Belle (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 2) Read Free

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