Author: Beverley Oakley
Category: Nonfiction
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He might be in the process of arranging his own matrimonial future course, but Lizzy could see he was not motivated by burning love.
She’d read far too many romantic novels to know what a young man who was truly in love actually looked like when he spoke of the girl he was to marry.
If Theodore hadn’t felt so keenly the snub of his reception by several gentlemen he knew, in the wake of the arctic reception of their wives, he might have enjoyed the prospect of a few days at Quamby House.
His own house was decidedly chilly these days. And lonely.
But he suspected he’d not feel lonelier than he would amidst a throng of people who wouldn’t speak to him.
Now, with an hour before he had to change for dinner, he stood alone by the river and stared gloomily up at the magnificent seat of the Earl of Quamby.
He’d been a fool to have thought his reception would be any different.
Indeed, he ought to have got used to it by now. Now he should just make the most of the change of scene and pace and do some exploring.
Strolling upriver, he discovered a folly in the form of a quaint miniature chateau perched in the lee of a slope which protected it from view, though Quamby House was only a five-minute walk and the windows of the great residence looked directly down upon the snow-covered slope to the river.
No one observing the guests in the garden would be able to see the folly tucked behind a small rise, which he’d come upon quite by surprise.
He peered through one of the front windows and then, finding the door unlocked, let himself in.
Made of rough-hewn stone, the folly was nevertheless quite cosy within, having a tiny front parlour and, behind that, a chamber large enough only for a bed and washstand. The furnishings, however, were of the most sumptuous materials, and he imagined this must be a trysting bower for the earl and his countess.
Not with each other, however, he’d heard.
Different rules for different people, he reflected as he retraced his footsteps towards the main house a few minutes later, only to see Amelia’s uncle’s carriage with the distinctive family coat of arms painted on the gleaming blue paintwork in the distance. A footman was in the process of opening the door, and several of Quamby’s retainers stood beneath the portico stairs to greet the new guests.
Abruptly, Theodore halted his progress across the snow-covered lawns and took refuge behind the rose bushes; through prudence rather than cowardliness, he told himself.
Amelia had told him in a letter he’d received several weeks prior that her arrival was scheduled for the following day, and in company with her hated new companion, Miss Lemmings, whom her uncle had recently employed to replace Amelia’s loyal and devoted governess, Miss Cooper, who’d died a few months before.
Not long after Jane had died, in fact. What a winter of sorrow it had been. For all of them. And now Amelia’s woes looked set to continue.
Having ascertained that the carriage contained only the two women, Theo judged it safe to continue his return to the house, arriving at the portico just as Amelia was organising the despatch of various items. He was gratified by her obvious pleasure to see him.
“Theo, what on earth are you doing here?” she asked, after directing a servant to be careful with a hatbox. Clearly, she had just returned from a shopping visit to the village so must have been ensconced at Quamby House for some time. But when she next spoke, the familiar shuttered look had extinguished the light in her eyes. With a furtive glance at her companion currently gathering together their latest purchases, she whispered, “You know it’s dangerous for us to be seen together, Theo. I wish I could talk to you but I can’t.” She sent another glance over her shoulder clearly relieved that her companion appeared not to notice them and that the footman blocked Theo from view amidst the flurry of their arrival.
“I can’t believe you are here, Theo. You’ll have to tell me all about it—though not in public.” She picked up her skirts to climb the stairs to the house, pausing to say over her shoulder, “You haven’t changed your mind?”
“I have not.” He smiled at her. She looked so small and unremarkable; such an insipid reflection of her beautiful, fiery older sister with her brown hair in its unfashionable knot and her plain gown in a sober blue print with no adornment. And yet he knew Amelia had an inner strength Catherine had lacked.
“Don’t worry; I shan’t ask you to dance tonight, Amelia.” This time it was Theo who scanned the surroundings to ensure their few seconds of conversation were not causing undue interest. No other houseguests were in the vicinity, and Amelia’s companion, a dark-haired woman of middle age dressed in brown serge whose expression did not hint at warmth, was too busy ensuring their parcels were being handled with care to pay heed to the pair of them. It was fortunate she’d not met Theo, though no doubt she’d been told to beware.
