Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (8 page)

Chapter Fourteen

I
n Rowena’s absence from Southwold Hall, the housekeeper directed her comments to Thomasina Quigley.

‘She’ll hev to go, ma’am. There’s no help for it.’

‘Oh dear . . . I mean . . . will . . . oh, dear. Are you quite sure, Mrs Cope?’

‘I am that, ma’am. Young Dorcas hev been up and down them back stairs I don’t know how many times.’

The ladies faced each other. Mrs Cope was short, wide and clothed in a striped cotton dress of dark blue. A white fichue filled the neckline. Above a face growing increasingly pink was a fat salt-and-pepper bun. Thomasina matched her in height but only a third in width as far as could be seen under her old fashioned gown and multitude of shawls.

‘Well . . . oh dear. I don’t think I can order it. Perhaps we should wait until Miss Rowena is home.’

‘It can’t wait, ma’am.’

‘Perhaps if you asked Sir Richard . . .’ Thomasina’s voice faded away.

Mrs Cope balled her fists onto her ample hips. ‘Very well, ma’am. I’ll speak to the master myself.’

Happily in ignorance of the developing domestic crisis, Sir Richard sat at his ease in his library, scanning the latest copy of his gazette. The pipe he had been smoking lay on its side in a glass dish. Every few seconds the aroma of a particularly spicy tobacco drifted towards him, tempting him from a vivid account of some dastardly device a Frenchie had invented that had earned the approval of that demon Napoleon. A knock on the door interrupted his musings.

He peered over the top of his reading glasses. ‘Enter.’ The door swung open. ‘Yes, Mrs Cope? Is there something?’

‘I hev to talk to you about Primrose, sir.’

Sir Richard lowered his gazette, scanning through his mind as to which of the maids was Primrose. He failed to place her. ‘Primrose?’

‘Yes sir.’ Mrs Cope tilted her head. ‘Primrose, sir. She’ll hev to go, sir.’ She surveyed her employer’s puzzled face. ‘Miss Amabelle’s puppy, sir.’

Recognition dawned. ‘Ah, yes, the puppy.’ A frown. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘It . . . well, it . . .’ Mrs Cope drew a deep breath. ‘It should be in the stables, sir. It’s not . . . behaving itself. While Miss Amabelle has to keep to her room it’s not . . . getting outside.’

Sir Richard began to appreciate the problem. ‘Ah.’ He stared at the corner of the paper. ‘If she’s made to take it back perhaps she’ll come to her senses all the sooner.’ The gazette was cast aside. He stood up. ‘Tell Miss Amabelle I want to see her, please Mrs Cope.’

A tearful Amabelle sat in the gig beside Thomasina as it made its way through the sunny countryside. Tears filled her eyes. She clutched Primrose in her arms, promising never to forget her. Ever. Had she been less upset she might have been rather more concerned about Miss Quigley’s control of Misty. Thomasina rarely drove, a fact which reassured not only the inhabitants of Southwold Hall’s stable but also most of those in the surrounding area. She guided the gig shakily round the corner opposite Fincham Wortly’s church and proceeded at a very slow pace along the lane that led to Manseley Grange. It was with no little sigh of relief that she saw its chimneypots rising above the stand of trees ahead.

‘Almost there,’ she announced.

The tears in Amabelle’s eyes overflowed. She clutched Primrose even tighter. The puppy squeaked. ‘It’s most unfair of Papa. I love Primrose and she loves me.’

Thomasina reined Misty to a halt beside the large lavender hedge along the sweep of gravel leading up to the Marchments’ door. She wiped two fingers flat across her brow and swallowed. ‘Perhaps Lord Conniston would let you keep him. He might not mind as much as Mrs Cope.’

The tears were blinked away. ‘I told you, I’m not going to marry Lord Conniston. I don’t like him. He’s old. And he’s ugly.’

‘Oh, dear,’ Thomasina said. She allowed the reins to drop onto Misty’s back. The horse started forward. ‘Oh dear, no,’ she squeaked. ‘Quick Amabelle, jump down before she has us overturned onto the ground. I declare she’s a most unmanageable mare.’

Amabelle gather her skirts in one hand and, holding tight to Primrose, jumped. Thomasina heaved on the reins. Misty, taking exception to having her mouth dragged by the bit, scrabbled her feet on the gravel prior to departing. Amabelle grabbed the bridle. ‘Shush Misty, shush. Steady girl,’ she whispered.

