Amy (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 1) (8 page)

“Well, if Sir Osborne does not come up to scratch, I daresay Mr Wills may come back any day,” Grace said dubiously. The young ladies all knew how compelling the delights of London were to a young man.

“I think Amy had much better marry Cousin James,” Hope said. But all the others exclaimed at that.

Small but steady improvements in the weather enabled Amy to escape from the house sometimes. The garden was her especial domain, and her project to extend the shrubbery was well in hand. She was engaged in instructing the gardeners in their digging one day, when Mr Ambleside rode in through the gates and began up the drive. Seeing Amy, he dismounted and, leaving one of the under gardeners to hold his horse, came loping across the lawn towards her.

“Miss Allamont! How delightful to see you thus engaged in pursuit of your horticultural schemes. This is indeed an ambitious project. Will you explain your plans to me?”

“Oh — of course, if you are interested.”

“I am most interested. I hope to persuade you to bring your talents to bear on my own grounds before too long. But I must know what you have in mind here first. This new patch of ground — this is to be a new bed for flowers?”

“No, no. This is to be the path. Once dug and smoothed, and the edging put in place, it will be laid to gravel. From here it will sweep away from the house, and meander in a wandering sort of way down the hill to the lake, before turning back at the grotto to begin the return, passing the ice house and then meeting up with the old shrubbery. I shall have rhododendrons all the way down, the taller at the back and the shorter in front, and then underplanted with… well, I have not yet decided that! And beside the lake…”

She chattered on, hardly realising that they were, as she spoke, following the planned route down the hill, until they were quite out of sight of the gardeners on the upper lawn. It was only then, seeing that they were quite alone, that her voice faltered, and she flushed unhappily.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I am allowing myself to be carried away in my enthusiasm for my plans. I forget that I am detaining you. I daresay you will wish to go into the house.”

“Not at all,” he said gallantly. “I have been exceedingly well entertained by your vivid descriptions. I could see it all in my mind’s eye, taking shape even as you spoke. I have no doubt you will succeed in your enterprise, and the result will be everything you can imagine. It will all be quite delightful, I am quite certain.”

She turned away from him in confusion at the warmth of his praise. “Such nonsense you talk, sir!” she said, before she could stop herself. Instantly she wished the words unsaid. But before she could apologise, she heard him laugh, and looked up at him in astonishment.

“Ah, Miss Allamont, I forget that you dislike compliments. I beg your pardon for distressing you, and doubly so, since I see that we are quite alone, and therefore I must risk your displeasure even further by telling you that I have heard the most disturbing rumour. It is said — and I can scarce find the words, for it is beyond belief — that you are secretly betrothed to Sir Osborne Hardy. Tell me, I beg you, is this true?”

Whatever Amy had expected him to say, these words threw her into the greatest confusion. How could she possibly answer it? She scarcely knew the truth of the matter herself.

“Sir… I hardly know what to say.”

“Yes or no would be an adequate response. But you look conscious. Ah…” His voice dropped abruptly. “Then I have my answer, I think.”

It was a strange thing, but no matter how much uncertainty there was in her own mind, and how little she wanted to discuss the matter with anyone, yet a part of her did not wish to leave him with the wrong idea. She felt very strongly that he must not leave with the belief that she had betrothed herself to Sir Osborne.

“I am not betrothed,” she burst out. “I think Lady Hardy might imagine there to be… an understanding, but it is not so.”

“So you have not yet accepted him?”

“No, indeed.”

“Good, for you must not. He is not at all right for you, you must see that. It would be intolerable for you. No, I could not stand by and see you married to that man.”

Amy was astonished. Mr Ambleside to speak with such force, nay, such anger, yet he had no right! “Sir, you should not speak so to me. Who I marry is no concern of yours. You are not my father.”

“No, certainly not!” He seemed affronted by the very idea. “But anyone can see what an unhappy match that would be. My dear Miss Allamont, I wish you will reject his suit.”

“So I might do, if ever he makes the offer,” she said tartly.