“That’s good.” Her tone was cynical. “I love you, Theo, but you’re not always known for your discretion.” She paused to scan the lawn. “Is there somewhere we can meet, tomorrow?”
He nodded. “There’s a folly by the river. You can’t see it from here, but it’s not hard to find. What say ten in the morning when everyone will still be abed? And if not then, I will return on the hour until you’re able to get there. Does that suit?”
“It suits,” she said, with a curt nod, making it clear she had no wish to be seen further with him as she nodded at the butler who’d opened the door to admit them.
Chapter 8
“Goodness gracious, Antoinette!” Fanny called her sister over to the drawing room window to look down at the latest carriage this morning to disgorge its occupants by the portico, this time on their return from a shopping trip to the town, it would appear.
“Why, it’s wicked, fortune-hunting Mr McAlister,” Antoinette said, identifying the gentleman in conversation with the small personage with brown ringlets who was directing a footman to carry a hatbox. “I told you he was handsome, didn’t I?” Antoinette added with a sly look.
Fanny contemplated the gentleman’s well-chiselled features.
Yes, he would be very successful as a fortune hunter, she decided. If she didn’t know better, and have proof of the danger Mr McAlister posed, any young lady could be forgiven for thinking his lips eminently kissable rather than sullen, while Fanny saw his lazy-eyed look as an indication of a wolf sizing up delectable prey. Yes, he was very handsome, but he was dangerous, too.
“I never disagreed with you. But do you see who he’s greeting? Do you see who the young lady is who just got out of the carriage?”
“It’s Quamby’s friend’s niece and Fenton’s little brown peahen.” Antoinette barely suppressed a smile. “You would think with all that money she could look a little more remarkable, wouldn’t you?” She sighed. “But then, the poor child hasn’t had the benefit of a mother with style, has she? We must make allowances. Isn’t that what you always say, Fanny, when you tell me I’m too quick to criticise those who don’t cut quite the dash they ought? Make allowances.”
“Of course we must make allowances. But do you see the way he’s smiling at her? Mr McAlister is going to stir up trouble; I know it.”
Antoinette didn’t look as concerned as Fanny thought she ought. “I rather think he will. Yes, Fenton’s description is apt. The fox and the little brown hen. Strange that she’s smiling at him when he ruined her sister. Killed her, more to the point.”
“I never accused him of that,” Fanny returned. “The girl died of fever. But—”
“Indeed she did, Fanny!” Antoinette said as if she’d scored a great point. “And no doubt you’re now going to accuse Mr McAlister of knowing Miss Amelia Harcourt was in residence here so therefore used Lizzy to orchestrate his invitation to Quamby House? No doubt, by deliberately spooking her horses so her carriage plunged into the river enabling him to save her life and earn her regard so she’ll hand over her fortune to him!”
Fanny was slow to answer. “Of course, I wouldn’t go that far.”
She paused. “However, it does seem rather too much of a coincidence that Miss Harcourt is here and…so is Mr McAlister, despite our best endeavours to ensure he did not receive the invitation his grandfather received every Christmas.” Thoughtfully, she tapped her fingernail against the window pane. “No, I can’t accuse him of anything more than simply seizing an opportunity. But…we must be careful,” she added as she intensified her study of the pair below who were oblivious to those at the drawing room window.
“The poor girl could do with a touch of my Olympian Dew for that sallow complexion, don’t you think?” remarked Antoinette coming up beside her. “Though her eyes are very fine. Oh dear, she has a much too trusting expression. No young lady with more than five thousand should look so trusting—and she has twenty for the taking since her sister died. And Mr McAlister knows it!”
