Amy (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 1) (14 page)

14: A Quarrel

Amy was not quite as happy as she had expected to be after refusing Mr Ambleside. She was quite confident that she had done the right thing, for how could she possibly defy her father’s very clear objections to the match? Whatever his reasons for rejecting Mr Ambleside’s suit, she was sure they must be excellent ones, for Papa had had her interests at heart. Gentlemen always knew best, her father most of all, and life was much less confusing if she did as she was told and did not attempt to decide anything for herself.

Then there was the satisfaction of knowing that she was standing aside so that Connie might have her chance at the happiness she deserved. It was not right for one sister to take another’s suitor, and Connie had been in love with Mr Ambleside for ever. Amy tried not to remember that Connie had not always been so unswerving in her devotion, and had, in point of fact, told Amy that she might have him, thinking him far too old for her.

Mr Ambleside had not called for some time after that last encounter in the shrubbery, but when he did come, he was composed, if a little subdued, and after the usual greetings had been made, pulled forward a chair so that he might sit beside Connie. The pleasure in her face and the delicate flush on her cheeks were all the reward Amy needed, and went a great way to relieving the unexpected pain she felt in seeing Mr Ambleside’s attentions so firmly directed towards her sister, his head bent towards Connie as he listened to her chatter. She was smiling up at him, but his expression was sober.

Why this should upset her she had no notion. She had always liked and esteemed him, naturally, for he was the kindest and most amiable of men, but her affections were not engaged. She was sure her emotions would be far more violent if that were the case. Nor could she quite forgive his unpardonable interference in her marriage prospects. It was the strangeness of it, she decided. Once she grew accustomed to seeing him with Connie, she would be quite comfortable about it, she did not doubt.

“You are looking pale, my dear.” Miss Endercott’s gruff voice cut through Amy’s reverie, and forced her to turn away from the object of it.

The sisters were at home that morning, and the drawing room was filled with the hum of conversation. Only Amy sat silent, lost in her own thoughts. She had not even noticed Miss Endercott sit down beside her. “I… I am quite well, thank you.”

“Are you indeed?” Miss Endercott said in disbelieving tones. “When did you last go anywhere beyond the confines of your own neighbourhood?”

“I dined at Graham House.”

Miss Endercott gave a bark of laughter that caused heads to turn their way. “Ha! Higher Brinford! That is all of five, perhaps six, miles away. You know, your mama should take you with her when she goes jauntering off to London. Or, better yet, take you to Hepplestone. Your grandmama would give you a bit of polish, and improve your prospects beyond all measure.”

“Oh no, I could not! Papa never got on with Mama’s family.”

“That is true enough. Well, London, then. What
is
your mother doing there all this time? My acquaintance in town have heard nothing of her.”

“She is still in mourning,” Amy said in a low voice. Criticism of Mama was more than she could bear. “She cannot go into society yet.” Then, feeling something more was required, she added, “We expect her home any day now.”

“Hmph. It is not my place to advise her, but I think she would do more good here, keeping a watchful eye on her daughters.”

“We have Miss Bellows to look after us.”

“A governess is not the same. For all she is as much companion as governess now, Miss Bellows cannot offer the guidance of a mother. Or a friend, for that matter. You know that you may always come to me if you wish to discuss — well, anything at all. I have never been married, but I have seen many enter that state, in hope or in resignation or even in love, and I have seen how ill some marriages turn out, even when all seems set fair. I hope you will not enter into matrimony in haste, or make any decision which you may later regret.”

Amy could find no answer to this, so she lowered her eyes and hoped Miss Endercott would soon stop talking about such painful matters.

Miss Endercott sighed gustily. “I see that your mind is made up. You have chosen your cousin, then.”

“Chosen?” Amy said, stung. “What choice do I have? There were never many possibilities and now there are none, except for James. I must marry
someone,
so unless the almost mythical Marquess of Carrbridge should descend on Lower Brinford and sweep me off my feet, I shall marry James.”

