Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (6 page)

Chapter Ten

E
llie folded the second of Rowena’s shifts into the clothes press. All that remained to do was to lay the one evening gown her mistress had brought with her onto the bed. Her fingers moved reverently over the pale turquoise silk, smoothing out the creases. With a sigh she left it and picked up Rowena’s boots still muddied from the excursion across the Grantham churchyard. They would take some cleaning. With another sigh, she opened the bedroom door and looked up and down the corridor. Her next sigh was one of relief; no-one was in sight. She crept out. If Miss Rowena had gone to the right, she decided, then the servants’ stair must be to the left where the red-headed maid had disappeared.

Half way along the corridor, her worst horror materialized. The very last door opened. Encased in black bombazine, the fearsome shape of the housekeeper emerged. Ellie froze. Icicle chills turned her spine rigid. Her fingers petrified on the boots.

Never one noted for her charm of expression on her thin face, Mrs Emmett stared at her. ‘You, girl. What are you doing here? Not looking for the footmen’s quarters again, are you.’

Ellie gulped. She curtsied. ‘No, ma’am,’ she whispered, not daring to raise her eyes above the hem of Mrs Emmett’s dress. ‘Please, ma’am, I’ve been tending Miss Rowena’s clothes.’

‘And?’

‘And I’ve finished.’

Dark brows rose. ‘That is no reason for you to be out here. You should use the back stair.’

Ellie’s confusion deepened. She looked up. ‘But I thought it were over there.’ She waved a boot in the direction of the corridor’s end.

The black bombazine rose and fell over a deep breath drawn loudly in through flaring nostrils. The white frilled chemisette filling the neckline fairly bristled under the housekeeper’s narrow chin. ‘Not from the bedrooms it isn’t.’ The bunch of keys in her hand rattled. ‘Follow me.’

She stalked past Ellie who cowered against the wall, clutching the boots to her chest. A smudge of mud smeared the bodice of her cotton gown. Eyes round and mouth dry, she scurried after the housekeeper.

Quick, rustling strides took Mrs Emmett to Rowena’s room. She flung open the door and marched to the far corner of the patterned walls. Her thin fingers grasped an unobtrusive handle let into the painted dado rail. She twisted it. A door, all but indistinguishable in the pattern, swung open.

Ellie stared.

‘Hurry along girl.’ Ellie stepped forward. ‘No.’ Ellie stopped dead still. Mrs Emmett pointed. ‘Shut that door first. We do not leave doors hanging open in this house.’

Tucking the boots into the bend of her arm, Ellie ran to the main door. One boot fell to the ground as she fumbled the handle shut. A heavy sigh emerged behind her. Biting her lip, she bobbed down and grabbed it. Hardly daring to look at the housekeeper’s rigid face, she hurried through the secret door. A short corridor stretched beyond it. It was gloomy and narrow. What little light was not issuing round the housekeeper came from a gap in the left-hand wall.

‘Get along there. Turn and go down the steps at the end. It will take you to the kitchens.’

‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’ Ellie dropped her deepest curtsey and fled. The door snapped shut behind her removing half the available light.

Ellie slowed. She stopped. Her fingers loosened on the muddied leather. A worried frown creased her forehead. If she had to leave this way, then she’d have to return this way too. It dawned on her that now she had left it, she didn’t know which of the doors opened into Rowena’s room. Chewing at her knuckle and spreading more mud on her gown, she turned back.

Painted doors lined the wall: two to the left and one on the right. Ellie rotated again. Her hand, with one boot grasped in it, flipped from side to side spraying flakes of dried mud against the wall. Which side had her door been? The right. She turned round. Now it must be one of the doors on the left. Her lip had more chewing than was good for it. It turned deep pink in Ellie’s pale face.

She stood still, thinking. It couldn’t be the nearest door; she was certain sure she’d walked further than that. Or almost certain. She tiptoed back to the second. With an ear pressed to the wood she held her breath.