On closer observation, Fanny could see the girl had a quiet confidence about her and a pleasantness to her plainness. And, of course, a cold and dreary day did no one any favours, Fanny knew. But Miss Amelia’s gown was so lacking in style, and her bonnet had only the barest adornment. It was as if the girl were rejecting the fashions of the day and trying to be as unremarked-upon as possible; Antoinette taking the words right out of Fanny’s mouth when she said, “If he asks her to dance this evening, then I daresay we know he is more interested in her money than her style; I’ll grant you that, Fanny.”
“You’re observing McAlister, I see,” said Fenton, arriving at that moment and putting his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Our fox in the henhouse.”
“I just thought he was the gentleman who rescued Mrs Hodge’s plain and difficult charge and then gallantly travelled half a day to deposit her safely here,” Antoinette said.
“Except that Miss Scott is not plain in the slightest, is she?” Fenton observed.
“She is not. Mrs Hodge is a horrible liar,” said Antoinette. “It’d serve her right if young Lizzy was snapped up by the wrong fortune hunter when she’s so determined Mr Dalgleish will have her.”
“She told me Jeremy felt he was suitable,” Fenton said mildly, “which is why I extended an invitation to Mr Dalgleish.”
“Well, Jeremy Hodge’s judgement was questionable when he married Mrs Hodge,” said Fanny. “A dead husband is a wonderful excuse.” She shook her head. “I don’t believe it for a moment. I think Dalgleish and Mrs Hodge have cooked up something havey-cavey—”
“And you think Theodore McAlister is planning to elope with Miss Amelia Harcourt before the Christmas Ball. Really, Fanny!” said Antoinette with some feeling. “You always blame me for letting my imagination get the better of me. They’re just two young men who are going to charm the ladies and, as has been said before, may the best man win.”
“Only, you’re going to decide who the best man is, and do some meddling, aren’t you, Antoinette?” Fanny accused her.
Antoinette pushed a golden curl over her shoulder and shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. “But only in the interests of true love. You know I am not one to be motivated by avarice, and if I detect that’s what’s at the heart of any of this, I shall root it out!”
Fanny and Fenton both glanced at their palatial surroundings, just as Lord Quamby put his head round the door. Upon seeing his wife, he smiled. “Ah, Antoinette, I’m told your sapphire necklace has been mended so you shall wear it with your gown for tonight’s ball, after all.”
“Darling Quamby!” Antoinette clapped her hands. “You are so good to me!”
“No, you’ve never been motivated by avarice, Antoinette,” Fanny murmured with mock earnestness, smiling as the ageing earl made his noisy progress across the large expanse of Aubusson carpet to join them, his sticks clattering and his breathing laboured. Antoinette’s greeting of her husband was genuinely warm. At least Quamby had known exactly the contract he was signing when he had married Antoinette—his nephew’s child in his future wife’s belly, and a spoiled and lively life partner.
Yet their union seemed to work for them both, and despite their separate love interests, there was a genuine mutual affection.
Fanny darted another quick look down at the scene below and observed Miss Amelia heading up the stairs to the house while Mr McAlister had turned in the opposite direction and was now heading towards the rose garden.
Despite Antoinette’s cavalier attitude towards the two handsome fortune hunters now in their midst, Fanny feared that trouble was, indeed, brewing.
Chapter 9
Lizzy had hoped to cut a rather romantic, tragic figure, standing by the water’s edge and staring soulfully out towards the island. A few minutes before, she’d spied Mr McAlister in the far distance, greeting some new arrivals to Quamby House. Her heart rate had quickened a little when she had seen him turn and begin to stroll down the hill in her general direction.
Turning her back to look out across the water but making sure she was right in his line of vision, she pretended she hadn’t noticed him.
“And who is this beautiful maiden I’ve verily stumbled upon?”
Thrilled that Mr McAlister had obviously sought her out, Lizzy turned with a smile that faltered as she said, “Why, Mr Dalgleish, it’s…you?”
