Belle (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 2) (18 page)

“If you would be so kind, Young.”

The butler led the way down the echoing entrance hall, his footsteps almost silent on the polished floorboards. It was an art to walk so quietly, despite sturdy shoes, and Burford could only admire it. He felt like the veriest labourer, clumping along at the rear.

Young threw open the book room door. “Mr Burford, Miss Belle,” he said, in ringing tones.

She smiled as she rose to greet him. That was a good sign! He could not help smiling in return. “I beg your pardon for intruding, Miss Allamont. I will not disturb you for long.”

“Your visits are never an intrusion, Mr Burford. We did not expect to see you today! Please, will you sit?”

“You are most kind, but I shall not detain you long and I am too damp to sit anywhere.”

She laughed. “Nonsense! Are you just come from the coach? You are too good, to come straight here. Young, bring forward one of the wooden chairs, that Mr Burford may sit without fear, and bring some fruit and cake — whatever Mrs Cooper has ready. And some Madeira. There! Now pray sit, Mr Burford, and tell me of your visit to your brother.”

So he sat, and talked to her as comfortably as if nothing had ever happened between them, while sipping Madeira and nibbling cake, and she never for one moment gave any sign of unease or made him feel he was unwelcome.

She was such pleasant company that it took him a while to get to the point. “I mentioned your difficult legal situation to my brother, Miss Allamont, and he and his partners were so good as to give me their professional opinion on the matter.”

“I am very much obliged to you, sir, and to your brother.”

“In the matter of the will, they felt there would be a good chance of overturning it, for some of the terms are rather disadvantageous. The requirement for you and your sisters to marry in order, for instance, which would adversely affect the younger Miss Allamonts should one of the older sisters be unwilling or unable to marry. However, having waited a full year before bringing a claim would materially weaken the case.”

“Cousin Henry looked into the matter at the time, but his advice was otherwise,” she said, puzzled.

“Indeed.” He said no more, unwilling to suggest the idea that Cousin Henry might have a strong motive for not wishing to contest the will. Belle would work that out in time. “Unfortunately, in the matter of Mr Jack Barnett, they are not sanguine. If the legitimate sons were to contest the claim, there would be no doubt of the outcome, but without that, there is no knowing how such a case might go. It would depend not only on the exact wording of the will, but also on whether your late father could be said to have publicly acknowledged this son. The courts are unwilling to take property away from legitimate heirs, but if there are none…”

“Yes, that is as we thought,” she said.

“However, given the provision that five years be allowed for your brothers to be found, they feel that no court would award the estate before that time has elapsed.”

“Then we have this hanging over our heads like the sword of Damocles for five years?” she said, appalled.

“My brother’s advice is to pay this person off. He is clearly avaricious, and he would never be able to manage an estate such as this. He may well be trying his luck, hoping for a payment.”

“I thought of that,” she said. “I offered him three thousand pounds, but he turned it down.”

“Turned it down? He cannot mean to pursue this claim in earnest, surely?”

“Oh no, he is quite willing to give it up. He will do so at once, if I pay him twenty thousand pounds.”

“Twenty thousand! Good God, the man is mad! Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Allamont.”

She waved away his apology with a smile. “My own language was just as colourful, I assure you, as soon as I regained the power of speech. And I believe he is not mad at all, just very greedy. Unfortunately, I do not see what else is to be done. It is the only way to be rid of him.”

“But twenty thousand, Miss Allamont! Such a sum would materially impoverish the estate.”

“I cannot take it from the estate, because I have no access to the capital, and not enough cash in hand. The only solution is for me to give him my dowry.”

“Surely not! What if all six of you were to contribute equally? This burden should not fall on your shoulders alone.”

“That was my first thought, also. Unfortunately, Amy’s share is already withdrawn and neatly tied up in trusts and so forth, and my younger sisters’ portions cannot be released until I am married. Mine is the only dowry available to me.”

Burford had no time for more than an exclamation of dismay when the door flew open, and Hope raced in, her face alight with pleasure.