Misty cooperated though she seemed unsure about the squirming Primrose. She stood patiently, buffing her muzzle against Amabelle’s hand until Thomasina had alighted.

Miss Quigley fanned herself with her hand. ‘Oh, dear. Thank goodness for that. I made sure we would all be killed.’

The front door of the Grange opened before Amabelle could reply. Matthew hurried out.

‘I thought I heard someone.’ He walked to Misty’s head. ‘Let me take her.’ He grabbed the bridle. Misty whiffled softly. ‘Good, day, ma’am.’ He managed a half-bow to Thomasina. ‘Please go in to Mama. She is in the morning room still. Something about better light for silks.’ He looked at Amabelle’s arms. ‘Hello. That’s one of Abbie’s pups. The one Edward gave you.’ He smiled and flicked the puppy’s ear. ‘Come for a visit?’

A sob escaped Amabelle. ‘Papa says I’ve to return her. Mrs Cope complained about . . . well, about . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

‘Oh dear me,’ Thomasina said. ‘Mrs Cope thought . . . that is she said . . . oh dear. She said perhaps a puppy wasn’t the best of companions for a girl confined to her room all the time.’

‘Ah,’ Matthew said. ‘Well . . .’ His face brightened. ‘Perhaps Lord Conniston’s housekeeper won’t mind.’

One of Amabelle’s boots stamped in the gravel. ‘I’m not going to marry Lord Conniston. Why won’t anyone believe me?’ Clutching Primrose she ran into the house.

‘Oh dear,’ Thomasina said.

Ten minutes later Amabelle was sitting with Matthew on the bench beside the wall facing the stables while Miss Quigley was being revive with whiffs of hartshorn in Mrs Marchment’s morning room. Across the yard, the Marchments’ newest groom unhitched Misty and led her to the stone trough. The mare dipped her nose into the water and drank. Eventually she lifted her head. Drops of water sparkled as they dripped back into the trough from the moist muzzle. Misty shook her head and permitted herself to be led into to a loose box to give her undivided attention to a net of fresh hay.

‘What’s wrong with marrying Conniston? You’d be a countess and all that.’

‘He’s horrid. Old and ugly.’

‘Is he? I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Well that’s because you’re too young.’

Matthew bristled. ‘I’m not. I’m sixteen. Only seven months younger than you.’

Amabelle pleated some of the sprigged muslin of her skirt between her fingers. ‘I don’t want to be a countess. If they say I really, really must be, I have made a plan to escape.’

‘Escape? Whatever do you mean?’

‘You must know everyone says I trim bonnets quite prettily.’ Matthew’s expression clearly showed her fame had escaped him but he manfully forbore to say so. ‘Well, I’ve decided I shall go and be a milliner.’

Matthew did not know much of millinery. At least not the feminine sort. He had however heard a few rumours about milliners. ‘Isn’t that the wrong way round? I thought milliner-women who had a chance of catching an Earl snatched at it like . . . well, like anything.’

‘But I’m not anyone. I’m me and I’d rather be a milliner than marry him.’

The practicalities of the plan filtered into Matthew’s mind. He folded his arms across his crumpled jacket. ‘You couldn’t be one in Fincham Wortly. Your Papa would be scandalised and he’d come and drag you home as soon as maybe.’

Amabelle frowned. ‘Oh . . . I suppose he would.’ She bit her lip. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

Matthew leant his head back against the wall. ‘You haven’t thought of much at all from what I can see.’ He unfolded his arms to shove his hands into his pockets. ‘Where would you live? You’d have to buy food and stuff. How would you do that? You never do it here. Your cook does. Or else she has the trades knocking on the back door with their offers.’ He ducked his head to look at her bowed face. ‘You haven’t any money either, have you?’

‘I’ve a little pin money saved. I haven’t been able to buy anything since Papa made me keep to my room.’

Across the yard the groom peered into Misty’s loose box. He waggled the bolt on the bottom half of the door firmly to make sure he had rammed it home. Misty turned away from dragging a strand of hay from the net with her yellow teeth and nodded her head over the door. Her contented whiffle reached Amabelle’s ears.

‘I could ask Rowena to lend me some.’

