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

Amy blushed again. “Of course!”

“And who else? Oh, but I believe I can guess. Our local heroes, Sir Osborne Hardy and Mr Wills, no doubt. I had nothing to fear from
them
.”

“Our cousins were on the list, too, since they would inherit if they married one of us,” Amy said. “It would have been very comfortable to stay here at the Hall, and James was quite persistent, but I must confess that I do not quite like him. There is something…
unsettling
about him.”

“He is not a very steady young man,” Ambleside said. “And with no title and not a great deal of money, he would not have been much of a catch for you, my dear. You are far better off with me.”

That brought another blush and a little giggle, as she twisted the skirts of her gown between her fingers.

“As to titles, the Marquess of Carrbridge was also on the list,” Belle said. “He would have been an excellent match for Amy, if he had only had the good sense to put in an appearance when he was required.”

“Now there you have me. If the Marquess had ever deigned to visit his great-aunt, I should have been quite in the shade, I am sure.”

“Oh no!” Amy said, casting adoring eyes in his direction. “Indeed, I should never have aimed so high. A Marquess! The very idea! But Belle is quite clever enough to run a great household, so she may look as high as she chooses, especially since— Oh, may I speak of it, Mr Ambleside? Your discussions with Mr Plumphett, I mean.”

“I do not see why your sisters should not know, my dear. I have been talking to Mr Plumphett about settlements and so forth, Miss Belle, and it appears that the portion your papa set aside for you all has grown. You will now each have in excess of twenty thousand pounds.”

“Twenty thousand? That is quite astonishing,” Belle said. “How is it possible for funds to grow so much in less than a year? Two or three percent, perhaps, four at most, but not this much.”

“There may have been some fortunate investments,” Ambleside said.

“May have been? Does Mr Plumphett not know?”

“He does not have the management of the funds. There is a trustee, a solicitor, who looks after it, and Mr Plumphett has to apply to him for information. He was told the total amount in the account, but not the reason for the rapid increase. I wonder that your father never told you about all this.”

“He never talked about money, and none of us dared to question him,” Belle said. “Such matters are not for ladies, he always said.”

“And there is a great deal of truth to that,” Ambleside said. “Business matters are troublesome and complicated. They are much better left to a man to take care of.”

“Oh, yes,” Amy said. “I am so glad I do not have think about such horrid things as money and… and everything else.”

“Money is only horrid when one does not have enough of it,” Belle said. “Which we have, it appears.”

“And I am glad of it for your sake, sister,” Amy said. “With such a substantial fortune, you will have any number of suitors vying for your hand, and you will not be forced to consider the dreadful prospect of marrying Cousin James.”

Belle laughed. “I do not want suitors to vie for my hand, sister, dear. I cannot think of anything less appealing. To be dragged through one public ball after another at Brinchester, with all the dowagers whispering behind their fans.
‘Did you hear, she has twenty thousand pounds? Terribly plain, but think of the money!’
  They would be lining up the unpromising younger sons for me, or the gouty uncles who drink themselves into a stupor after dinner, or the penniless clergymen or army officers. Or perhaps if I am very fortunate, I might be able to secure an impoverished Honourable. No, Amy, I am not so desperate as all that.”

“Oh.” Amy’s eyes were round. “But Belle, you
must
marry. We all have to marry in the proper order, Papa said so in his will, and if you do not, then none of the others will have their dowries.”

“I have every intention of marrying,” Belle said. “As soon as you and Mr Ambleside are safely wed, I plan to accept Cousin James.”

“Oh, Belle, no!” Amy said, shocked.

2: A Sermon

Mr Burford bent over the writing desk, his pen flying. He was quite into his rhythm now, with a dip into the inkwell, a line written, another dip, another line, dip, line, dip, line… he could continue all day, the words flowing effortlessly from his mind to the paper. When the subject was one near to his heart, he was inspired, and never had the least trouble thinking what he might say.

A shadow crossed the desk. A quick glance through the window made his spirits droop a little. Mr Endercott was arriving. Somehow, he always divined when Mr Burford was composing his sermon and contrived to call round at just that moment. Naturally, the clergyman of the parish had the right and duty to direct the work of his curate, but on occasion Mr Burford wished his superior might be a little less assiduous in the pursuit of that duty.

A rattle of the knocker was followed almost at once by the click of the latch and the creak of the front door opening. Mr Burford’s cottage was of modest proportions, and boasted no servant except his man, who was out, and the haberdasher’s sister-in-law who came in each morning to clean, so there was no one to answer the door. Furthermore, the cottage was his only by virtue of his employment, being church property and sitting directly opposite the parsonage and the church itself. Even so, Mr Burford found it a trifle presumptuous of Mr Endercott to barge in as if the place were quite his own.

“Hello, Burford? Are you at home?”

“Indeed I am, sir. I am in the book room. Come in, do.”