“Mr Burford! You are home again.” Her glance fell on the crumb-laden plates and the half-empty glasses of Madeira. “Oh. Belle is looking after you, I see.” Her eyes moved from one to the other, as her expression slowly changed from delight to bewilderment.

“I had some business to discuss with Miss Belle,” he said, but he felt the telltale colour rising in his cheeks. “A legal matter.”

“I do not know what you need to discuss with Belle so
privately
. I should have liked to know about it too.”

“You will hear it all later, sister,” Belle said crisply. “Thank you for this information, Mr Burford. It is most helpful.”

“M-M-Miss Belle,” he said, bowing over her hand, inwardly cursing his embarrassing stammer. “I shall see you both tomorrow, at church. Good day, Miss Belle, Miss Hope.”

The last thing he saw as he left the room was Hope’s distraught face, her eyes filled with tears.

19: A Change In Circumstances

He sped home, his anger speeding his feet along the path through the woods, heedless of bog and briar. He was not sure why he was so angry. Not at Hope, certainly, and he could hardly be cross with Belle, who had been amiability itself. Mostly he was angry with himself, although he could not quite say why. What had he done wrong? He had had business to discuss with Belle, and it could hardly be conducted in front of the servants. Must he never see Belle alone again? Yet she had seen no impropriety in it, and that must be his guide. Even so, he still felt abominably guilty, and Hope’s tearful face haunted him.

It was almost dark by the time he reached the cottage, but Samuel was home, for there were lights shining and smoke rose from all the chimneys. He hoped there would be hot water enough for a bath before he changed for dinner at the parsonage. His wet clothes clung to him, and he was beginning to be aware that even his boots were waterlogged.

He lifted the latch and went inside. The house was blessedly warm. The sound of whisting emanated from the back parlour, but it stopped and Samuel’s head appeared at the far end of the passage.

“There you are, sir. The brandy is on the table, and the bath will be ready in a few minutes.”

“You are a treasure, Samuel, have I ever told you that?”

“Every time you return from a journey, sir. Master Luke well, is he?”

Burford found his way to the back parlour and flopped onto a chair. “Very well, both in health and situation. Depressingly contented with his lot.”

“Married life suiting him, then. Not like Master Matthew. Brandy, sir?”

“No, I think not. I was plied with Madeira at the Hall, and a rather excellent seed cake.”

“That so, sir,” Samuel said, with a sideways glance. “All well at the Hall?”

Burford answered in the affirmative, but Hope’s unhappy face rose up in his mind even as he said the words.

After bathing and changing, he still had a half hour before the appointed time for dinner at the parsonage. “I shall read for a while, Samuel. You may go down to the inn now, if you wish.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ve left your letters on the writing desk. Two from York, and an official-looking one from London. Several sheets, too, but it was franked. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Samuel. Enjoy your evening.”

He picked up the letters without enthusiasm. One was his father’s regular weekly missive, the other was from Matthew’s wife, who had taken it upon herself to keep all the family updated with the daily minutiae in the lives of her several offspring. Both of them too dull for words. He set them aside, unopened. The third letter was indeed rather official looking, large and containing several sheets of paper. He was very glad he had not had to pay for it.

He broke the seal, and as he began to read, a strangled cry of horror escaped from his lips. He slid slowly down the wall to the floor, and there he stayed, too shocked to move or to notice the church clock chiming away the evening.

The click of the latch alerted him to his situation, but it was not Samuel returning from the inn. Miss Endercott’s head appeared round the door, her face worried.

“John? Are you all right? When you missed dinner, I—” She saw him slumped on the floor, and her expression turned to alarm. “Good God, John, are you taken ill? Shall I send for Torrington?” She noticed the letter still in his hand. “Oh — you have had bad news? Your father? One of your brothers?”

“No… no… My uncle.”

“I am so sorry. But… were you really so close? So much grief seems… excessive for an uncle.”

Burford found himself unequal to the task of explaining, so he waved the letter at her. “Read it.”

