For a while they walked in silence, Max wreathed in thought, his face dark with misery, and Alex in anguished sympathy for his friend. What a terrible situation to be in, unable to marry the woman he loved, and yet compelled to say nothing, to avoid scandal and ruin. Even after so many years of respectability, Lady Sara could still face the censure of the world for having birthed a child while unwed. Indeed, they could all be dragged into the mire of society’s disapproval — the families of Allamont Hall, Willowbye, Hepplestone and Glenbrindle all equally at fault, in many eyes.
“It is fortunate that you were able to compose a convincing explanation,” Alex said, as they emerged from the woods and turned down the lane to the schoolhouse. “No one knows the dreadful truth beyond a very few and those few may be depended upon to keep the secret. It was quick thinking, I declare, and very plausible. ”
“Ah, that was Mary’s quick mind,” Max said, adding sadly, “You see how clever she is, Alex. Such an admirable woman, in every way. But perhaps it is better like this — better for her, that is. For she never wanted to marry me, not in the slightest. She could not refuse, but there was no eagerness, no pleasure in it. Maybe I could have made her happy in time — I would like to think so. But I believe there is some deep-rooted sorrow in her that nothing can alleviate. The one comfort in this whole ghastly business is that at least she will not now be forced into a marriage distasteful to her.”
~~~~~
Dulcie saw the last of the morning callers away — Mr and Miss Endercott, not surprisingly, the parson’s sister anxious to extract the last morsel of gossip from the situation. Lady Sara had withdrawn once more to her sitting room upstairs. The sisters and Lord Carrbridge were left to console Mary, although it seemed the task would not be arduous. Never was a broken betrothal accepted with so little agitation. She had refused absolutely to return to Willowbye, and although Cousin Vivienne would have insisted, Cousin Henry overruled her.
“So long as Sara is content to have her, she may stay here with my goodwill,” he said. “Whatever brings her comfort in these dark hours must be done.”
Mama had graciously conceded that she might stay, and now Mary sat in the morning room, a little pale, but otherwise quite composed, although she had no desire to talk about what had happened.
“You must ask me no questions,” she said. “You have heard the story from Cousin Sara, and I have nothing at all to add to that. Indeed, I feel the less said about the whole of it, the better I shall like it.”
“Of course we will not speak of it, dearest, if you do not wish it,” Connie said at once. “We would not for the world distress you.”
“But whatever will you do now?” Grace said. “How can you carry on as if nothing has happened, or hold your head up in company? I should be ashamed to lose such a man as that.”
“Hush, Grace!” Connie said sharply. “Mary has done nothing at all to be ashamed of, and may hold her head as proudly as ever.”
“She is an Allamont, after all,” Dulcie added. “She does not need a man to give her consequence.”
“Thank you, Dulcie,” Mary said, with a wry smile. “That is a fine sentiment, even if it is not entirely true.”
“No, indeed,” the Marquess said. “A man always gives his wife consequence, but she gives him so much more. There is tragedy on both sides, but Lord Kilbraith is perhaps the greater loser here. I pity him most sincerely.”
“As do I,” Mary said, eagerly. “I wish him nothing but good, yet we parted in such haste. I hate the idea that our last moments together were so distressing for him. I should like to see him again and perhaps say our farewells more calmly, without anger or rancour. At the least, I should like to thank him as I ought for the great compliment he paid me in wishing to marry me. Dulcie, you are so friendly with the Drummonds that perhaps you are the best person to convey a message to Lord Kilbraith there. Would you be so obliging? If you would tell him that I should like to see him before he returns to Scotland. It need not be alone, if he does not wish it. Assure him that I will entirely understand if he never wishes to see me again.”
“I will go directly,” Dulcie said. “I have some quince jelly to take, so I should be going there anyway. When I get back, perhaps we can plan some amusements for Mary, to take her mind off her troubles.”
“Oh, an excellent idea!” Grace said. “What about a ball?”
Mary winced, and Connie said quickly, “I do not imagine that a dissipated social whirl is the answer, Grace.”
“But travel might be,” Dulcie said. “It is a pity your plans for your wedding tour are settled, Connie.”
