Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (16 page)

Chapter Twenty Eight

B
y the time Matthew had related the entire course of his trials the rumbling clouds overhead had turned even darker. Rowena persuaded him to convey his mother home before the storm broke. She waved them off then trod up the stairs with a heart that was heavily laden.

The door to her father’s room opened silently on its newly-greased hinges. The interior was buried in gloom. The heavy drapes at the window had been pulled tightly closed. The only light was that which escaped through a small gap in the centre or radiated in weak flickers from the fire burning in the grate. Infrequent snores emanated from the slumped figure occupying the padded, bedside chair. Mrs Cope had propped an elbow on the chair’s arm and her cheek on the back of the raised hand. Every few seconds her head jolted up when it threatened to slide off the hand. Each movement produced a short snore from under the skewed linen cap.

‘Mrs Cope.’ Nothing. Rowena raised her voice slightly. ‘Mrs Cope.’

The drooping head gave a definite judder. The hand descended and the housekeeper pressed her elbows on the arms of the chair to ease herself upright. ‘Oh, Miss Rowena. I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘No matter. How is my father?’

Breath was drawn in between parted teeth. ‘I don’t know as I can rightly say, miss. I haven’t seen any change since I took over from Mother Haswell.’

‘Did she say if Papa had woken at all?

The linen cap shook from side to side. ‘No, miss, that she didn’t.’ Mrs Cope heaved herself out of the chair. She rubbed a hand up and down her left hip. ‘I tried to get the master to take a little beef broth that Mrs Kesgrave had made special-like but it just dribbled down his chin.’ The housekeeper tried to keep the ominous notes out of her voice. ‘But we mustn’t despair. Doctor Norton’s never been one to see the best of things. I should think on what his lordship said. He’s seen more damaged men than the doctor and he was sure the master would pull though.’

‘I hope you’re right, Mrs Cope.’ Rowena thought an army doctor would have the better measure of it. She tip-toed towards the bed. A distinctly unpleasant aroma hung round it. ‘Is Papa quite comfortable do you think?’

‘I think he’s doing well but I’ll have Mother Haswell tend to him when she wakes.’ A pause. ‘I don’t like to call her yet a while; she only went off to sleep after cook had made an extra breakfast for her.’

Rowena supposed Mrs Kesgrave had provided for the grooms and maids as usual. Rowena had certainly not broken her own fast. Food was something she found difficult to face at the moment. ‘I’ll sit with Papa for a while if you would like.’

More hip rubbing. ‘That I would, Miss Rowena. I must have tweaked my bad side a little.’ She stared hard at the chair. ‘I don’t think that’s suited for sitting in over-long. You take care not to damage yourself.’

‘I will, Mrs Cope, thank you.’

The housekeeper walked unevenly out of the room and shut the door with a decided scrape and click of the latch.

The figure on the bed did not move. Rowena studied his face. His cheeks were sunken and the sheen of perspiration slicked his forehead. She picked up a clean linen handkerchief from the pile on the nightstand and dipped it into the bowl of bergamot-scented water. Even the feel of the cool water dabbed on his brow failed to rouse him. Not the least flicker moved his eyelids. Not even when she straightened the covers or smoothed his pillow. There was no indication that Papa was there at all.

Rowena took herself to the chair Mrs Cope had vacated and sat down watching him. Memories of Aunt Tiverton’s comments seeped back into her mind. What would happen if he died? Dreaded thought. what was the name of the man who would inherit it? Barton? Burton? Kenton? Kently that was it, Kently. Rowena had only seen his wife when he had brought her to meet Sir Richard. Rowena had been summoned from the schoolroom, hurried into her best dress and clean pinafore with frills over the shoulders, and taken down to make her duties. She couldn’t remember much about the man but the woman had prattled on about how lovely the rooms were. How bright and light and weren’t the grounds delightful? And the paintings. Most elegant, particularly the one of Rowena’s Mama. And the French woman too, of course. Rowena remembered that Papa had stopped talking to Mr Kently. His brows had drawn together as they did when he was angry. All he had said was that each of his girls would have the portrait of her own Mama when the time came. The woman had smiled at that and said ‘How proper’.