A snort of laughter burst out of Matthew. ‘Don’t be a stupid goose. She won’t give you any, not if you don’t tell her why you want it. And if you do, she’ll stop you going for sure and tell your pa. Then he’d lock you in your room for ever.’

Silence hung around them.

Matthew extended his legs and crossed his ankles.

Amabelle bit a thumbnail.

She folded her arms.

The silence extended while she bit her lip.

Matthew’s eyes began to droop in the sun. He had made Edward sit up until well into the early hours regaling him with account after account of life at Cambridge.

‘I know!’ Amabelle’s delighted yelp snapped him out of his doze. ‘I could go to Lyngham. They don’t know me there and it has at least three hatshops.’

‘What? Lyngham? How do you know that?’

‘I went there with Rowena once. When she was buying things for her Season and couldn’t find what she wanted here.’

Matthew considered. ‘How would you get there?’

Silence, then, ‘I’ll take Misty and the gig.’

A harsh laugh welcomed that part of the plan. ‘Even I know you couldn’t do that. It’s theft and you’d be deported.’ He laughed again. ‘That really would be a new life for you.’

‘I could leave her at an inn. With a note. And write to Papa to say where she was.’

‘You’re mad,’ Matthew announced. ‘Marry Conniston and you can have as many puppies as you want.’

Back in her room, Amabelle dismissed Matthew’s warnings. She would go to Lyngham. She would take all her bonnets with her. When the hat-shop owners saw how pretty they were, every one of them would be bidding for her services. Four bonnets hung on pegs beside the clothes press. Three were new that year for her debut. The other was the old straw she had worn for years. The violets she had fastened to it now drooped. Their petals were frayed and faded. Perhaps she would not take that one after all.

She opened the china box on her dressing table. A few coins lay inside. Silver, not gold. They might not last her for long. She was not sure. How much did bread cost? Bread was not bought at Southwold Hall. Mrs Kesgrave made it fresh every morning. Perhaps, if she asked nicely, cook might show her how to do it. She sighed. Primrose’s empty bed lay in the corner. A tear slipped down Amabelle’s cheek. Life had not turned out at all how she had expected when she had chosen the new bonnets.

Chapter Fifteen

F
rom the commotion that bounced up to her room from the main door, Rowena realised the gentlemen had returned from the morning’s shoot. She hurriedly folded her letter and ran downstairs with it.

Lord Tiverton was leading his male guests across the hall. Each gentleman carried a gun broken over his arm. Voices were raised, discussing the highly satisfactory number of birds they had eliminated from the Tiverton acres.

Garton watched them, the merest hint of approval on his face. A bevy of liveried footmen lined the wall behind him. At the slightest twitch of his left eyebrow, they sprang forward to relieve the master, Lord Conniston and Mr Neave of their guns, coats, hats and anything else that would be likely to inconvenience them.

‘A most successful morning, Lord T.’ A smile covered Mr Neave’s face which was glowing red after his exertions.

‘Indeed.’ Lord Tiverton handed his gun to the nearest footman. ‘We’ll go out again tomorrow. There are more birds up beyond five acre wood.’

Lord Conniston removed his hat with a sweep of his hand, an action which tilted his head upwards. His hair was windswept above his reddened face. His glance fell upon Rowena halfway down the stairs. ‘Ah. Good morning, Miss Harcourt-Spence.’ He bowed.

Mr Neave whipped round. If anything his smile widened. ‘Ah. Miss Rowena.’ He pushed gun, cape and hat at the same servant who staggered backwards under the onslaught. Neave advanced towards the stairs. ‘Delighted to see you. Delighted.’

Rowena half-curtsied to him and slipped past to Lord Tiverton. ‘Sir, might I beg a frank of you, please? I must write to Papa and Amabelle.’

Her uncle extended his hand. ‘Of course, my dear. I’ll do it now.’ He took the letter. ‘Neave, wasn’t there something you wanted to ask me?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Come into the library.’

He set off. Archibald Neave looked from him to Rowena. Regret painted his features. ‘Perhaps I might have the pleasure of your company later, Miss Rowena.’ He inclined his fat figure as much as he was able and followed his lordship into the library on the left. Garton closed the door behind him with a decided click.

Ignoring the presence of the one footmen slowly following in Garton’s departing wake, Conniston said, ‘I think you have a conquest there, Miss Harcourt-Spence.’