“True, but Drummoor at Christmas might be just the thing to lift your spirits, Mary,” Connie said. “And if you are ready for something more adventurous by the springtime, I can take you with me to London for the season. I am to launch Elizabeth Graham and find her a husband, which will be something of a challenge, so I should be very glad of your help.”
Leaving them to these happy plans, Dulcie fetched the quince jelly from the pantry and set off for the schoolhouse. Probably her feet could have carried her there by themselves if she had let them, for she somehow found a reason to go that way almost every day. Mary’s comment that she was very friendly with the Drummonds made her uneasy. It was true that she very much enjoyed her visits to the cottage, and she told herself virtuously that she was being useful, but in her heart she could not deny the real reason. Yet no matter how many times he smiled at her, eyes twinkling, he could never be hers, for his affections were already bestowed elsewhere, on a lady who was betrothed to someone else entirely. What a tangle it all was!
Dulcie found Lord Kilbraith sitting with Alex and Jess, and conveyed her message from Mary.
“Of course!” he said eagerly. “Pray tell her I will be there soon. In fact, as soon as my groom arrives with my horse, I shall come to the Hall at once, and with the greatest of pleasure.”
“She said that you need not see her alone, if you do not wish to,” Dulcie added.
His expression shifted, becoming thoughtful. “Oh. That had not occurred to me. Alex, perhaps you would accompany me to see Miss Mary?”
“Me? I am not sure that I am best suited to assisting in such a situation, Max. Surely a lady—?”
Lord Kilbraith looked conscious. “Yes, but… you know all the circumstances, and… I should like you to be there. As my friend.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. Then of course, delighted to oblige,” Alex said hastily, and he too looked conscious.
“Miss Dulcie, pray tell Miss Mary Allamont that I will attend her later this afternoon,” Lord Kilbraith said gravely.
Dulcie puzzled over it all the way back to the Hall, aware that there was something about the business that she did not understand, but quite unable to determine what it might be. So lost in thought was she, that it was not until she was crossing the lawn that she noticed the weight in her pocket and realised she had quite forgotten the quince jelly. Well, at least she had a reason now for tomorrow’s visit to the cottage.
20: A Gift
Alex and Max walked silently through the woods, Max leading his splendid Spanish grey, since the groom had been dispatched to the village on some errand. Alex asked no questions, for he knew his friend would talk if he needed to, but he wondered at the presence of Majestad, for Max was not dressed for riding.
When they reached the Hall, a groom came out to tend to the horse.
“Do not take him to the stables,” Max said, handing over the reins. “Keep him here, and walk him from time to time. Do not let him get cold!”
Max strode up the steps and swept into the entrance hall past the bowing butler and footman, as Alex scampered along in his wake. Sometimes he wished he had the imperious manner of the nobility, instead of being self-effacing gentry. So many doors opened if one behaved as if they unquestionably should.
Mary received them in the small winter parlour. Connie and Dulcie were sitting with her, but at a word they left quietly.
“Thank you for indulging my whims, my lord. And I am always happy to see Mr Drummond.” There was a question in her tone.
Max said quickly, “I thought it best not to be alone with you, in case—” There was a catch in his voice, but he mastered himself and continued more calmly, “Alex knows everything, so we may speak freely.”
“Ah, I see. Please, sit, gentlemen.”
She was so composed. She made her little speech, about gratitude and obligation and her good wishes for his future, and how much she hoped they could part as friends. Alex could only admire such self-control, for however calm she appeared on the surface, underneath she must be in turmoil at the revelations that had swept over her, and torn her life apart.
Max was anything but composed. He had his hat and gloves still in his hands, too impatient even to hand them to the butler, and he twisted them this way and that in restless agitation. He said nothing, merely nodding, but his eyes were fixed on her, as if to imprint her image indelibly in his memory.
Then, a moment that broke her composure. “I am so sorry,” she said. “This was a mistake, perhaps. I have distressed you.”
“No, no,” he said, but his voice wavered. “It is better so, to… to bid each other a proper farewell.”