Strange people, Rowena decided. But what if the day came when . . . she could hardly bear to think of it . . . when Papa died? What would happen to her then? Would she be summoned to stay with Grandpapa Maddingly at his magnificent ducal home? Or Aunt Tiverton? Would she turn into another Cousin Thomasina? Or a Miss Wexley? A faded relative, forever hovering in the background. A mouse, never daring to advance an opinion in case it offended, always anxious to please and terrified of putting a toe out of place.

No, she didn’t want that. Thank goodness there was Mama’s money. Papa had never encroached upon Mama’s dowry from her father, the Duke of Maddingly. He had been determined the girls would have some inheritance when he was gone. Dear Papa. No, that would be hers. And she would be twenty-one in a few months. Then she would be able to make her own decisions. Settle upon her own future. She could leave wherever she’d been sent and buy a tiny house of her own. Not in Fincham Wortly. Never there. Watching the Kently woman living in her old home, entering her own society, would be beyond painful. And humiliating. She would be sad, though, to leave Mrs Marchment’s company. The only time that kind lady had mentioned the topic she had declared herself annoyed by the regulations that gave a girl’s rightful home to an unknown man from some distant somewhere. Rowena’s decision weighed heavier on her heart. Moving from the town and company where she had spent her entire life was the only option. She would find somewhere quiet where she could eek out a life on her small income. But what of Amabelle? Would she be eager to try somewhere new?

Amabelle. If Papa died, Rowena thought, she would find it hard to forgive her sister.

No. That was not to be thought of while Papa clung to life. A coal slid in the grate sending a shower of brilliant sparks up the chimney. Rowena jumped. The gloomy room registered in her thoughts at last. She pushed herself out of the low chair. Papa had never liked stuffy rooms – didn’t like. Didn’t like. Papa
did not
like stuffy rooms. Not
had not
. A shiver flickered around her throat. Grasping the heavy material in each hand she dragged the curtains apart. Her fingers curled under the metal loops at the bottom of the casement. It slid upwards. A wash of fresh air rushed into the stifling room. Rowena pulled a deep breath into her lungs. Whatever happened, she was determined she’d be strong enough to survive.

A knock sounded on the door. It opened and Ellie showed Doctor Norton into the room. Mother Haswell sailed in behind him. She was dressed, as usual, in her dark-striped skirt, a chemise that had once been white and a black bodice that might have fitted her when she was a girl over fifty years ago but not now. These days the lacings strained, inadequately, to contain a front that had probably doubled in size since her girlhood.

‘My dear Rowena.’ Doctor Norton advanced towards her. ‘How does your father today?’

‘I fear there is no change.’

‘Well that is at least better than him worsening.’ The doctor crossed to the bed.

Mother Haswell crossed to the window. ‘Bless me, whatever are these doing open?’ She waved a plump hand at the curtains. ‘And a window! Don’t you know the air can be dangerous to ailing persons?’

‘Papa never liked –
doesn’t
like stuffy rooms. And I thought the light might help to . . . to wake him.’

‘Mother Haswell,’ Doctor Norton said. ‘If you’d be good enough to turn down the covers.’ He glanced at Rowena. ‘Perhaps you would like to leave us? Take a little air in the garden?’

‘No, I thank you. I’ll stay.’ She walked to the window and stared out at the lawn sweeping down to the lake. Beyond that, the trees . . . were they turning already? It was only the end of August. It must be many more weeks before . . .

An outbreak of tutting and deep breaths drawn in between teeth interrupted her reverie. She turned to see Mother Haswell straightening the covers over her father’s body.

‘I fear we will have to take action.’ Doctor Norton shook his head. ‘It means the knife, I’m afraid.’

‘What?’ Rowena clapped her hands to her cheeks.

‘I’m sorry. The leg . . . unless it’s removed I fear for his life.’

‘Oh, no.’ She hurried towards her father. ‘Oh, Papa.’ A hand to her head, she swayed.