“It is not private? Very well. Oh, I see, I see, yes, but—” Her mouth gaped in astonishment. “God in heaven! So much!”

“You see?” he said. “What am I to do?”

She laughed. “Why, whatever you want, with this much money at your disposal. And still more, I see.” She turned to the next sheet, and then the third. “What does it all add up to? Ah, here it is — five thousand! Lord save us, you will have five thousand a year. I must assume from your consternation that you had no notion the old gentleman was worth so much, or that he meant to leave it to you?”

“Not the least idea in the world. His books — that was all I hoped for. He lived so modestly, I never imagined he had more than a few hundred pounds to his name.”

“It is a little more than that — a fine inheritance for you, indeed. My dear John! I congratulate you! But — this is good news, surely? Why so distressed?”

“Because now I shall be obliged to offer for Hope.”

“Ah. Hope.” She sat down on the chair by the writing desk, her skirts rustling. “I do see that you might feel yourself under an obligation there, yes. But it would have to be a very long engagement. She cannot marry until her sisters are settled.”

“Why wait? She does not need a dowry now, for I have more than enough to support a wife.”

“Is there not some restriction? The older sisters lose their dowries if the younger marry out of turn?”

“Oh — yes!” He brightened. “I had forgotten that. So I do not need to rush round and make her an offer?”

“Not at all, and I should strongly advise against it. This is an overwhelming change in your circumstances, and you need time to adjust and get used to living like a true leisured gentleman again.”

“I rather like being a clergyman,” he said ruefully. “I know most men of my station enter the church as a career, but for me it was always something more than that.”

She smiled. “I know it, and you would have made an excellent parish parson. But there is no question of that now. John, you have not eaten. Shall I send over some soup for you, and cold meat?”

“No, I shall have some bread and cheese, and a glass of something more sustaining than water.”

“I am glad to hear you talking sensibly at last. Now promise me you will do nothing in a hurry. You must think carefully about your future, and consider which direction you wish your life to take, for you have more than one option, I believe. You must choose with the greatest care. The utmost care. Do nothing precipitate at this point.”