“That is my feeling. If Papa and Cousin Sara had not parted in haste, with anger and bitterness, how different their lives might have been! Perhaps they might have married and been happy together, you would have been their much-loved eldest child and I… oh! I would never have been born, of course. As it was, there was so much grief and misery for so many people. No one should ever part except in friendship, do you not agree?”
He nodded, so overcome that he could not speak.
She rose, and Alex and Max rose too. “Goodbye, Max,” she said quietly, and held out her hand to him. “May you find happiness, and a wife better suited to you than I.”
He shook her hand, and with a great effort, said, “I have a gift for you… if you permit?”
“A gift?”
“One that I would have made anyway, if—” His breath caught, but after a moment he went on, “I hope you will accept him. Will you come outside?”
Then Alex knew what he intended.
~~~~~
Dulcie stood watching Mary with her horse. A fine gift, indeed, and acceptable from a man to his betrothed, for surely no one would quibble over the giving happening several hours after the betrothal ended. Even if some might look askance, it was worth the risk to see Mary with such a smile on her face. Neither the betrothal nor its termination had brought much animation to her, but the loss of her horse had kept her prostrate with grief. Now she laughed for joy, stroking the horse’s neck or watching in delight as the groom ran round and round, putting the creature through his paces.
Dulcie found herself not far from Lord Kilbraith, his face haunted.
“A generous gift indeed, my lord,” she murmured to him. “Will you not miss him? Was he a souvenir of the Peninsula War?”
She was rewarded by the faintest of smiles. “Not at all. I rode whatever I could find when I was out there, and more than one was cut from under me,” he said. “It did not do to become too attached to one’s mount. I bought Majestad only a few weeks ago, when I first arrived back in England. It was a foolish conceit to buy such a horse, as if I had brought him with me from Spain. He is a fine animal, but I can find another horse whenever I wish. Besides—” There was a long pause before he continued quietly, “He would always remind me of Mary. I will do better to leave him here, where he will be appreciated.”
“He is certainly that,” Dulcie said. “The gift gives her the greatest pleasure.”
“A gift which failed in that regard would be worthless, would it not?” he said soberly.
“Perhaps, but every gift which arises from unselfish generosity is to be commended,” she said.
He hesitated, then said, “You are right, of course. The motivation is as important as the pleasure given. A gift given only from a sense of duty is detestable.”
“Yet it might still be a cause for gratitude to the recipient,” she said.
His lips quirked. “You are a philosopher, Miss Dulcie.”
Before she could reply, she noticed Alex standing a little apart from everyone. Most of the household, servants and family alike, were on the drive admiring Majestad, clustered in little groups, but Alex was alone. Like Miss Bellows, he was neither gentry nor servant class.
Impulsively, Dulcie turned to Lord Kilbraith. “My lord, if you are minded to unselfish generosity in another direction, your friend is one who could benefit from your help.”
“Alex? How so?”
“He suffers greatly as a village schoolmaster. It may be that the heir to the Earl of Strathmorran might have influence enough to obtain him a post in a school where he could earn enough to live as a gentleman again.”
“That is a happy thought, Miss Dulcie. My old school, perhaps, at Winchester—”
“I was thinking of something nearer to his home,” she said. “There must be schools in Morranshire.” Lord Kilbraith raised his eyebrows. “Then he would be near Glenbrindle, you see,” she raced on. “So that he could marry the Lady Isobel.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking at her quizzically. Eventually, he said, “You are perhaps unaware that Isobel is betrothed to Andrew Allanshaw?”
“Oh yes, but betrothals may sometimes be broken, may they not? And I do wish he might be happy, and not have to raise pigs.”
~~~~~
The following Saturday evening brought the awkwardness of dinner at the parsonage, where Miss Endercott did her very best, in the discreetest manner possible, to find out the truth about the ending of Lord Kilbraith’s betrothal. Alex realised at once that she did not for one moment believe the story of confusion regarding the dowry. Instead, her suspicions veered dangerously close to the truth.
“He is very like his aunt in appearance, would you not say?” she said in innocent tones.
“He certainly favours the Heatherington side of the family,” Alex said.