The elderly doctor placed an arm around her waist. ‘Now never fear.’ He patted her arm with his free hand. ‘Why, our wonderful Lord Nelson lost his arm after Tenerife ten years ago. It never bothered him. He’d have gone on for years like that.’

‘So he would if he hadn’t been shot by those heathen French,’ Mother Haswell growled.

‘But a leg. Papa could never hunt again and he loves hunting.’

‘Your pa,’ Mother Haswell said. ‘Is a resourceful man. He’ll find a way, you mark my words.’ She advanced towards Rowena. ‘Now you take yourself off into the sunshine and the Doctor and I’ll bleed your pa so he’s comfortable again.’

Rowena did as they asked. Sitting on her favourite seat on the terrace overlooking the knot garden, she gripped her hands tightly in her lap. Papa as an invalid. Confined to chairs. Or a gig. No longer able to ride his horses as he loved. He would hate that. He would hate staggering round with a crutch. She had seen an old soldier once, begging beside the inn in Fincham Wortly until the Beadle had moved him on. He’d had only one leg. As he had staggered away, Rowena had fumbled in her reticule for a sixpence and sent Ellie after him with it. And now Papa would be the same. Well, she would never leave him now; never marry, regardless of whether Amabelle’s stupidity left any choice in the matter. Sitting in the sunshine she folded her dreams away for ever. One tear slid down her cheek. There would be no-one for her now. Certainly not the Earl of Conniston.

Chapter Twenty Nine

A
mpney Park was in turmoil. Not only had his lordship arrived unexpectedly he was, to judge by his face and the way the capes of his driving coat flicked about him as he marched across his entrance hall, in no good mood either.

He stood in the centre of the hall, calling for his agent. ‘Catesby? Adam? Where the devil are you?’

A door on the right opened and a man of about forty-five with an open ruddy face and hair the colour of wet straw emerged, smiling.

‘I was just preparing the accounts for quarter-day rents, my lord. A few more minutes and you’d have found me riding the farms to check what the harvest might be.’ He peered at the face he knew well. ‘Is there something amiss?’

Conscious of the panting footman who had only just managed to dash to the main door before his master could fling it open himself, Conniston gestured to the agent to return to the room he used as an office. He followed him in with quick strides. The door was shoved shut behind him. ‘What funds have we at present?’

‘As many as your lordship usually has put by.’

‘I’d better have a full purse then.’

Catesby walked to a large green and silver safe that stood in the corner of the room farthest from the window. ‘Of course, sir.’ He squatted down and twirled all three combination dials on the front. ‘May I enquire as to the nature of the problem?’

‘Problem?’ A crack of a laugh. ‘My god, it’s a problem. The Harcourt-Spence girl I offered for has run off rather than take me.’

Catesby stopped twisting the dials. He turned so quickly he almost overbalanced. ‘She’s done
what
?’

‘Run off to God knows where.’ Conniston dragged off his coat and flung it across the nearest of the pair of high-backed wing chairs by the fireplace. The coat slid off the red leather onto the rug unnoticed. ‘Why would she do that, do you think, Adam? Surely I’m not such a monster?’ He paced to the agent’s desk, flicked over a few of the pages in the ledger then snapped it shut. ‘At least her sister doesn’t seem to think so.’

‘Her sister, sir? Miss Harcourt-Spence?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am not acquainted much with Miss Harcourt-Spence but on the few occasions I saw her in London she seemed a woman of remarkable sense and refinement.’

Conniston said nothing but his face showed him lost in thought.

In the silence that developed, the agent resumed turning the dials until he could yank the handle and pull the safe door open. He lifted out a small metal strongbox before chancing another look at his lordship’s face.

The dark brows were drawn together but there was a hint of petulance about the mouth. Adam Catesby had known Laurence Conniston since he had been born and considered him to have grown from a charming boy into a gentleman worthy of respect. Something which was, sadly, not always the case with young men who had inherited vast estates and fortune at an early age. He loaded a substantial number of gold and silver coins into a money pouch. The coins clinked as he pulled the drawstring tight. He twisted a loop in the cords and placed it on the desk beside the ledgers. The task completed, he stood quietly and waited, reluctant to disturb whatever thoughts consumed Conniston’s mind.