He made some reassuring response, but it did not take much thought to decide how he would like to choose, if only it were possible.

~~~~~

Belle woke on Sunday, exhausted after lying awake half the night, her head aching. Hope had said not a word to her last night, nor had she cried, after the first outburst, but her white face and sad eyes were reproach enough. Yet Belle could not see that she had done anything improper. Only the most punctilious would object to a woman of four and twenty discussing business with a man in her own house. Her conscience whispered that Mr Burford was not a portly middle-aged man like Mr Plumphett, but a personable unmarried man of her own age, and that Hope had burst in to find them sharing a bottle of Madeira and a plate of cake, in as cosy a manner as could be imagined. But still, nothing in the least improper had occurred.

Breakfast could not be a silent meal, not with six young women only a few days away from their first ball for a year, and a wedding not long after that, but only Amy, Connie and Dulcie kept up the conversation. Belle and Hope ate and said nothing, and Grace, always Hope’s most ardent supporter, kept a sympathetic silence.

After breakfast, Belle took a book of sermons up to her favourite reading spot above the front door. It was no surprise when Grace followed her there.

“Hope is very unhappy,” Grace said, standing before Belle with her feet together and hands clasped, just as they had always stood before Papa.

“I am sorry for it, but she is making something of nothing,” Belle said. “As I explained to you after dinner last night, Mr Burford wished only to convey his brother’s advice to me as soon as possible.”

“But to be drinking Madeira with him in that intimate way—”

“Grace, it is not for you to criticise my conduct. You should look to your own behaviour. You bumped into William’s elbow last night so that the soup was spilt, and look, there is a tear in your gown again.”

“What does that signify? Do not try to divert attention from your own behaviour. I do not criticise, but your own conscience should tell you your errors. Hope has been waiting two years for Mr Burford—”

“And she will probably have to wait two more, and perhaps another two after that. She must perforce accustom herself to waiting, for neither of them has a penny piece.”

“But
you
do. You have your dowry now, or at least you will, as soon as Amy is married.
You
could marry him at once.”

“What on earth makes you think there is any likelihood of that?”

“I see how you look at him, and how he looks at you. For shame, Belle! It is wicked what you have done, and so I tell you.”

“I have done nothing!” she said with some heat, for it was perfectly true, so long as wishes and dreams and feelings were nothing.

“Then promise me you will never marry Mr Burford! Promise!”

“Sister, if Mr Burford wishes to marry Hope, I cannot prevent him, and if he does not, I cannot make him. Say no more, I beg of you. My head aches so much.”

And that was quite true, too. Casting her book angrily aside, she rose and went to her room, where at least she could refuse entry to all but Amy, who would never blame her, no matter what she did.

At church she had the pleasure of hearing Mr Burford preach, and a fine sermon it was, although worrying, for the text from Ephesians was about kindness and forgiveness. Did he feel any necessity to be forgiven? Or perhaps he was looking to some future action. Then she chided herself for her foolishness, for surely a clergyman might preach of forgiveness without his congregation wondering what sins he had committed.

As Belle left the church, behind Amy on Mr Ambleside’s arm, and in front of the others in pairs, she was aware of an unusual amount of whispering going on amongst the villagers gathered on the wide path to the lych gate. She caught Mr Burford’s name, and shocked faces, several people glancing across at the sisters and then quickly turning away. Fear lurched through her. What had been said of her or of Mr Burford? Surely it was not possible for the kiss they had shared to be known?

Yet the truth was even harder to grasp. In the twenty four hours since she had last seen him, Mr Burford had become a man of means, wealthy beyond her ability to comprehend. From a curate’s stipend and a little money from his mother, he now commanded an income of five thousand pounds a year.

Belle saw Hope’s face at the news, her eyes wide with astonishment. Belle could guess her thoughts, imagining the carriages and jewels and fine clothes she would have when she was Mrs Burford. But then Hope caught sight of Belle watching her, and instantly lowered her eyes. Poor Hope! Belle’s heart ached for her, but only Mr Burford could restore her joy.

For herself, she could not say what she felt. Happiness, but also sorrow, for surely now Mr Burford would quit the church and the neighbourhood, and set himself up somewhere more suitable. Yet when she shook his hand outside the church and congratulated him on his good fortune, she hoped she displayed only pleasure on her face.

“Now you may begin to build your library in earnest, Mr Burford,” she said.

His face lit up at once. “Indeed I shall. That shall be my earliest expense, I believe — the purchase of a few books that I should very much like to read but which have not yet come my way. And whenever I have a house of my own, I shall have a proper library, with high shelves and ladders and galleries.”

“And reading tables, such that the book may be propped up.”

“And the best quality lamps,” he said, laughing. “Your ideas exactly match my own, Miss Belle, but so few houses these days have a true library, the result of avid reading and collection over generations. Too many are just collections of books, of no discernible merit, purchased merely to fill the shelves. Only a few of the great houses have a library worthy of the name.”

“You must visit Willowbye,” she said. “The library there is not as large as some, but it has certainly been created in just the way you describe.”

She became aware that he still held her hand. Gently withdrawing it, she said her goodbyes and made her way to the carriage, where she had to listen to Amy’s raptures on Mr Burford’s good fortune and the happy consequences for Hope all the way home.

That evening was the strangest Belle could recall. For once, Mr Burford was the only person of interest, yet how diffidently he shied away from the attention. A man like Ambleside was a presence in a room, standing confidently where he could be seen by all, never reluctant to voice an opinion. Mr Burford liked to hide in the corners, avoiding notice. Only in the pulpit did he exude authority.

Yet he answered all their questions readily. “My uncle lived in two or three rooms in a lodging house,” he said. “All my uncles lived similar quiet lives. I had not the least idea that they owned the lodging house, and dozens more like it, all over London. Respectable places, housing retired academics and clerics and the like. But it seems that they had agreed this scheme years ago. Each of them would leave their share of the properties to the others, and whoever was the last would bequeath everything to me.”