Nothing. No sound. Not a single one, just silence. Perhaps Mrs Emmett was not in there inspecting how she had put away Miss Rowena’s things. Her fingers trembled as she turned the handle expecting every second to hear Mrs Emmett’s accusing tones. The door creaked open an inch. No-one shouted. Nor spoke. Her trembling hand pushed it further. Eyes blinking rapidly, she peeped round the corner. On the bed lay a turquoise gown. Breath escaped in a gasp. Her eyes misted with relief.

Retreating into the corridor, she shut the door and pulled a ribbon from under her cap. The boots dropped to the floor. In a moment the ribbon was tied round the handle. With a pleased sigh she resumed her journey, boots dangling from her hands.

The feint light in the corridor came from a small window set at the end the long passages the housekeeper had indicated. The window was so high there was no temptation for anyone to linger and view whatever scene they gave onto. Only the sky was visible. Ellie hurried to the flight of stairs. A wall of noise echoed up them as if a hundred people were all talking at once. Drawing on the last of her courage, Ellie started the downward journey.

The stairs ended in a wide, flagstoned passageway. On one side twin glazed doors opened onto a grey courtyard. The noise that had sounded so fiercesome at the top of the stairs had now lessened to normal servants’ chatter from a room far ahead. Worry replaced Ellie’s relief at avoiding Mrs Emmett. Should she go to what was clearly the servants’ hall? Was that where she should clean Rowena’s boots? A much worse worry struck her. She had forgotten to bring a brush and polish. She bit her lip, thinking hard. Thaddeus. Thaddeus might have brushes. He’d help her. He’d be in the stables. Ellie dragged the outside door open and escaped Darnebrook Abbey’s terrifying interior.

Sweating under the sun beaming down on the stableyard, Thaddeus was grooming a horse under Mr Patterson’s eye. The coachman sat on two bulging sacks of oats by the door to the long tack room, puffing at his pipe. His rheumy eyes drooped. They flicked open when Ellie arrived clutching the boots.

‘What are you doing out here, gal?’

‘Oh, Mr Patterson, sir. It’s awful. I’ve Miss Rowena’s boots to clean and I’ve nothing to clean them with. No brushes nor polish.’ She held out the offending items.

Patterson smiled. ‘Ah well, only to be expected I suppose. Things being what they are.’

‘What things, Mr Patterson?’ Thaddeus stopped brushing the horse’s nearside flank.

The coachman’s head wagged. ‘Never you mind. You get yer head down and attend to yon animal.’ He heaved himself off the sacks and waded into the tack room.

Thaddeus waited until the coachman had disappeared before sending a wide grin at Ellie. ‘You’re looking right pretty today.’

Ellie cast her eyes down. Her cheeks reddened. The heel of one boot was subjected to a furious rubbing with a thumb. She stared at the ground until the coachman emerged.

‘Here you are, gal.’ He held out a brush which had half of its bristles missing and a round tin, opened to reveal glistening beeswax. ‘Use these.’ He pointed at the mounting block by the wall. ‘Do it over there. And put some elbow into it. You’ll get a good shine that way.’ He settled himself on the sacks again to watch.

Ellie put so much elbow into it her arms ached and several strands of hair escaped her cap but by the end the brown boots glowed. She held them out for Patterson’s inspection.

‘Aye. They’ll do.’ Ellie smiled broadly. ‘Get yerself back indoors now.’

Ellie’s smile sank.

‘What’s the matter, gal?’

‘It’s the house. I mean the Abbey. It’s that big, Mr Patterson, and Mrs Emmett is that fierce . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

Patterson levered himself up again. ‘Well now, I could do with an ale from the kitchen and a bit of bait. What say we go in together?’

‘Oh, Mr Patterson, sir. Thank you.’

‘Can I come too?’ Thaddeus grinned. ‘I wouldn’t mind an ale.’

‘No you cannot, lad. You keep on with that horse while I get my bait tin filled.’ He waded into the stables out of sight.

‘Who’s this Mrs Emmett you don’t like?’

‘She’s the housekeeper. She’s a fiercesome body.’

Thaddeus swaggered forward. ‘Just you point her out to me and if she’s onto you I’ll give her what for.’

Ellie’s eyes opened wide above flushing cheeks. ‘Oh, no you wouldn’t. She’s far worse than Mrs Cope. You’d never dare cheek her back.’