After several moments, Conniston drew a deep breath. His eyes drifted over the desk. ‘Ah, thank you, Adam.’

‘My lord.’

The Earl’s lower lip was gripped between his strong white teeth. Adam recognised the signs.

‘Is there anything I may do to help?’

A shake of the dark head. ‘No. I must see to it. The girl has ruined herself because of me.’

‘And Miss Harcourt-Spence?’

‘She too.’

‘That is indeed a great shame. If you can recover Miss Amabelle before her situation is known, all may yet be well.’

‘Indeed. I –’

A knock sounded loudly on the door. Both men turned to see the butler enter.

‘What is it, Bodellick? You don’t usually knock.’

‘I believed there to be some unusually private business today, my lord. I hesitated to interrupt but as a messenger has arrived from Southwold Hall I concluded your lordship would wish to know immediately.’

‘You concluded correctly. Where is he?’

‘In the servants’ hall, my lord.’

‘Have him come up at once.’

The butler bowed. He backed out of the room, closing the door as he went.

It opened a few minutes later.

‘The messenger, my lord,’ Bodellick announced.

An exhausted Thaddeus bowed himself into the room. He held out Rowena’s letter with a hand that was not quite steady. ‘Miss Rowena . . . Miss Harcourt-Spence, I should say,’ he gasped. ‘Said you were to have this as fast as maybe, sir.’

Three paces brought Conniston to pull the fold of paper from the groom’s hand. He walked to the window, splitting the wafer with his thumb. Agent, butler and groom searched his back for an indication of its contents. There were none. My lord’s features were impassive when he faced them.

‘Paper and pen, Adam, if you please.’ He seated himself at the desk while his agent placed a sheet of cream paper and the sharpest of his pens in front of him. Conniston scrawled a few quick lines on the paper then picked up a red wax stick to seal it. A splash or two dripped onto the cover of the ledger.

‘You, boy, take this to your mistress immediately.’

Thaddeus sagged visibly. Conniston’s eyebrows rose. He looked closely at the mud spattered groom. ‘No, you deserve a rest. Adam, see this goes to Southwold Hall at once. And ask for my phaeton to be brought round. Fresh horses.’

Adam accepted the sealed paper held out to him. ‘Of course, my lord. Will you go alone?’

‘Yes. No. Have Todwick waiting.’

He waved a hand and the three men took themselves out of the room. Conniston sprinted to his private apartments and demanded an overnight bag from his valet. By the time he was back in the hall, his phaeton was outside with the little tiger on the back seat. The valet threw the nightbag up to him. A leap into the driver’s seat, a flick of the whip and the valet, butler and agent stood outside the heavy studded door watching my lord conduct his phaeton at speed towards the sweeping drive.

‘I wonder what that’s all about,’ Bodellick said.

‘I dare say we shall know if and when his lordship wants us to,’ Adam said levelly. He watched until the phaeton became little more than a speck in the distance and disappeared out of sight between mountainous tall evergreens.

Amabelle stood well back from where Lady Brinkley was inadequately seated on the narrow gilt-painted chair. Her ladyship stared into the ornate mirror on the shop wall. Her head turned from side to side. The silk flowers on the bonnet fluttered. In profile the shape of the brim did nothing to distract attention away from her double chin. Amabelle decided Lady Brinkley was at least as old as Mrs Marchment. She did not have that lady’s pleasant, cream complexion and fading golden hair. Lady Brinkley’s hair was a collection of steely grey streaks though what must once have been raven locks. Beneath it, ruddy cheeks marred her face. At least they distracted attention from a pair of rather small eyes.

Maria Filbee tweaked one of the full-blown scarlet roses into a more flattering position. Lady Brinkley turned her head again. She sniffed.