Rowena drew a sharp breath. ‘I seek no conquests, sir.’

Conniston bowed at the rebuke.

Visions of her would-be brother-in-law bending to Araminta Neave and laughing into her face assailed her, swiftly followed by a mixture of anger and heartache. ‘And if we are to speak of conquests, sir, in the absence of my father I think I must ask you about my sister.’

A frown. ‘Why must you do that? She is well, I hope?’

‘Indeed she is but I am obliged to wonder if Miss Neave has all your attentions now.’

Conniston’s fist clenched at his side. He cast a glance at the footman, took a stride forward and gripped Rowena’s upper arm. ‘This is no place to discuss such matters, ma’am.’ With another fiery glance at the footman, now evincing an interest at a non-existent mark on the nearest gilt picture-frame, he marched Rowena out of the front door.

The reason for the gentlemen’s’ heightened colour was immediately apparent. A brisk wind whipped grey clouds across a darkening sky. It penetrated Rowena’s thin gown. She shivered.

Conniston failed to notice. He hurried her to the far side of the portico. ‘Now, ma’am, speak plainly. What is your meaning?’

She dragged her arm free of his grasp, too cross to rub where his fingers had dug into her skin. ‘Only that Miss Neave has more of your attention than might be expected from a betrothed man.’

Conniston glared. ‘Betrothed, madam? Have you forgotten your sister has yet to accept my offer?’ He leant closer, staring into Rowena’s eyes. Her resolve quailed. ‘Indeed, one might say her determination to refuse me has been obdurate.’

Rowena’s hands sought each other for comfort. She dredged up the remnants of her courage. ‘Am I to take it, sir, that you are reconsidering? Or I may assure Papa that your offer stands?’

‘You may assure Sir Richard of nothing, Miss Harcourt-Spence. This is not a matter for you. It lies between Sir Richard and me and I’ll thank you to adopt an attitude more becoming to a young lady.’

Colour flushed into her cheeks and not from the wind, now gusting fair-to-gale-force proportions. With mounting horror she felt hot tears gather under her eyelids. Her throat constricted. She was appalled with herself for reacting so. And furious with Conniston for his contemptuous reply. Anger replaced disgust. Her chin rose. Arms rigid at her sides, her fingers curled into small fists. ‘My attitude, sir, is of no importance. My sister’s happiness now and in the future is my chief concern.’ Eyes shooting fierce glances at him, she swept an elaborate curtsey. ‘I bid you good morning, Lord Conniston.’

The eight Earl of Conniston watched her departing back as she mounted the steps into the house. He glared after her for several moments. A puzzled frown pleated his forehead.

Safely upstairs, away from prying eyes. Rowena sat on her bed staring at her bunched hands. She uncurled them and rubbed the crescents where her nails had dung into her palms. The angry tears that had threatened in his presence now stung her eyes. How dare he talk to her like that? How dare he manhandle her? And in front of a servant too. She rubbed her arm where his fingers had gripped. Heaven only knew what the gossip in the servants’ hall would be now. Well, that was the end of any attempt on her part to persuade Amabelle to marry him. He was horrible. A bully. His scarred face was just the outward show of a brutal self. She stood up, pacing the floor from bed to window and back again. An angry hand twitched at the yellow bed-hanging a mere hairsbreadth out of place. Back to the window. A glance outside. No-one in the garden. All hiding from his mighty, bad-tempered lordship if they had a speck of common sense. She sat on the bed again. Brushed an imaginary mote of dust from her skirt. She stood up, paced again. Horrible, horrible man.

Her shoulders drooped. Her arm still tingled from his fierce grip. It was the first – the only – time he had touched her other than the lightest contact in a dance or when handing her into a carriage. No it wasn’t the first time. He had moved her away from him on the stairs when she had cannoned into his side. Then his hand had been courteous. Gentle. Today it was hard, masterful. Forcing her to submit to his will. She rubbed her arm, trying to wipe away his touch and the memory of his flashing eyes staring into hers.