“Oh.” His face brightened. “Then he has not spoken?”

“No. His mother came, and talked in riddles, and went away again, and I do not quite understand what she meant by it. But Sir Osborne — he has never made me an offer. No one has ever made me an offer,” she ended sadly.

“Now that is quite untrue.” His voice was the gentlest imaginable.

“Forgive me for contradicting you, Mr Ambleside, but you cannot possibly know that.”

“Certainly I can, for I have offered for you three times myself.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Did you not know?”

8: A Confession

Amy was too shocked to say a word.

“You did
not
know!” Mr Ambleside exclaimed. “I suspected as much. Your father—”

He fell silent. Then he held out his arm to her. “Miss Allamont, will you walk with me? I should like to explain a matter which is of significance.”

She suspected that she should not stay with him, that he should not be talking to her in this intimate way, quite alone. Yet she would hear it all, everything he wished to disclose. So she took his arm and they walked slowly down to the lake.

“You are not cold?” he asked. “I would not have you take a chill on my account.”

“No, sir, I am quite warm.”

“Then I must tell you how it all came about. I have wanted to marry you — I have been in love with you — for ever, I think. Certainly since you first came out. You always looked so lost, so anxious not to make a mistake! Poor Amy! So uncomfortable in company, yet so charming and gentle! I could not wait many months before I went to ask your father for permission to pay my addresses. I had no expectation of a refusal, for I am not penniless, as you must know. But he would not hear of it. You were too young. Well, perhaps he was right about that.”

There was a small grotto at one end of the lake with a seat inside it. Amy was glad to sit down, for she was quaking with the suddenness of the declaration.

“So I waited. For two years I bided my time, waiting to see if your affections were engaged elsewhere. When I could wait no longer, I went again to your father. But no. You were still too young. I began to suspect he did not wish you to marry at all. Another two years passed, and when you reached the age of one and twenty, I went again to your father, for although he could no longer prevent me from speaking to you, I still wished for his good opinion.”

He paused. She dared not look at his face, but in his voice she detected a tremor.

“Miss Allamont — Amy — I must tell you now something of which I am quite ashamed. I felt obliged to tell your father of it also, for it is a matter which, while secret now, may not always be so, and I could not in good conscience address you without revealing all. I must have you know the worst of me!”

She sat motionless, dreading to hear his words, agitated beyond measure, yet she could not interrupt him.

“When I was seventeen, I became — entangled — with a young woman, a chambermaid at Staynlaw House. We were both very young, that must be the only excuse, for certainly I had been given strong principles by my father. I knew that it was wrong, but I was weak and foolish. My conscience sent me to my father, where I confessed all. He would have sent the girl away, but I would not have it. How should she suffer the ignominy, the misery, when the blame was mine? She was hastily married to one of the grooms, and settled in one of the stable cottages. Her daughter —
my
daughter — was born some months later. Naturally I have taken an interest in her welfare and development, although I could not do so openly. I wished her to have an education, but I could not distinguish her by sending her away to school, since that would attract the very notice I hoped to avoid. Her mother has other children now, and is respectable and, I believe, content with her situation. It was no wish of mine to attract undue notice to Margaret. I set up a school in the village, therefore, that all the children could attend, including my daughter. Margaret did well there, and the schoolmaster I engaged recommended her for further schooling in Brinchester, which I was happy to pay for. She is seventeen now, as lovely a young woman as you could hope to meet.”

He paused, lost in some reflection, then he sighed.

“Ah, Miss Allamont, I hope one day that… but I will not speak of that. All this I told your father, for I thought it wrong in me to pay my addresses to his daughter without disclosing my character fully. He was angry. More than that, he flew into a rage. He told me that he should see to it that I would never marry you, for if ever I were to be so fortunate, he would reveal everything about my past and bring disgrace upon me. Upon
you
, if you were my wife. I would not have believed it of him, but so it is. Can you blame me for withdrawing at once? I could not stay — I could not trust myself to be near you and not speak. So I took my anger to Northumberland, and fumed there amongst the crags and wild places. And the weather! So much rain and wind and snow, it suited my mood admirably.”