For a moment she couldn’t think of a word to add which was strange, for she’d composed reams of possible conversation fillers as she’d prepared for the much-anticipated Yuletide house party at Quamby House. Despite her words to Mrs Hodge a little earlier, she really had been taken by Mr Dalgleish’s boyish good looks and the particular attention he’d paid to her when they’d first met.
Right now, in the afternoon sunshine, his eyes were fine and dark, and his fashionably coiffed hair and thin side-burns belonged to a man who liked to adhere to the latest styles.
Lizzy liked good style, too.
But, looking at Mr Dalgleish more closely, she decided she liked Mr McAlister’s sense of style better.
“And who else would offer you such a pretty greeting?” Mr Dalgleish inquired with a quirk of his eyebrow.
It took a moment for Lizzie to respond to this, but she made a quick recovery. “Only someone very gallant for the cold has turned my nose quite pink.”
“A most charming shade of pink, however. A good thing the weather is not colder for then it might have matched your shawl.”
Lizzy twisted her blue shawl around her wrist. “That would not be attractive, I agree,” she said before a sudden wave of self-consciousness made her turn the topic to the first one she could think of. “When did you arrive, Mr Dalgleish?”
“About five minutes before I started to look for you.”
Lizzy became so unexpectedly tongue-tied at this that he laughed. “You know very well that we are here to better our acquaintance, and I must tell you that I find you vastly entertaining when you are released from the clutches of your…warden.”
Lizzy giggled. “I hadn’t thought to use that word before, but it is…apt. Although of course I was never Mrs Hodge’s ward, but her late husband’s.”
“But he entrusted your care to her. And so you must dance to her tune.”
“Until a husband makes me dance to his.”
“Which means you must make very sure you choose the right husband.”
Lizzy tilted up her chin and sent him a look that combined defiance with flirtation. She wasn’t sure if she were excited or terrified, but her insides were churning with something that made her feel a great deal more alive than she ever did under Mrs Hodge’s roof. “If I am in a marrying frame of mind, after all,” she said lightly, thinking that maybe Mr Dalgleish really had the potential to rise in her esteem.
He regarded her with a small smile. “I think a few more days under the same roof as Mrs Hodge will direct you back to a marrying frame of mind.”
Theodore was halfway down the slope when he raised his head and immediately spied Lizzy in discussion near the willow tree by the lake with a gentleman whose back was facing him.
He stopped, trying to place the fellow who now bowed, removing
his hat briefly before taking leave of his companion and walking in a desultory fashion towards the house, as if he were very much pleased with himself.
“Why, Mr McAlister, what a pleasure to see you!” Lizzy greeted him with a smile, as if she’d been brought out of a brown study, and Theodore was startled at his response to the genuine delight in her tone and voice.
But instead of the answering pleasure he felt at being in her company once more, he said rather severely, “That is the gentleman with whom you propose to ally yourself? Harry Dalgleish?”
Lizzy laughed. “He is rather dashing, don’t you think? Why, Mr McAlister, you’re frowning. Surely you’re not jealous?”
“Jealous? Of his supposedly dashing looks which I consider quite foppish, or of the fact that you just complimented him? Whom you choose to marry is of no account to me.” He hesitated, and she looked enquiringly at him.
“But…?” she prompted.
Despite himself, Theodore exhaled in frustration. “The fellow is a bounder. I wouldn’t say it other than that I believe our acquaintanceship—brief though it has been—compels me to warn you—”
“Warn me?” She cut him off with a laugh. “Who are you to warn me, Mr McAlister, when I’ve heard much worse things about you?”
“Indeed.” Of course, he should have known it wouldn’t be long before the inevitable character assassination. It had been rash to have accepted Lady Quamby’s offer of accommodation for all that it had offered a lifeline to both himself and Amelia.
Lizzy obviously rethought her approach for she wound a curl about her forefinger as she added with an assessing look, “I overheard Mrs Hodge telling Lady Quamby that under no account must word get around that you—of all people—had rescued me as you were a scoundrel and a philanderer, and she dare not risk Mr Dalgleish getting wind of the fact I might be compromised and therefore cry off.”