Thaddeus sidled closer. ‘I’d brave anyone for you.’

Ellie looked down at her shoes, sideways at the tack room door and back at her shoes. ‘You’re not to say such things. It ain’t proper. You’ll get us turned off if anyone hears you.’

Some of the bravado left Thaddeus’s shoulders. ‘Don’t you like me, Ellie?’

‘I like you just fine.’ She looked up as far as his collar. She snatched her gaze away and added, ‘I mean I like you as much as I like everyone else.’

‘Apart from this Mrs Emmett.’

‘Yes . . . well,’ Ellie said, still a fetching shade of pink. She saw Patterson emerge into the sunlight, a tin box clasped in one enormous hand. ‘Bye,’ she said. ‘I’ve to get back. I’ve Miss Rowena to dress for dinner.’

Rowena sat on the stool holding the hand mirror in her lap. She felt her old self again. There was a lot to be said for a furious bout of bad temper to banish the doldrums. She had spent several minutes lecturing herself on the necessity of concentrating on her father’s order. Of ensuring Lord Conniston maintained his interest in Amabelle. Of forcing every other consideration from her mind. If she accomplished that, everything would be fine. Her sister would be safely married, then she could devote herself to running Southwold Hall and caring for Papa and Cousin Thomasina. That’s what she would do and everything would be fine. Just fine.

She lifted the mirror. Yes, her face was serene just like her thoughts. The merest hint of resurgent dreams drifted into her mind. She squashed it firmly down. Only the trace of sadness in her grey eyes remained to betray her.

Ellie arrived and set about brushing Rowena’s hair, tying the curls into a cluster on top of her head.

‘Are you finding your way around, Ellie?’

‘Yes, miss, thank you. I am now.’

‘Now? Was something else wrong before?’

Ellie explained at length about Mrs Emmett, the secret door, the ribbon and the brushes. She omitted to mention Thaddeus.

Rowena laughed. ‘Well I’m glad you thought of asking Mr Patterson. He knows what to do. He’s been with us since I could barely walk.’ She thought for a moment while Ellie’s nimble fingers twisted two ringlets in front of her ears. ‘If there’s anything else you need to know, ask me. Or if I’m not nearby, Aunt Tiverton’s maid. I’m sure she’ll help you.’

Ellie had seen Lady Tiverton’s maid. She did not know her name, nor would she dare to ask. She decided she would not enquire anything of Lady Tiverton’s maid. If anyone could make Mrs Emmett look friendly and obliging, it was Lady Tiverton’s gaunt maid. Side by side they would resemble vultures. Ellie shuddered.

‘Thank you, miss,’ she said. ‘I’ll remember.’

She captured an escaping tendril at Rowena’s nape and pinned up. ‘I don’t know how this house works, miss. It’s not like ours. They gossip so much. They’re even talking about his lordship and Miss Amabelle.’

Rowena’s head snapped round, pulling the tendril free of Ellie’s hand. ‘How have they heard of that? Lord Conniston hadn’t offered for her the last time she was here.’

‘I don’t know, miss. They just go on about him and Miss A.’

Rowena frowned. ‘Miss A? Hmm, well don’t you go gossiping about us.’

‘No, miss. I’d never do that.’ She re-pinned the hair. ‘There, miss. It’s done.’

Rowena slid the mirror from side to side, twisting her head to see the result of Ellie’s handiwork. ‘Thank you. You’ve done it very well tonight. It positively shines.’

Ellie clasped her hands behind her, trying to forget the briefest of hurried washes they had received after her efforts with the brushes and beeswax.

Rowena clasped her mother’s strand of pearls round her neck. ‘There, I think I’m ready. Pass me my gloves and shawl please.’

Ellie handed over the items, holding them by her fingertips. Rowena slid the gloves on. Two firm tugs pulled their tops onto her upper arms. She draped the shawl loosely in the bends of her elbows.

‘You look right pretty, miss,’ Ellie said, opening the door.

‘Thank you.’ Rowena smiled.