He paused, and his voice softened. “And then, one day, a gleam of hope. Miss Endercott sent me word of your father’s sudden death. And here I am. I will say nothing more. It is too soon, for you are still in mourning. I merely wished you to understand that as soon as propriety permits, I will pay my addresses to you in the proper form. I intend to wait the full year of your mourning, for less would be disrespectful to your father, I believe, and could bring censure upon both of us. You will have time, therefore, to consider what I have told you and decide whether it is an obstacle to you. But Amy — you say nothing. Are you shocked? You are, I can see by the colour in your cheeks. Am I now sunk so low in your esteem—? But I must say no more. Amy, will you not look me in the eye, and tell me that you will consider all I have said?”

“I will, sir.” But still she could not lift her head.

“Amy…” He tilted her chin so that her face was towards him.

She dared to raise her eyes. He was smiling! Oh, that smile, such warmth, such affection, and she had suspected nothing.

“I thought it was Connie,” she said, before she could stop herself.

“I… am not sure I understand you.”

“I thought — we all thought — you were in love with Connie.”

“Connie? Good God, no! Whatever gave you that idea? I have never so much as noticed her. I am tolerably certain I could not pick her out of a group, not dressed alike as you always are. I am astonished… I do not believe I have ever distinguished her in any particular way.”

“The visit to Monkswood — you arranged everything, and it was all her idea.”

“Was it? I thought it would please
you
.”

“You sent flowers when she was painting. Then there was the ball where you danced only with Connie.”

“Did I? Oh, at Graham House? I remember that. It was her first proper ball, and she was obliged to sit down by the lack of gentlemen. I felt sorry for the child, that was the truth of it, for I do not dance at all, as a rule. I assure you, I have never looked twice at any of your sisters. As for the flowers, I never sent them particularly to
you
but that was my intent. You were all of you learning to paint, and I invited you to bring your easels to Staynlaw House to attempt a likeness of the garden. The others may have painted, I do not recall, but you walked around the garden telling me the names of all the flowers and how best to grow them. How enchanting you were that day, Amy! I hoped my flowers would be a reminder of a happy day for you, and a token of
my
remembrance.”

He sighed, but when she dared to look up at his face, she saw that he was smiling. “But you are shivering. It is abominably rude of me to keep you sitting at this time of year. I should never forgive myself if you were to take a chill. Please, let me take you back to the house at once.”

Amy scarce knew how she kept her composure on the long walk. Mr Ambleside held her arm firmly, or else she might have collapsed entirely. They must have gone the long way round, past the ice house, for eventually they came to the old shrubbery and then the garden door.

“Will you be all right?” he murmured, holding one small hand in his much larger one. There were spots of mud on hers, and she hoped none had soiled his pale kidskin gloves.

Impossible to form even a single word! She nodded helplessly.

“Then I shall bid you good day, Miss Allamont.” He bowed and strode off across the lawn to retrieve his horse.

Amy crept in through the garden door and into the hall. She could hear several voices in the morning room, and then a burst of feminine laughter. Her nerves were too over-set for company, so she ran up the back stairs and into her bedroom, where she hurled herself onto the bed and wept, although she could not say why. She could make nothing of it, but his words spun in her head until she was dizzy.

Belle found her there some time later. “Sister, whatever is the matter? You missed the lesson with Miss Bellows. Are you ill? What has happened?”

Amy was too choked with misery to speak, but Belle put her arms around her and held her until the tears had dried a little.

“Now, dearest, tell me all about it.”

Perhaps she should not have done, for Mr Ambleside had surely spoken in confidence, but she could keep no secrets from Belle, closest and dearest of her sisters. So, gradually, she told her the whole of it.

Belle, her most partial friend, was not in the least surprised by the revelation that Mr Ambleside was in love with her — had been in love with her for years. “I never saw the preference for Connie that Dulcie was so confident of, and did I not say so? I told her often that he was just as attentive to the rest of us, and perhaps more so to you. But she would have none of it.”