Miss Endercott laughed. “Your point is well made, my dear, very well made. Almost mythical, indeed! I have wondered myself whether the heir truly exists or is just a result of the Lady Humbleforth’s fevered imagination.”

The little joke lightened Amy’s mood, and she giggled, hand over her mouth. “What a strange idea! He is in Debrett’s, you know, so he must exist. And think of all those letters he has written to his great-aunt. Lady Humbleforth reads every one aloud, and any number of others which mention him.”

“Very true.” Miss Endercott smiled. “So he must indeed exist. How foolish of me to think otherwise. But you will excuse me. I shall have a word with Mr Burford, and then we must be on our way.”

Amy was left to her own thoughts again, which naturally turned towards James. There, at least, was a suitor who could not be driven away by Mr Ambleside, so she felt reasonably secure in him. The prospect did not quite please her, but she could not at all determine why that should be so. After all, Papa had as good as pushed them together. Yet somehow she could not be quite certain that he would have approved the match. What had the will said about the cousins? Something about disliking them all equally, but at least they had the family name. It was not precisely an unqualified compliment.

James visited the Hall almost every day, making the usual comments about how well-suited they were and what a lark it would be when they were married. Amy no longer bothered to protest. James knew perfectly well that she had no alternative now. And yet… he never quite moved forward. He no longer brought flowers or little gifts, his compliments were extravagant but no more than he paid to every lady, and as often as not, after five minutes of nonsensical talk, he would shoot off to try the same with one of the others. She began to wonder if he would ever get to the point. They could not marry until she was out of mourning, of course, but a betrothal was not unacceptable and it would soothe her anxiety to have it all settled.

Today he and Mary arrived later than usual, after most of the other callers had left. Only Mr Ambleside, still in attendance on Connie, and Mr Burford, listening to Grace and Hope talking about the proposed school, remained.

James at once sat himself beside Amy, but after the most perfunctory exchange of greetings, he jumped up again. “Are you not tired of sitting indoors in this stuffy fashion, coz? It is so warm and pleasant outside. Shall we walk in the garden? Mary, will you come? Cousins, let us all go. Ambleside, you will not mind helping to escort the ladies?”

Amy’s heart pounded. What did he mean by it all? Was he planning to find a way to separate her from the others? Did he intend to propose? Her head was spinning as she went upstairs to fetch her cloak and bonnet. She could not decide whether fear or excitement was uppermost in her mind.

“Your cloak, sister?” Grace said, as they met at the top of the stairs. “Why not your new spencer? It suits you admirably and the weather is mild enough.”

“Oh — I had not thought of it, not for a walk in the garden. And if the wind is chill—”

Grace was about to argue the point, but Belle said briskly, “Let us not keep the gentlemen waiting.”

But if Amy had expected James to stay by her side, she was to be disappointed. They had barely reached the shrubbery before he sped off and caught up with Grace, Hope and Mr Burford, striding away on the newly laid path down the hill to the lake. The others followed at greater leisure, Mr Ambleside and Connie side by side, then all the others in a gaggle, chattering. At the back, Amy and Mary walked in silence. While they walked through the established part of the shrubbery, Amy stopped frequently to admire an early bloom or check the growth of a new bush, so they gradually fell behind.

“These buds are enormous, yet the plant is so small,” Mary said, touching one. “What do you call it?”

“It is a rhododendron, and one day it will tower over our heads,” Amy said. “When the flowers are fully open, they will be the palest, most delicate shade of pink.” She could not but remember her conversation with Mr Ambleside, when she had joyfully described the new shrub and her hopes for it, and Mr Ambleside had shared her excitement. She could take no joy in it now, when she had watched him walk straight past, quite unawares, his attention all on Connie. Tears pricked her eyelids, but she blinked them away. How foolish to cry over a flower. She would not do it. She was not a girl any more, to weep over every little thing. She was four and twenty, and would soon be married. For her father’s sake, she must be strong.