And in he came, beaming benevolently, as was his wont. Mr Endercott was a well-rounded man of five and forty, with the genial manner of one who is at ease with his place in the world. He had never married, to the eternal disappointment of the ladies of the parish, but seemed content with his older sister, also unmarried, to keep house for him and had no desire to increase his establishment or, indeed, to make the slightest change to the regularity of his life. For six days of every week, he could be found striding through woods and fields examining the many aspects of nature to be found there and increasing his collection of butterflies, birds’ eggs and leaves, as the season provided. On the seventh day, he ministered to the spiritual needs of the parish, marking the seasons by the great festivals of his profession — Christmas, Lent, Easter, Whitsuntide, Michaelmas and on through the months and years, without variation.

Mr Burford had arrived at Lower Brinford with all the enthusiasm natural in a man entering his first parish as curate. At three and twenty, he could congratulate himself for the achievement of an excellent situation — a pleasant and undemanding parish, with his own cottage with plenty of room for his books, and the unexpected delight of Miss Hope Allamont, whose beauty and amiable nature had quite won his heart. He had no prospect of winning her hand, for he could not expect to support a wife for many years yet, but she had thrilled him to his soul by smiling favourably upon him. And yet now, almost two years later, he looked at Mr Endercott and saw himself in twenty years, unmarried and unadventurous, declining into the dullest life imaginable. It was a depressing prospect.

But he smiled, as always, and brought a chair forward for Mr Endercott.

“There, sir. May I pour you a glass of something. I have a little ratafia on hand.”

“Thank you, no. Ah, I see you are hard at work, Burford. Is this your sermon?”

“It is, yes.”

“You have written a great deal. What is your text?”

“The first book of John, chapter three verse eleven.”

He grunted, eyebrows lowering. “Love again, Burford?”

“One can always find something new and enlightening in the concept of Christian love, Mr Endercott.”

“Oh, certainly. Love is a splendid ideal, but perhaps our preaching needs to remind our parishioners to beware of the perils of earthly love, also. Something about sin, perhaps, Burford? We would not wish anyone to fall into sin, and our little flock does need regular prompting on the subject, I feel.”

“Ah. Sin. Perhaps the first book of Peter, chapter four verse eight?”

“The multitude of sins - yes, that would do very well. Splendid. Carry on, Burford, carry on. I shall see you at dinner tonight and we may discuss the finer points of the verse, if you wish. I shall see myself out.”