Of the secret daughter, she sighed. “It is not uncommon. But Ambleside has acted well, do you not agree? He owned to his mistake, and saw to it that neither the girl nor the child would suffer for it. I daresay the child would have gone to a foundling home else, or to a poor relation, and have had no life at all. Whereas now she must have modest but respectable prospects. I admire him for that — it shows a great deal of honour.”

“Oh — do you think so?” Amy said, brightening.

“I do. But I must own that Papa does not appear in the best light from this sad story.”

Amy plucked the blanket between her fingers. “I wondered,” she said hesitantly, “whether perhaps Mr Ambleside might not have misunderstood Papa a little bit, for I cannot believe he would say such terrible things.”

“Well, there we differ,” Belle said briskly. “Papa was not always the easiest of men to deal with, sister. Once he got an idea in his head… Well, no matter. The question now is what might we tell the others? Connie, in particular.”

“Must we tell them anything?”

“Yes, I believe we must. Connie cannot go on imagining Ambleside in love with her. She must now relinquish all claim to him, for he is yours… if you want him, of course.
Do
you want him, Amy?”

“I am not sure.” Her voice was a mere whisper. “I do not know what to think.”

“Well, in that case, let us say nothing for the moment. He is not pressing you for an answer, after all. Connie has not mentioned him so much lately, so perhaps she is losing interest. But if she should begin to speak of him again in stronger terms, we must put her on her guard, in the kindest manner possible.”

~~~~~

After leaving Amy, Ambleside collected his horse and rode straight home, forgetting entirely that he had intended to pay a morning call on Lady Sara. His thoughts were an agonised jumble. He had not had the least notion of talking so intimately to Amy, but finding himself alone with her, and the conversation taking the precise turn it did, his resolve had crumbled. He cursed his impulsiveness, which had got him into such difficulties in the past, and was still his abiding sin. He always intended to be restrained and conform to every tenet of propriety, but he was so weak where Amy was concerned. It was why he had taken himself away from her company altogether for two years.

Now he must hope that she would be able to overlook his youthful error of judgement, grave though it was. He had lived with the consequences of it for half his life, and he would be cast into despair if it now shadowed the rest of it, by depriving him of the wife of his heart. How many times had he wished he had followed his father’s advice and sent Martha away? Her family would have taken care of her and the child, and he could have sent money sometimes.

But no, it would not have done. The fault was his, and it was only proper that he pay a price for it. If only he had been born to a title! Were he an earl, or even a lowly baronet, a natural daughter would not attract adverse comment. But Mr Ambleside of Staynlaw House must behave better or receive the opprobrium of good society. His life since the unfortunate event had been conducted with the utmost propriety, beyond even the common level of the society in which he moved, but still he lived in fear of exposure. So far, his secret had not become common knowledge, but he was certain there was talk. It could not be otherwise.

He must wait now until Amy was out in society again, for he could not speak while she was in mourning. He had waited for years, so a few more months were not significant, and at least he had declared his intentions. He must hope that other likely suitors were just as punctilious. There were those, he knew, who felt that six months of mourning was sufficient for a parent, and after that the bereaved might resume normal life without a care. He was not one who held that opinion. A full year was required before he could speak formally to Amy. He would need to ensure that no other suitors came near her before then.

But he would have to be careful of the younger sister — what was her name? Connie. Constance. He could not recall speaking to her. He supposed he must have done, for he had punctiliously avoided paying Amy too much attention. He had sat beside Belle once, for her features were too distinctive to be mistaken — how painful to be the plain one in a family of beauties! — but usually she was deep in a book and he did not like to disturb her. The other sisters were quite interchangeable to him, just a gaggle of young ladies in identical gowns, with identical faces and hair and smiles, and he had tended to choose one quite at random. Was it possible he had inadvertently been particularly attentive to Constance?  It was perhaps so, and his intended compliments to Amy had been badly misinterpreted. He must take the greatest care in future. It would not do to raise expectations which he could not meet.