Amberley Chronicles Boxset I: The Impostor Debutante My Last Marchioness the Sister Quest (Amberley Chronicles Boxsets Book 1) (42 page)

Chapter 12

Upon returning to the inn Jonathan found a written note from Mrs. Selbington, the vicar’s wife, confirming the dinner invitation for six o’clock. It was already past five, so he had no time to lose. For the first time he missed his valet.

While he washed, put on a fresh shirt, and deftly knotted his neck cloth, his thoughts kept straying back to the red-headed Mrs. Jones. That woman was dangerous. When he’d discovered her picking berries in the deserted grounds of Lobbock Manor, he’d felt an impulse to offer her diamonds and rubies to let him kiss those sweet lips. Fortunately he had not acted upon it, as he now thought that it would have been taken as a deadly insult.

Or would it? She confused him. Did the husband really exist? Was she some local strumpet, no better than she should be, as he had initially thought? Her simple dress and self-confident manner contradicted that theory. She neither exhibited the shame of the habitually shunned, nor did she invite male admiration by her attire. In fact, Mrs. Jones seemed not to care how she dressed at all, with that old-fashioned bonnet over her hair, and a washed-out, ill-fitting dress. Possibly she was so secure in her power over men that she did not need to care. A red-haired Jezebel whose freely given kiss he would never forget, especially that second one… Mrs. Jones was the kind of woman who could enslave a man and make him overthrow all his long-cherished plans.

To actually lie with her would be to risk lifelong regret, when he was next to his still unchosen, well-born wife. Just as well that Mrs. Jones was married, so that nothing more could come of their attraction than a brief flirtation, or – just possibly – a tempestuous affair. Since he was here on family business, he would resist even that temptation and put her completely out of his mind.

Jonathan arrived at the Vicarage punctually at six. He had passed and noted it when he first arrived in Bellington, a two-storied modern building opposite the ancient church.

A prim parlour maid in a starched blue dress led him to a drawing room very full of strangers. The tall older gentleman who greeted him had to be the vicar, Dr Selbington. His resemblance to his son Paul was unmistakeable. And his three grown up daughters Mabel, Melissa and Gertrude – Paul’s co-heiresses – all came from the same Viking mold, tall and blond, with blue eyes and ingenuous expressions. Had any of them been lost as an infant, it would have been child’s play to identify them.

The second Mrs. Selbington was a good-looking matron of forty, some twenty years younger than her husband, with auburn hair beginning to grey at the temples. Jonathan bowed over her hand and thanked her for the invitation. She and her step-daughters assured him that on the contrary, he was considered their benefactor for buying their late uncle’s estate. None of the three young women exhibited the slightest hesitation or doubt about the projected sale.

“We have more guests coming,” his hostess told Jonathan, “your future neighbours, Sir Charles and Lady Spalding, and Miss Spalding, as well as their son Matthew with his wife Prudence and sister-in-law, Miss Trellisham.”

“I look forward to making their acquaintance,” Jonathan said, more sedately than he felt. Two of his potential sisters! With any luck he’d be able to identify his twin before the evening was over.

Within minutes the Spalding party was ushered in by Paul Selbington, who immediately presented him to the new arrivals as the purchaser of the Lobbock estate.

Sir Charles Spalding was a thin stick of a man in his early seventies, with a mouth bent downward in a perpetual sneer. His wife was some ten years younger, and Miss Spalding turned out to be an elderly aunt.

The younger Spaldings and Miss Trellisham were hanging back and chatting with the Selbington girls. From the side of his eyes Jonathan noticed blonde hair piled on the head of a regal-looking woman in green, who looked younger than thirty; and a shorter, chubby woman with brown hair and a comfortable air, dressed in a modest light blue gown. Even indoors she stood arm in arm with her husband Matthew, a young man of average looks with a pronounced stutter. The ‘voice of the blood’ remained silent, as he had feared. Of course he had not yet seen the third sister.