Ellie bobbed a curtsey. ‘Have a lovely evening, miss.’

Rowena glided past her. ‘Thank you, I’m sure I shall,’ she lied, turning her thoughts firmly from the impending conversation with Lord Conniston.

Chapter Eleven

R
owena descended the stairs to the first floor, gracefully, serenely and with only the slightest hint of the memory of colliding with Lord Conniston on the previous occasion to colour her cheek. She was sure the multitude of Tiverton Marquesses staring down at her from the cerulean painted walls would have approved of her demeanour. It took her several more seconds than might be expected to cross the hall and reach the salon door. The liveried footman standing beside it stared into the middle distance as if there was no-one about but he still managed to open it when she drew level with him.

Lady Tiverton sat on her preferred sofa, wearing a far more magnificent ensemble. Folds of ruby silk, heavily embroidered with what might have been roses but looked more like cabbages, fell from the gold bullion fringe marking where the high waist would be if Lady Tiverton had one to the Aubusson rug on which her feet rested. Puffed sleeves gathered into pleats balanced the width of the skirt. The upright Venetian lace at the neckline framed a dazzling necklace of garnets and diamonds. Lady Tiverton’s head was swathed in a length of blood-red damask entwined with another of gold. A large ruby and diamond brooch skewered two gold-dyed plumes in place. The feathers trembled every time she moved her head. She quite overshadowed Miss Wexley seated beside her in a dove-grey gown.

Her aunt’s eyes alighted on Rowena with a degree of approval. She raised her fan. ‘Come in, child.’ She beckoned with the carved ivory sticks. ‘You may entertain us until the others arrive.’

Rowena curtsied. ‘The others, ma’am?’

‘Of course the others. Don’t be tiresome. You’ve yet to pay your respects to Lord Tiverton. And then there is your cousin.’ She frowned. ‘And Mister and Miss Neave.’

‘Mister Neave?’

The fan executed a couple of waves. ‘A friend of Tiverton’s. Or rather, of Conniston. Knew him in India or somewhere peculiar of that sort.’

Sybil Wexley leant forward very slightly. ‘He’s what you call a nabob.’

Rowena stared. ‘What is a nabob, Miss Wexley?’

The companion shrank back. ‘Oh . . . I’m not terribly sure.’

‘He’s some sort of trade person.’

Rowena’s eyes widened. ‘Trade, ma’am?’ She could not imagine her aunt allowing a tradesperson to step into Darnebrook Abbey by any means other than the servants’ entrance. Certainly never one to be permitted to enter her salon.

‘I think he owns a lot of ships or something,’ Miss Wexley offered. ‘Whatever it is, he’s terribly rich.’

‘Don’t be vulgar, Sybil. Whatever he is, he is here with his daughter because Tiverton wanted him here, though I cannot imagine why.’ She frowned again. After a second she waved her fan at Rowena. ‘Sit down, miss. We can’t have you towering around like that.’

Rowena hurriedly seated herself on the opposite sofa. No sooner had she settled than the door opened behind her. Conscious of her aunt’s eyes upon her she forbore to turn round to see who it was. Her hands comforted each other in her lap though her face remained as composed. Was it Conniston?

Heavy footsteps came closer. After a moment the Marquess of Tiverton walked between the sofas. He was a man of medium height, not quite running to heaviness around the middle but well on the way. A riotous floss of greying hair sprang round his head like a halo. The tailoring of his clothes was excellent but the picture was somewhat lessened by the threat his chins presented to his cravat. The least inclination of his head would squash its snowy folds. He bowed to his wife. ‘Good evening, Lady Tiverton.’ Another bow, silent, to Miss Wexley.

‘Tiverton.’ The fan waved yet again. ‘Here is your niece.’

Lord Tiverton stared down. ‘Good heavens. You’re quite the young lady now.’ He beckoned with both hands. ‘Come and greet your uncle.’

Rowena rose, curtsied and submitted to having a damp kiss planted on her cheek. During a fierce, but mercifully short, embrace she tried to overlook the fact that her uncle had seen her only last June.

‘I hope we find you well,’ he said.