Mr Burford watched him cross the road to the parsonage. Then, with a sigh, he tore up his sermon and began again.

~~~~~

Belle had written immediately to Mr Plumphett regarding Mr Jack Barnett, and had stayed at home the following day in the expectation of an early reply. However, the portly shape of Mr Plumphett himself arrived at the earliest possible hour.

“My dear Miss Allamont! Such a dreadful business! I can scarce believe it myself. Such presumption in this young man! Such effrontery! I confess, in all my years I have never seen—”

“Quite so, Mr Plumphett. How kind you are to come so quickly. I am much obliged to you. Will you come in to the book room?”

He hesitated, twisting his hands. “Ah. Well, now. Are any of your sisters at home, Miss Allamont?”

“They have just this moment left to walk to the village with Miss Bellows.”

“Ah. And Lady Sara is still from home, I understand? I am not quite sure…”

“Mr Plumphett, I do not think there can be anything improper in a gentleman of your profession and age and unimpeachable respectability talking privately, even to an unmarried woman, about a family matter. I am no longer a schoolroom miss, and have not been for some years. However, if you will step into the book room, we will leave the door open and Young may observe that the proprieties are maintained.”

“Very well, Miss Allamont, very well.”

“May I offer you some refreshment? It is a long ride from Brinchester.”

“Thank you, thank you. Too kind. I confess that a glass of Madeira would be most acceptable.”

When he had settled into his seat, glass in hand, with a sigh of contentment, Belle said, “Now then, Mr Plumphett, I trust you will not prevaricate with me. What do you know of this Jack Barnett?”

“I will tell you all I know, although it is not much, I fear. The young person communicated with me some months ago, shortly after your father’s death, Miss Allamont. He wished to discuss your father’s will, and some provisions therein. Naturally, knowing nothing of him, I refused. He wrote again, in stronger terms. I again refused. I then had a letter from another person previously unknown to me, a Mrs Maud Barnett, asking me to call at the foundling home for children in Brinchester to discuss the will. You are aware of this establishment, Miss Allamont?”

“Yes. It was a favourite charitable project of Papa’s. He visited every week, without fail, and left a considerable bequest to the home in his will. I do not quite see—”

“No, indeed,” he said quickly. “How should you? Harrumph.” A sip of Madeira. “So, to continue, I did not like to be ordered about in that way, and particularly by a person quite unknown to me, and not, I surmised from the style of the letter, having had the benefit of the best education. However, the foundling home does indeed have an interest in the will, so I deemed it appropriate to present myself at the appointed hour. Imagine my surprise to discover the house to be in one of the better districts of Brinchester.” Another, longer, draught of Madeira.

“You had not visited before?”

“By no means. All communication had been by letter, and although I knew the direction, the street name meant nothing to me, since I had never been in that part of Brinchester before. It is, however, a most respectable looking property in a quiet quarter of the town. I was admitted by the butler, and—”

“A butler! In a foundling home!” Belle could hardly credit what she was hearing. “Mr Plumphett, I am not familiar with any foundling homes, but the very concept of a charitable institution would bely the employment of a butler.”

“Quite so, Miss Allamont. Quite so.” He drank the last drops of Madeira and set the glass down on a side table with a regretful sigh. “My astonishment on the occasion was at least the equal of your own, I do assure you. Everything about the place differed markedly from my expectation. If I had known nothing else about it, and judged solely on appearances, I would have deemed it a very proper place for Mrs Plumphett to pay a call or to dine. I was received by Mrs Barnett, who is herself perhaps not of the first quality, but everything about her, and the house also, was fitted up in some style.”

“But who is she? And what has happened to the foundling children?”

Mr Plumphett paused to mop his brow, although it was not a warm day, and the fire had not yet been lit. “Miss Allamont, you have asked me not to prevaricate, and therefore I will tell you the whole of it, although I fear it will shock you greatly. I do not like to speak ill of your late papa, but I fear… I greatly fear that…”

And here poor Mr Plumphett ground to a halt, quite unable to go further.

Belle found it difficult to speak herself, but the words needed to be said and the matter brought into the open. “Am I to take it that this Mrs Barnett, if indeed she is a married woman, is a person of… of loose morals? And this Jack Barnett is her son? And the home for foundling children…” She took a deep breath. “The home for foundling children was a fabrication, to conceal Papa’s visits to his… to his… What would you call her, Mr Plumphett? I do not know the proper word.”

“It is best that you do not, Miss Allamont.”

Harlot. That was the word that sprang unbidden to Belle’s mind. She was not quite sure if that was the correct term, but it occurred numerous times in the Bible. Even the thought of it made her blush.

Quickly, she said, “Does Mama know any of this?”

“I do not know. I have written to her several times, hoping to speak with her on the matter, but have not yet been honoured with a reply. I even went to London in the hope of calling on her there, but I was not lucky enough to find her at home. I fervently wish that she may as yet be entirely unaware, for it is an appalling discovery to make about one’s own husband, a gentleman who moved in circles of the utmost respectability. Lady Sara must be mortified when she learns the truth.”

“So it is true then — Mr Jack Barnett is indeed Papa’s son?”

“Ah, now, he
may
be your father’s son, indeed it is quite likely, but he will need to provide evidence of that. The mere fact that your father, as it appears, supported him and his mother for a number of years does not prove anything. Documentation, Miss Allamont, papers — that is what the law requires.”

“And if he is able to do so? Can he then inherit the house?”

There was a long silence. “By the terms of your father’s will, it is the eldest surviving son who inherits.”

“But a son born outside marriage…! Surely he cannot simply take everything, in that way?”

Mr Plumphett’s kerchief was again deployed. “It is awkward. If the estate were entailed on a male heir, then no, he could not. If the will had explicitly mentioned Mr Ernest and Mr Frank, again, no. But
‘the eldest surviving son’
— that is not unambiguous, and the law may perhaps be generous in its interpretation.”

“You drew up the will, Mr Plumphett. Oh, but of course you had no knowledge of this natural son.”

“Exactly so. Had I known, of course I should have determined the late Mr Allamont’s precise intentions. I should have made absolutely certain the wording contained no room for interpretation. But as it is…”

“As it is, he may indeed be able to claim the entire estate. And then he may throw us all out on the street, and a pretty set of fools we shall look.”

~~~~~

Sunday was Mr Burford’s favourite day of the week. Even as boy, he had enjoyed the soothing ritual of the liturgy, the psalms, the hymns. He rather prided himself on his tenor voice, sending it soaring up to the arched roof of the church, above the more muted tones of the parishioners. Sometimes, he closed his eyes and let the song flow like blood through his veins, lifting his spirits to the roof, too. There was something quite magical about being in church, at one with the Almighty.

Now he had an additional reason for enjoying Sundays, for that was the one day when he could be sure of seeing Miss Hope Allamont, her sweet face demurely downturned as she recited the prayers. And later — oh joy! — dinner at Allamont Hall, with the unspeakable delight of a whole evening spent in her company.

His sermon, although a little drearier than his original attempt, went down well, and only Mr Garmin, the farmer, fell asleep. During Mr Endercott’s sermons, several of the men were liable to sleep, fortified by a good repast at the inn between services. Their wives were kept busy nudging them whenever they threatened to snore too loudly. Having only one slumberer was quite a triumph.

The carriage arrived promptly that evening to convey them to Allamont Hall.

“As if we are incapable of walking,” Miss Endercott grumbled in her deep voice, as she always did. “It is little more than a mile through the woods, a pleasant stroll.”

“We must be grateful for the attention,” Mr Endercott said, as he always did.

Mr Burford sighed, as
he
always did. If only one of them would say something different, something original and striking. Still, he could not mind much. He had already spent a considerable part of the afternoon gazing at his love, and now he had an entire evening in her company to look forward to. He climbed into the carriage with alacrity.