“It will be good to have someone living in Lobbock Manor again,” Lady Spalding told him with a friendly smile. “A house will fall to rack and ruin if it stands empty for any length of time, and there are many people in the parish eager for work.”

Before he could reply, Sir Charles, who had been regarding him out of piercing blue eyes with a hostile expression, said, “Are you a London man? Why would you want to settle in this area?”

Jonathan remained unruffled. He had dealt with all kinds of rudeness in his commercial career. “I am originally from Lancashire and grew up in a Vicarage, much like this one. But London is indeed my current home. Do you not like the diversions offered by the capital, Sir Charles?”

“Hmpfhh.” The man’s only answer was a snort.

“Where in London do you reside?” Mrs. Selbington asked quickly.

“I have recently purchased a house in Mayfair and will be moving there shortly.”

“A new house in town and a new country estate?” Paul Selbington said. “You will have your hands full.”

“Your wife will also have much extra work,” Lady Spalding said. “What does she think of all these changes?”

“To my regret, I do not as yet have a wife, Ma’am.”

Gertrude and Melissa Selbington simultaneously turned their heads in his direction, and regarded him with redoubled interest.

“Then you surely must be in urgent need of one,” Lady Spalding said. “It was a great pity that Sir Jasper never remarried, after he lost his young wife so tragically all those years ago. The Hall has not felt the hand of a housewife in decades, and badly needs it, I venture to guess.”

Jonathan bowed. “I shall do my best to follow your advice, Milady.”

“Balderdash,” Sir Charles interjected with a derisive look. “Marriage is a fool’s game.”

To Jonathan’s surprise, all the others completely ignored this rude remark, and went on talking as though the man had not just publicly insulted his own wife, and all the married persons present in the drawing room.

“Matrimony has its good points,” Paul Selbington said thoughtfully. “It all depends on the right choice, of course.”

“Indeed, it can make or break a person. We have all seen many examples of good and bad matches,” the Vicar agreed. “Sometimes when I perform a wedding ceremony, I can already tell which it is going to be.”

“What do you do when you see it will be a bad marriage?” Jonathan asked curiously.

The Vicar made a regretful gesture with his hand. “Nothing I can do at that point, except pray to the Lord that I may be mistaken.”

“And have you been mistaken sometimes?”

“Once or twice, though it is hard to know for sure what goes on inside a marriage. I am glad we don’t practice confession as the Roman Catholics do; if I were told all the things I already suspect, it would be most depressing.”

“I imagine Papist priests do not mind,” Miss Trellisham said, “and after a while, may even find confessions entertaining. One gets used to anything, I believe.”

“That is not always a good thing,” Paul Selbington said to her, “some things, or states, should be resisted and not accepted passively.”

“Nobody can accuse Patch of being passive,” young Mrs. Spalding said with an affectionate look at her taller sister. “If we could not learn to live with disagreeable circumstances, mankind would have died out long since, I do believe.”

Several people glanced at Sir Charles before the conversation moved on, and Paul Selbington looked at Mrs. Spalding with momentary pity.

Jonathan would have bet five to one that Mrs. Spalding was more likely his sister than Miss Trellisham. The latter’s clear-cut features and golden blond hair seemed far too distinctive to come from his rather nondescript parents. That conclusion already helped a great deal. As far as Jonathan was concerned, it was now between Mrs. Spalding and the mysterious recluse in that abandoned old house. “Do you have any advice for me, Mrs. Spalding, how I should ensure that Lobbock Manor remains a comfortable home?”

“I have not been there in some time,” the young matron willingly replied, “the most important thing will be to clean everything and preserve it from deterioration in the usual way – with beeswax, vinegar, lavender and other remedies that any competent housekeeper will know. Airing all the rooms out and cleaning the chimneys carefully should help. I don’t suppose there will be a plague of mice or rats, with no food stores, but it bears looking into.”

“It’s not a ruin,” Paul Selbington protested, flushing a little. “I have not noted any plague of rodents, but there is some dust, I must admit. I wonder who made those tracks that we saw inside, with very large boots.”