‘You do, thank you, sir.’ She allowed her hand to creep up. One fabric-covered finger wiped the damp smudge on her cheek under pretence of patting a ringlet.

‘How’s Harcourt-Spence? Still riding to hounds whenever he can?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s just bought a new mount. A grey.’

Lord Tiverton’s eyebrows rose. ‘Has he indeed?’ He sniffed. ‘I’d like to see it. He’s always a good judge of horseflesh. I –’

The opening door interrupted him. Two girls of Amabelle’s age bounced into the room. One pale haired, pale skinned and dressed in a white muslin gown appropriate to her years. The other, whose carrying tones reverberated round the room, was about the same age but a little taller. Rowena was conscious of an array of colour. The stranger was blessed with russet hair, a skin that had seen too much sun and a stunning gown of striped lavender and cream silk. Diamonds twinkled round her neck and in the silk violets wreathed through her curls.

‘Ah.’ The chattering ceased at Lady Tiverton’s discouraging tones. ‘Rowena, here is your cousin. And Miss Neave.’ The fan beckoned. ‘Harriette, come and greet your cousin.’

The pale girl ran forward. Smiling, she grabbed both of Rowena’s hands. ‘I am so glad you’re here.’ She pulled her round. ‘Let me introduce Araminta. She’s been to India.’

The diamonds on the russet-haired girl twinkled in the candlelight. ‘How do you do,’ Rowena said, conscious of her own narrow string of pearls. The girl held out her hand. Rowena took it. Hers was shaken up and down quite vigorously. ‘India,’ she gasped. ‘How wonderful for you.’

‘Not really.’ Araminta Neave’s voice lost nothing of its force. Its warm, jovial tones dismissed the delights of India. ‘Nothing much to do there but ride and hunt or sit in the shade with the punkawallah.’

Rowena stared, imaging an animal as yet unknown to English society. ‘A punkawallah?’

‘I know what it is,’ Harriett announced. ‘It’s a boy who pulls a rope to wave a fan.’

‘Harriett, sit down,’ Lady Tiverton said, ‘and wait quietly.’ She surveyed her other guest. ‘Good evening, Miss Neave.’

‘Good evening, Lady Tiverton.’ Miss Neave had obviously discovered Lady Tiverton did not shake hands. A pair of assessing eyes settled on her hostess’ head-covering. ‘My goodness, ma’am, with that turban you look just like an Indian Maharaja’.

Lady Tiverton’s face settled into blankness. ‘I must thank you, Miss Neave, for the comparison. The desire to resemble a heathen prince has been one of my most cherished wishes.’

Araminta Neave curtsied. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ She sat down rather energetically between the two cousins. Insufficient care in the arrangement of her hem revealed what Lady Tiverton considered to be an inappropriate amount of ankle.

None of the girls spoke. Lady Tiverton looked from one to the other, two pale roses separated by a single exotic bloom. She sniffed. ‘I wonder where Conniston and your father are, Miss Neave.’

Harriette and Rowena recognised a criticism. Araminta did not.

‘I think they are strolling in the grounds, ma’am. Smoking cigars.’

Sophronia Tiverton’s second sniff echoed around the room. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Pa brought them back from Jaipur. They’re very good.’

The four ladies, young and old, wondered how she knew that. Perish the thought she had actually tried one herself. Before the gap in the conversation could reach an embarrassing length, the carved door opened. Lady Tiverton looked up. Lord Conniston accompanied by a second man strolled in.

‘Lady T-’, began Conniston.

The second man interrupted without a shade of concern. ‘Ah, ha,’ he said ‘This must be the delightful cousin we have been waiting for.’ He walked round the sofa and after the briefest of bows to his hostess, surveyed Rowena from curls to slippers and back again. He bowed. ‘Miss Rowena, pleased to meet you.’ He held out his hand.

Rowena looked up at him. He was quite the widest man she had ever seen. His hair was too dark for nature, his skin was nut-brown and his eyes almost disappeared in the folds of his cheeks. His waistcoat was dazzlingly gold. She rose to her aunt’s comment of,

‘Rowena is the elder of Sir Richard’s daughters, Mr Neave. She is Miss Harcourt-Spence.’