‘I’m not sure. Now see it, I’m not sure at all.’ Another turn of the head. ‘No, she announced, flapping a hand at the scarlet ribbons tied under the lowest of her chins.

‘But you were most insistent on the red roses, my lady.’ Maria gripped her hands tightly in an attempt to keep them off her client’s throat.

‘I dare say, but now I see them I’m not sure.’

Maria cast a fulminating glance at Amabelle.

Amabelle seized a spray of mimosa blossom from the display of silk flowers on the table at the back wall. She hurried forward.

‘Perhaps, ma’am, you would prefer these.’ She held the flowers in front of the roses.

Lady Brinkley looked from mirror to Amabelle. ‘Who are you, girl?’

No-one had ever addressed Amabelle in those terms. She opened her mouth only to have Maria cut in.

‘She’s my apprentice, my lady. Just recently taken on.’

‘Hmm. I see. Well she appears to have an eye.’ She pulled the scarlet ribbons loose. ‘See what you can do then, miss. I’ll call later. Perhaps.’

‘Oh, but it will only take me a moment, ma’am to change them. If you would choose some matching ribbons while I do it . . .’ Her voice faded to silence.

Maria stepped forward. ‘I have an excellent selection, my lady. They arrived from Paris only yesterday. No-one else has had chance to see them as yet. I’m sure they will be very popular.’

The final sentence resonated quite heavily with her ladyship. ‘Well, you had better bring them out. Perhaps there will be something I like.’

Maria drew Amabelle to a stool beside the silk flowers. ‘Busy yourself, Amabelle,’ she hissed. ‘We mustn’t delay Lady Brinkley,’ she added louder. ‘Be careful how you snip the roses off.’

‘I should hope she will,’ Lady Brinkley announced. ‘You’ll be quite entitled to take any damages out of her wages.’

‘Indeed.’ Maria flitted to the ranks of drawers behind the counter and lifted a patterned box from one of them. ‘Here are the ribbons, my lady. I am confident they will satisfy your exquisite taste.’

My lady took so long examining each and every wrap of ribbon that Amabelle had removed the roses and applied the trails of mimosa long before she had finished.

‘This one,’ she said, holding a coil of toffee-coloured ribbon aloft so it unrolled towards the floor. ‘This one will do.’

‘An excellent choice, Lady Brinkley’ Maria Filbee said. ‘Such unerring taste.’ She carried the ribbon, holding it well away from the floor, to Amabelle. ‘Quick,’ she whispered. ‘Fix this on.’

‘And I think I’ll take this one too.’ Lady Brinkley held up a length of crimson ribbon embroidered with roses. ‘I can’t think why you didn’t put this with the roses. It’s most attractive.’

Maria Filbee forced a smile onto her lips. ‘Of course, Lady Brinkley.’ She tried not to think just how well it would have gone with the roses on a different bonnet.

Lady Brinkley was eventually satisfied. She draped her shawl more evenly about her shoulders and waited for Maria to open the door. She paused on the step while a bright yellow phaeton passed. It did not. The brown-haired man in a many-caped driving coat reined it to an abrupt halt. His tiger on the back seat had to cling tightly to the folded hood. The man surveyed Lady Brinkley. Lady Brinkley surveyed the coat of arms emblazoned on the phaeton side. She turned to Maria.

‘It would seem you have another client, Mrs Filbee.’

The Earl of Conniston alighted from his vehicle, favouring Lady Brinkley with the slightest of bows. She flounced out of the doorway and gave the coat of arms a second penetrating glance. If she could commit it to memory, her bosom friend Leonora Quenington might know whose it was.

‘Good morning, sir.’ Maria dropped a slight curtsey. ‘May I be of service?’

‘I hope so, ma’am.’ Conniston stepped into the shop. ‘I am looking for –’ He stopped moving and talking and stared at the cowering figure clutching a bunch of red silk roses at the rear of the room. ‘Good morning, Amabelle,’ he said.

Maria looked from her new visitor to her apprentice. Thoughts of a reward, hopefully not too small, invaded her mind. She smiled. She liked it when she was right. Happily, she often was.