“Indeed. And more so Lady Sara than his mother, would you not agree? Have you seen the portrait of Lady Caroline in the morning room at the Hall? Not at all like Lord Kilbraith, whereas he is so like Lady Sara, one might almost suppose she were his mother, if one did not know otherwise. Would you not agree, Mr Drummond?”
“He is equally like the Lady Matilda,” Jess said mischievously. “Lady Matilda and Lady Sara are identical twins, I understand.”
Miss Endercott looked at her speculatively, considering this new idea.
“Family likenesses are so odd,” Mr Endercott said. “Do you remember the smith at my very first parish, sister? He and his wife were dark haired, and all the children the same, except for the youngest, who had hair the very colour of these carrots. Some ancestor long ago who had red hair, no doubt. Such things happen in families, such that every once in a while, a child will turn up quite different from the others.”
“True,” Miss Endercott said. “And even odder was the fact that the innkeeper had the reddest hair imaginable, and all his children too, except for the very youngest who had dark hair.”
“There you are, you see,” Mr Endercott said happily. “God’s ways are mysterious to mere mortals like ourselves. Can I tempt you to a little more of the veal, Miss Drummond?”
After dinner, when Jess was picking out a melody on the parsonage’s rather out of tune pianoforte, and Mr Endercott was dozing while pretending to read a newspaper, Alex found himself seated beside Miss Endercott. To his relief, she seemed to have exhausted the possibilities of Lord Kilbraith, but the topic she chose was almost as troublesome.
“Does Miss Dulcie Allamont still call at the schoolhouse regularly, Mr Drummond?”
“She does. Almost every day, in fact, she brings us some little treat from the Hall. She has been kindness itself these last few weeks. I cannot imagine how we would have coped without her.”
“In
deed,” she said, giving him such a knowing look that he felt the colour rise in his cheeks. “One might almost imagine there was some deeper reason than mere kindness for such assiduous attentions.”
“I sincerely hope that no one would suspect any impropriety in Miss Dulcie’s actions,” he said at once. “It would be too bad altogether if a lady’s charitable impulses should be misinterpreted.”
“Oh, I could not agree with you more, Mr Drummond. No one could regard such actions as improper, especially if there were perhaps some degree of understanding subsisting in the case?”
He felt his anger rising, and had to take a calming breath or two before he could reply. “There is none, nor likely to be, and I depend upon your good offices to quash any such rumours that may come to your ears.”
“None? A pity, for I should have thought the match a highly suitable one.”
“Suitable? When I have not two pennies to rub together? She is far above my reach, Miss Endercott. I shall be fortunate to find a farmer’s daughter willing to have me.”
“You are a gentleman of good family, Mr Drummond, and if she does not mind the disparity of wealth, why should you?”
“You know nothing of the matter!” he said with some heat. “Dulcie hates me!” With an effort, he forced his temper down once more, and went on in more moderate tones, “Miss Dulcie has never shown the slightest sign of an attachment, and if she had, I should have discouraged her at once. There have been times when we could not speak to each other without quarrelling, and although I flatter myself we are now friends, I do not aspire to anything beyond that. I dare not, Miss Endercott. You may see it as a suitable match, but I cannot. She can do far better than me, and with a sister who is a marchioness, the world of the ton is open to her.”
“Or would be if her mother would permit her to go to London,” Miss Endercott said acidly. “One would think Lady Sara does not care if her daughters marry well or not. But whatever her motives, it limits the possibilities for Miss Dulcie. Unless you would have her marry Sir Osborne Hardy.” He pulled a face, and she laughed. “I thought not. There are a few optimistic young men who attend the Brinchester assemblies who would like nothing better than to draw in a pretty young woman with twenty thousand to her name, but who else is there? Only you, Mr Drummond. You say she hates you, and maybe she does, at times, yet still she is drawn to you. Love and hate are not so far apart — both are evidence of passion. Better hate than indifference, and she is certainly not indifferent towards you. Perhaps she might like to marry you well enough, if only you were to ask her. At least put the idea into her head, for your behaviour towards her is so correct that I am certain she has not the smallest notion of your own thoughts in that direction.”
Dulcie (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 4) Page 19