Mr Neave took possession of Rowena’s hand. He smiled at her. ‘No doubt, but you won’t mind me calling you Miss Rowena, will you?’

Still blinking, Rowena said the only thing possible. ‘No, of course not, sir.’

Her aunt sniffed. The door opened before she could comment. Garton appeared.

‘Dinner is served, my lady,’ he intoned as if it presaged the end of the world.

Silks rustled as the ladies rose. There being no other married woman than her ladyship present, the Marquess offered his wife his arm. Lord Conniston approached the senior unmarried lady, his face impassive. Miss Wexley tittered a few ridiculous declamations at the honour and tripped towards the door alongside a rigid Conniston.

Mr Neave raised his bent arm. ‘Miss Rowena, if you’ll do me the honour.’

A giggling Araminta linked arms with Harriette and whispered something Rowena could not quite catch, apart from the words
new
Mama
. They progressed in stately paces to the small dining room.

Small was a relative term. Rowena doubted if there was anything small anywhere in Darnebrook Abbey. At least not any part of it her aunt would frequent. A maid’s room perhaps. Or a cupboard.

As they passed the footman holding the door open, the full magnificence of the small dining room came into view. Its coffered ceiling was only marginally less lofty than that of the large dining room. Pale green silk panels covered walls grandly delineated with plaster mouldings picked out in white. Toning damask with heavy green fringing draped the full-height windows. Admittedly there were only three, all looking onto the rain-refreshed grounds instead of five but even so there was plenty of room for the mahogany table to seat ten, plus a lengthy serving buffet, laden with silver candelabra and statuettes ranged against the wall opposite. A tremendous Venetian chandelier hung overhead. The light from its candles glittered off cut glass goblets and silver cutlery lining the table. A magnificent silver epergne depicting a Hussar slaughtering a pair of lions graced the centre.

The liveried footmen by the doors might have been made of marble for all the expression on their faces. One of their colleagues stood behind the single chair at each end of the table. Four maids in black gowns and white aprons hovered beside the buffet. His announcement delivered, Garton took station beyond the buffet. His eyes examined each member of staff lest they had committed some reprehensible act in his brief absence.

Intensely aware of the muscles moving under Lord Conniston’s taut tailoring in front of her, Rowena still hoped she would be spared his company. And that of Mr Neave. But there were only three gentlemen. With an increasing sense doom she knew she was bound to be seated near one of them. Her aunt had decreed it would be Conniston. He was holding Miss Wexley’s chair, handing her into her place. Watching him, Rowena was unable to decide if he was the lesser of two evils. The glowing face and scent of the pomade issuing from Mr Neave beside her threatened to eliminate what little appetite she had left.

‘Rowena,’ her aunt pointed to the head of the table. ‘Take the left-hand place by your uncle. You can tell him all about your father and his horse.’ Rowena breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Mr Neave, you take the next place. I’ve decided Rowena will be delighted to hear about India. She was always an inquisitive girl.’

A wide grin split Mr Neave’s face. ‘Excellent, Lady T. I shall certainly enjoy telling her.’

‘Conniston,’ Lady Tiverton continued without commenting. ‘Sit between the girls.’ She indicated the opposite side of the table. ‘They can entertain you, assuming they can find a sensible topic in all their chatter.’ She lowered herself into the chair facing her husband’s along the length of the polished wood and peered at her guests over the multitude of dishes. When Miss Neave had slipped into the chair opposite her father, her ladyship nodded at Garton. He flicked an eyebrow at the maids. They collected even more trays of food and advanced towards the table.

Afterwards Rowena could scarcely remember what she had eaten. She could remember the overpowering scent of Mr Neave’s pomade while he regaled her with descriptions of his many ships, warehouses and successes in the steaming, or possibly dry, Indian heat. Worse, she remembered the delight on Conniston’s face as he shared reminiscences with Miss Neave about life in India. Worse still, she suspected that not all of his delight was due to Miss Neave’s entertaining company. Some of it, she was sure, came from overhearing her own futile attempts to stem Mr Neave’s description of his position and fortune.