“Could it have been the gardener?” Jonathan suggested. “In the afternoon I came upon the man drunk, with a bottle of French cognac. It seems likely that he helped himself to your late uncle’s stores.”

Sir Charles gave a short bark of laughter. “Did you expect anything else?”

“Oh dear!” Mrs. Selbington said. “I hope anything is left.”

“Is the liquor in the cellars included in the sale?” Mrs. Spalding asked with interest.

“We did not discuss it,” Paul Selbington said, with an uncertain look at Jonathan.

“Household stores like wine bottles are not automatically part of an estate sale,” Jonathan explained, “unless so specified, as we did with the furniture, books and pictures. I suggest that you remove whatever is still there to your own cellar, or maybe here to the Vicarage. If there should be more than you want, we can come to a separate arrangement about it.”

“I’ll have a look tomorrow,” Paul Selbington said. “Uncle Jasper was very fond of his drink, and always had plentiful supplies.”

Dinner was called and they all trooped into the dining room. There being more ladies than gentlemen, the table was unbalanced. Jonathan found himself seated between Mrs. Spalding and Mabel, the oldest Miss Selbington. All the others knew each other very well indeed and engaged in spirited conversation, with the exception of Sir Charles, a disagreeable and obnoxious guest at his hostess’s side. Both families had adapted to him, no doubt through long practice, and ignored his constant jibes and rudeness as though they were selectively deaf. When the man insulted his daughter-in-law for the second time, Jonathan felt the impulse to stand up and punch him in the nose; Sir Charles was practically begging for such treatment. Just as Hendrickson had indicated, both Mrs. Spalding and Miss Trellisham urgently needed rescue from the household of this ogre.

Young Spalding did not defend his wife, and looked like a whipped puppy when his father turned his attention to him. Had the man no backbone at all? And this was his possible – nay, probable – brother-in-law. Jonathan fell to brooding about the situation, until Miss Selbington addressed him.

“How soon do you think the sale can go through?”

“A few days, if everyone is agreed, as seems to be the case.” She was a pretty young woman, about twenty-four, he estimated. “As one of the current owners, have you no misgivings about selling the home where your mother grew up?”

“In the normal way of things, it never would have come to me. I hope you will be very happy there, with your future family. My own hopes lie in a different direction.” She blushed a little at saying this, as though warning him off. Had she but known it, her blonde prettiness could not begin to make him forget that red-headed siren of the afternoon.

“Whatever they are, I wish you very happy,” he said. “By the way, Miss Selbington, do you know a red-headed young lady, a little older than yourself, by name of Sophia Jones?”

“No, I do not recall any Sophia in the immediate neighbourhood,” Miss Selbington said. “Do you, Prudence?”

“The only Sophia I can think of is Miss Perrot over in Trepsham, but she has light brown hair, definitely not red. Have you met this woman here?” Mrs. Spalding’s smile suddenly died as she spoke, as though she had thought of something unpleasant.

“Do tell us all about her,” Miss Selbington added mischievously. “She seems to have made a strong impression.”

“Such vivid red hair is not easily forgotten. But Mrs. Jones claimed that she had played with you when you were all children.”

Mrs. Spalding and Miss Selbington exchanged glances across him.

“I remember her now,” Mrs. Spalding said in a casual voice. “I thought she had moved away years ago, and the last name was different when she was unmarried. I shall have to call on her soon.”

“Indeed,” Miss Selbington said. “Please give her my regards, Prudence. Tell me, Mr. Durwent, what are the newest fashions in ladies’ bonnets in London?”

He obligingly described them, puzzled by the abrupt change of subject. Was there something about Sophia Jones that made these respectable ladies unwilling to openly acknowledge or discuss her?

Remembering those luscious lips, it seemed all too likely. It cost him an effort to push the memory aside and focus on the conversation with his future neighbours.

