Amy (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 1) (7 page)

“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.

Her mother said serenely, “I daresay Lady Hardy wished to speak to me about some matter or other, and finding me unavailable made do with you, Amy. As the eldest, you must expect these attentions. It was very civil of her, to be sure, for she could have no cause to speak to you in the regular way.”

On reflection, Amy thought this was as good an explanation as any other.

Once the Willowbye family had returned home, the Allamont ladies fell back into their usual round of activities. Or rather, some of them did so. Amy and Belle kept strictly to the routine their father had laid down for them, so that every hour was filled with study. But the younger girls were more lax, and Amy was forced to reprove them.

“Stuff!” Grace said. “I shall keep on with my tapestry, and when the weather improves I shall take out my sketchbook and easel, for those are enjoyable pursuits, and useful as well. But Greek? What is the point of that?”

“But Papa said—”

“Papa is not here any more, Amy. We are not forced to do as he tells us any longer.”

Amy was speechless at such willfulness. However, if her sisters would not listen to her, they must surely listen to their mama. She went directly to Lady Sara’s new sitting room, a former guest bedroom now refurbished in splendid style with furniture sent from London. Here her mama spent a good part of every day, sitting at an elegant escritoire to compose letters to her many relations, or reclining on a chaise longue with a book.

“Yes, what is it, Amy?” She carefully marked her place in the book before closing it and laying it down.

Amy curtsied. “Mama, I wish you would instruct the others on the necessity to be properly employed. They are not studying as they ought, and Grace in particular is getting quite wild and rude.”

Lady Sara picked up a box from the table beside her. “Will you have a bon-bon, Amy? They are delicious.”

“On a Tuesday? Papa said we may only have bon-bons on Sundays and Holy Days.”

“And I say we may eat them on a Tuesday if we wish.”

Amy waited, but her mother said nothing more.

At length, Lady Sara picked up her book. “Is that all?”

Still Amy waited, frowning, for surely her mother would address her complaint? She could not ignore the younger girls’ behaviour, could she?

Sighing, Lady Sara set her book down again. “Amy, I do not at all like this tittle-tattling about your sisters. It is sly of you. You have all been taught correct manners, now it is for each of you to regulate your own behaviour. See about your own conduct before you take offence at others. Go now. And tell Miller the fire is getting low again. I cannot abide the cold, she knows that. I must have a good blaze.”

Amy crept out of the room, quiet as a mouse. Belle found her, hours later, sitting on the stairs, crying.

“Why will no one listen to me?” she sobbed. “Papa set very clear guidance for us all, and as soon as he is gone, everyone sinks into idleness. Even Mama,” she added in a whisper.

“Hush, now,” Belle said, holding her tight. “Papa’s rules were… quite strict, you must agree. Few of our age are still at their lessons every day, like the most regimented kind of school. Even I feel…” She stopped, then went on in stronger tones. “Even I feel that we might relax the lessons just a little. Not all of them, of course, but those where we clearly have no aptitude.”

“But those are the very areas where most improvement may be gained by diligent application,” Amy protested.

Belle smiled. “Now you sound just like Papa.”

That made Amy sob all the harder. “But if we do not follow Papa’s rules, how shall we go on? Who will guide us into proper ways?”

“Why, Mama, for one,” Belle said, then, perhaps feeling that this was not to be depended upon, she added, “and our own good sense. Eventually, our husbands will direct us.”

“And how shall we choose our husbands, without Papa’s advice?” Amy wailed.

~~~~~

Winter began to drift towards spring, and the girls turned their attention to trimming bonnets ready for their half-mourning. Their hour in the winter parlour each day with their needles was now become a happy foretaste of social occasions to come. This was an agreeable subject for them to talk about, especially as their mother no longer sat with them to guide their conversation into proper channels.

The subject which never lost its appeal was that of Amy’s prospects for a husband. Amy herself took no part in these, nor Belle, but the younger girls had no such restraint, and the various names on the list were gone over and over, until Amy was exhausted with it. Sir Osborne was not mentioned much, above Grace saying every ten minutes, “Oh,
why
does Sir Osborne not come? I am sure he would quite like to marry you, Amy, for he talked to you for ever when he was here last.”

“Only because his Mama made him,” Amy said crossly. “And he knows where to find us. It is not as if we lived at the other end of the county. The Manor is under ten miles from here by road, and less across the fields.”

“That is a long way when the weather is so foul, and the lane churned to mud,” Belle said.

Amy wanted to point out that neither consideration weighed with Mr Ambleside, but somehow could not quite find the words.

“There!” Belle said. “Connie, I have finished adding the ribbons you wanted to this bonnet, and I confess I am very pleased with it. You will look so fetching in it. What do you think?”

Connie reached across the table for it, turning the bonnet this way and that. Then she pulled a face. “I do not like it at all. I think it would look better in lilac, and with feathers instead of this bow. Can you remake it, do you think? Your fingers are so nimble, sister.”

“I will try,” Belle said. “Which feathers, these? Do you not think them a little excessive for mourning wear?”

“I think they will look charming,” Connie said. “Besides, we cannot be too particular if we want to be noticed by gentlemen, you know. Amy should wear more feathers, if she wishes to secure a husband.”