secret, the identity of my father.”

  For a moment Alex’s head spun, working this out. “You mean… good God, no! Not Henry Allamont!”

  “The very man. Who could possibly have guessed it? So you can see the difficulty — my betrothed, the woman I would have wed, is in fact my own sister.”

  “But Allamont is a respectable man. If he had ruined Lady Sara, why would he not marry her as soon as he knew of the situation?”

  “It appears that Henry Allamont knew nothing of it. There was a brief liaison, then a quarrel — something to do with Lady Sara’s twin sister Lady Matilda — and Allamont flew into a rage and stormed off. Took himself to the c
ontinent, completely out of communication. It was several years before he returned. Naturally, she had to go to her father, who managed everything. After the birth, her father arranged the marriage with William Allamont, and neither of them knew anything of Henry Allamont’s role in the business.”

  “That was reprehensible of him, to disappear in that manner,” Alex said, frowning. “A gentleman should not abandon a lady if there is any possibility of such a disaster.”

  “There was some uncertainty about the identity of the lady in question,” Max said with the slightest of smiles. “With identical twins… you can imagine it, and they loved to play tricks, it seems. Allamont believed he had been seduced by Lady Matilda, who was so far beyond her sister in loose behaviour that she was already outside the bounds of good society. It is not difficult to see how the misunderstanding might have come about.”

  Alex angrily swished his cane at a stray bramble that overhung the path. “It is all most unsatisfactory. Lady Sara could have spared everyone by informing you of the truth of your parentage when you asked.”

  “Ah yes.” Max sighed. “Lady Sara. She keeps her own counsel, that one. To say she is secretive hardly does her justice.” There was a bitter edge to his voice, but he made a visible effort to moderate his tone. “I daresay it was meant for the best. Since Henry Allamont knew nothing of the situation, she did not want me rushing round to give him the happy news.”

  “But she must have been aware — Max, everyone was aware of your intentions towards Miss Mary Allamont.”

  Max was silent for a moment, head down, fingers restlessly twirling a twig. “One would have thought so, it is true, for I made no secret of my admiration. Yet Lady Sara said she saw no real danger there, because of the disparity of wealth and rank. She assumed I was amusing myself with an idle flirtation.” The twig snapped in his hands, and he jumped to his feet. “Come, let us walk on, for I cannot bear to be still.”