Chapter 13

Patch had come to St. Stephen’s early, before seven. She removed wilting blooms, refilled the vases with fresh water from the fountain outdoors among the graves, and arranged the new bunches. She loved these early mornings during the week, when she was all alone with the Lord. The church was so much more peaceful than Spalding Hall.

She worked quickly, efficiently, with the ease of long practice. Within the hour she had completed all of the day’s tasks, and checked the flower arrangements for a last time with satisfaction. After a short prayer for grace, she went outside to throw away cut-off stalks, and back to the fountain, to wash her hands.

“Good morning,” a familiar voice said from behind her, and she turned to find Paul Selbington watching her from between two withered gravestones. Her heart gave the familiar lurch whenever he was close.

“Hello, Paul. You are up early.” To her relief, her voice was cool and composed. Long practice in hiding her feelings was good for something, after all.

“You looked beautiful at dinner last night, in that green gown,” he said “But far more beautiful now, in the clear light of day.”

She rubbed her hands dry on the faded apron she had donned over her dress for working with the flowers. If he thought she was beautiful like this, he would think her beautiful in anything.

“Paul –,” she had known he admired her, would have to be a fool not to have known. “You know I do not like it if you flatter me. You should not talk to me so.”

“It is not flattery, but truth. Patience, you must be aware that I love you. I have loved you since I was eighteen, for eight long years. I will never love another.” He took a deep breath, never looking away from her eyes. “Will you be my wife?”

Patch could only gape at him for a few seconds. She had not expected to hear him say the words, though she had dreamed of it countless times. Why today, this morning?

“It cannot be -,” she started automatically, but stopped in confusion. Was she telling a lie for the first time in all those years? How valid were her long-rehearsed objections, now that her heart’s desire was held out within reach?

He pounced on her hesitation. “Why not? I do not see any good reason, unless you do not feel any affection for me. Can you tell me that you do not? I know you always speak the truth; it is one of the things I admire about you.”

“I – I,” this stammering was completely unlike her, a sign of how much his sudden declaration unnerved her. “I am very fond of you.”

“But do you love me?” She could not look away from those blue eyes, staring at her so imploringly.

“I refuse to answer that question.”

He smiled and relaxed. “That means
yes
. You would have told me frankly if it were
no
.”

She wanted to tell him that she had never thought about it, but it would have been a lie.

“Paul, my feelings are neither here nor there. I do not think a marriage between us is feasible. I am four years older –“

“All the more reason not to delay any longer. I have hesitated, probably too long, because I was not in a position to offer you security should I fall ill, or be otherwise unable to continue with my tutoring. But with several thousand guineas put aside in case of emergencies, -“

“You are offering now, because of the sale of Lobbock Manor?” If one cared about such things as security and money, she supposed it made sense.

He leaned against the gravestone behind him, of
Theophila Goodley, 1749- 1765
, in a stance that bespoke his readiness for a long argument.

“Within days I should have over five thousand guineas in hand, and will settle the entire amount on you, if you make me the happiest of men. And when I say the happiest, that is not mere hyperbole. I mean it, literally and exactly.”

She shook her head. “Paul, the money makes no difference to me, I don’t care about it. You must have realised that, if you know me at all.”

“Of course I do. The modest size of my house, and my lack of ambition, do not bother you either. But
I
wanted to be certain that you would not be destitute if anything happened to me.”

“The age difference -,” she began again.

“Is completely insignificant. You do not look much older at this moment, than that day eight years ago, when I fell in love with you. I was offered a fellowship in Cambridge, you know,” he added, “but I could not take it, because it meant living far apart from you.”

“There is the uncertainty about my birth,” she said. “You are aware that only one of us is really a Miss Trellisham, the other two were adopted, who knows from where. The Selbingtons are an old and noble family.”

“That hardly counts, love, since there are about twenty other men between me and the head of the senior branch. Let the noble earl worry about marrying the right pedigree. You were brought up as a lady, and are the perfect lady – the only lady - for me.”