“Amy…” Mary had stopped. They had dallied so much that the others were all out of sight down the hill. “Amy, are you quite sure of what you are about? For I cannot think that you and James would suit.”

“Find me another prospect and I will gladly take him, I assure you.”

“Why, Ambleside, of course. For all that he clings to Connie now, I have no doubt you could bring him to the point in an instant.”

Amy hesitated. It was painful to recall that conversation in the shrubbery, but she could have no secrets from Mary. “No, Mr Ambleside would never do. Papa would not consider it, and he must surely have had good reasons for that. Papa was a man of such high principle and honour himself, he could not countenance anything less in others.”

Mary stared at her. “My dear Amy!”

Amy flushed, and stood a little straighter. “Of course. Surely you cannot doubt it?”

“Look how he kept you all in subjection, jumping to his commands like little soldiers. Admit it, Amy, you were terrified of him.”

“Only of disappointing him, and of failing to meet his high standards.”

“His high standards? You know nothing!”

“It is what anyone will tell you,” Amy said with dignity.

“Not I!” Mary cried. “I saw only a man who was domineering and cruel, and—” She paced across the width of the path and back again in agitation. But when she spoke again, her voice was subdued. “Men are beasts, Amy.”

Amy gasped. “What a dreadful thing to say!”

“Beasts,” Mary said firmly. “Your father was a beast, James is a beast, Mark and Hugo will grow up to be beasts in their turn. All men are beasts, as you will discover once you are married. But Ambleside is, perhaps, less of a beast than some. He is certainly more principled than most, and he understands you well. You would deal extremely together.”

“You know nothing about it!” Amy cried. “There are circumstances… Papa decided that he was not suitable. Three times he rejected Mr Ambleside, so it was very much his considered opinion and no mere whim. I am happy to do as Papa wished,” Amy said with dignity, then added waspishly, “And Papa was
not
a beast, no matter what you say, Mary. You should be ashamed of yourself, to make false assertions about such an honourable man.”

“He was an evil man!” Mary said with some heat. “I could tell you much about your papa if I wished, but I shall not do it.” Another set of quick steps back and forth. Then she turned towards Amy, her face set. “But perhaps it is better that you should know all. However painful it is to recall, I do believe you should know what your father has done. And James, too.”

Amy did not know what to do. Sympathy for her cousin’s distraught state warred in her breast with indignation at Mary’s harsh words. Why would she say such things? Such disloyalty to the family was inconceivable to Amy. She was sure, however, that she wanted to listen to none of it. She said stiffly, “I beg you will not say anything which distresses you so, cousin. There is no need for me to hear it, I am sure.”

“But there is! There is! I would have you know all! Truly, you are too meek, Amy. You must learn to think for yourself, and therefore I must lay the whole before you.”

“Say no more, I beseech you!” Amy cried. “Enough of this, Mary. I cannot listen to you if you persist in these false assertions.”

“False? Would that they were!” Tears poured down Mary’s face. “It is no use,” she whispered. “I cannot speak of it. You should ask your Mama. Pray excuse me, dear cousin.”

With that she ran off across the lawn to reach the house by the most direct route.

Amy was almost in tears herself. That Mary, who had been almost a sister to her, should say such wicked things was almost beyond her comprehension. Her own brother! And dear Papa, who had offered Mary nothing but kindness! Papa, who had allowed her to join his daughters’ lessons. Papa, who had invited her to stay every summer for weeks on end, and treated her as another daughter. It was— 

“Miss Allamont? Is all well with you?”

Amy jumped. “Oh! Mr Ambleside! I did not hear… I beg your pardon! So foolish… we stopped to admire the flowers… and Mary… We… we quarrelled and…” She turned away to hide the tear that rolled down one cheek.

“Mary has gone back into the house, I collect?” he said calmly. “The wind is a little chilly, it is true. The others have taken advantage of the pavilion beside the lake. Shall you join us? Or may I escort you back to the house?”