She had to smile. “I still would like to find out the truth about my parentage.” She began to untie the apron’s strings.

“When we are married, we can try to discover it, but upon my heart, Patience, it does not matter one whit to me.”

“What if the sale of the estate fell through? After all, we know nothing about this Mr. Durwent. He seemed confident enough yesterday about his ability to pay your price, but I suspect that he came to the area for something quite different. He never said how he had heard about the estate being for sale, and why he wanted to settle so far from the capital. Cherry is suspicious of him, and believes that he may work for some dangerous man who is after her.”

Paul frowned, but after a moment’s thought shrugged in dismissal. “How would Cherry know? Has she even met Durwent, when she’s hiding night and day in that old house? I hope she will decide to leave it soon, the place is really not fit for any lady to stay in. I should never have given you the key, but you knew – you have always known – that there is nothing I could ever deny you.”

Patch did indeed know it, had counted on the fact when Cherry had needed a refuge so urgently. “But in case Cherry were right in her suspicions?”

“Then we’ll find another buyer eventually. If worst comes to worst, we could even live in Lobbock Manor ourselves and raise hogs. Don’t try to change the subject, Patience. What say you, will you marry me?”

“Are you quite sure this will make you happy?” She watched his face intently.

“How often do I have to repeat it? But I will say it every day, as often as you like, it only you’ll agree to marry me. I love you, Patience.”

She passed her right hand through the cold water in the fountain, looking down into the shallow depth as though searching for inspiration, while he waited with baited breath.

“I love you too,” she said at last. “Not for eight years, but at least five. It would make me very happy to be your wife, Paul. But I would still like to find out who my parents were, before we can marry.”

Paul stepped away from the gravestone, closer to her. “Is that a firm condition? There may not be any way to find out, at this late date. You are you, the product of thirty years of living your life, and your name, Patience Trellisham, suits you perfectly. Not as well as Patience Selbington will, of course.” Paul took her hand, cold and damp as it was, and pressed his warm lips on its back. “Patience, I promise to help you find out whatever is still possible, both before and after we are married. But don’t reject me for such a paltry reason as that.”

She did not try to pull her hand from his grasp. Now he was so close, and looking at her so anxiously, all further objections died still-born. Joy blossomed in her heart.

“You are right. We should do our best to find out, but I won’t say no if we do not succeed. Since it matters to you, I suggest we wait until the sale of the estate is complete, and you have your money secure. Then we can announce our engagement, and have a small wedding as soon as you like.”

His hand on hers tightened almost painfully. He stared at her. “You really mean it? You are saying yes?” He sounded stunned. “I was quite prepared to lay siege to you for another eight years, if necessary, knowing how stubborn you can be.”

“We have already waited quite long enough,” she said tartly. “I would like to have children before I’m old enough to be a grandmother.”

“If I had asked years ago-“

“Had you been as eloquent as you were today, I would have said yes.”

They looked at each other in silence, with memories, regrets, and lost years invisibly hanging between them.

“I would very much like to kiss you,” Paul said at last. “But a graveyard is a gloomy place for a first kiss. What would you suggest?”

“Are you going to follow my suggestions when we are married?”

“Only nine times out of ten, so you won’t take me for granted.”

“I can already see that you’ll make the perfect husband.” Patch could not contain her smile. “I was going back home. You can escort me. The bend of the brook, if there is no one about to see, strikes me as an excellent place for a first kiss.”

He held out his arm, and she put her hand on it, still cold from the fountain.

Her head was whirling. What a wonderful beginning to her day! Just yesterday she had been whining to Cherry that nothing ever happened in her life, and here she was, engaged to the man who had haunted her dreams for years. There still were miracles in the world.

What would his kiss on her lips be like? She wanted to find out, quite badly. Her steps insensibly increased their pace, and he easily kept up. A good thing that he was so big and strong and fit. She thought of another place where these qualities might come in handy, and blushed at her own imagination.

But soon she wouldn’t have to imagine any longer. Soon she would
know
.