Her eyes prickled again. She sank onto the bed. The bedspread crinkled under her. Damask. Yellow. Very fine. She ran a hand over it. Traced the swirls of pattern with a finger. Amabelle’s rooms would be as fine as this if she married Conniston. Probably even finer. But were fine rooms worth the society of a violent-tempered man? Not for Amabelle. She was a child, unused to hard treatment. Until now, that was. When Papa had banished her to her room she had been shocked into silence. Perhaps Papa and Marguerite had been too soft with her. She had never known the childish sadness Rowena had experienced at a tender age. Her stepmother had always been kind but Rowena had never felt the warmth quite same as that bestowed on Amabelle. Amabelle had learned none of Rowena’s resources to withstand affliction. Even though she was rebelling now it was a mere childish tantrum.

Rowena sighed. Amabelle would certainly find Conniston harsh. Rowena knew she herself could . . . would . . . match his mettle. There might be quick words between them as there had been just now but she knew, absolutely knew, that he would appreciate her. She lifted her hands to cover her face and obliterate an impossible vision. A vision that could never exist. One she had promised herself never to consider again.

The door opened. Ellie walked in. One hand grasped the handle of a water ewer; the other, held flat, supported its base. The moment she saw Rowena she stopped. A splash of water lurched over the ewer’s side as she curtsied. ‘Oh, sorry miss. I didn’t know you were here.’

Rowena snatched her hands down. ‘Never mind. I was just, er . . . thinking about Amabelle.’

Ellie carried the ewer towards the washstand. ‘I’m not surprised, miss. That Miss Neave . . . well, it must be a worry.’ She folded her hands across her apron. ‘I reckon she’s the Miss A the chatter was about, not our Miss Amabelle.’ Rowena’s eyes stretched open. Ellie was well into her stride. ‘One of the footmen said she was a real goer and the Lord only knew what she got up to in them foreign places.’ A frown. ‘Whatever one of them goers is.’ The frown vanished and a certain element of delight took its place. ‘And Minchin said her ladyship wasn’t at all pleased. I heard her telling Mrs Emmett.’

‘Who’s Minchin?’

‘Lady Tiverton’s maid, miss. I found out her name.’

‘And she said –’ Rowena pulled herself up short. She rose from the bed with less than her customary grace. ‘It’s not at all proper for her ladyship’s maid to comment upon things she’s heard.’ She looked hard at Ellie. ‘I hope you don’t do the same.’

A flush washed over Ellie’s cheeks. ‘Oh, no miss. I mean, why would I? They’re nothing to us.’

‘Good.’ Rowena took a turn about the room; Ellie’s anxious eyes followed her. She stopped at the window. ‘I trust there has been no comment about me.’

Ellie’s flush deepened. The made a great fuss of placing the ewer precisely into the centre of the basin on the wash-stand.

‘Well?’

‘Well, miss, someone did say perhaps . . . well, perhaps that Lord Conniston had made a bit free with you.’ She twisted her hands. ‘Said he pulled you outside.’

Rowena spun round. ‘Lord Conniston was not at all free with me. He . . . he helped me when I nearly tripped.’ Ellie’s expression was not one of conviction. Rowena cogitated rapidly. ‘I felt the need for some fresh air.’ She nodded. ‘If you should hear any more such impertinences you may repeat that.’ Another nod. ‘Yes. Say that. And that we are almost sister and brother-in-law.’

‘Yes, miss. If you say so.’

‘I do,’ Rowena said with considerably more conviction than she felt. She walked with stately steps to the dressing table and sat on the stool, back as straight as a broom handle. She picked up her hairbrush. ‘Now, off you go.’ Ellie dashed for the door. ‘Wait.’ The hairbrush twisted in two agitated hands. ‘What do you find to do with yourself when you’re not listening to gossip?’

Ellie drew herself up to her full height, which was not great. ‘I hope I may say I don’t gossip, miss.’

Rowena sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Ellie. This has been a trying day. Of course you don’t.’

‘Miss . . .’ Ellie took a step forward. ‘Do you think Thaddeus is a good lad?’

‘I’m sure he is. Patterson would have turned him off otherwise.’ She swung round on the stool. ‘Is something amiss?’

‘No . . . I mean, well . . .’

Rowena’s head angle slightly. ‘Is something bothering you?’

Ellie examined the rug beside the bed. Then the yellow hangings draped at the bedhead.

‘Ellie?’

‘Well, miss, you see . . . he’s being a bit . . . interested.’

Rowena stood up. ‘Oh. Is he upsetting you?’

‘Oh, no miss. Nothing like that.’ She took a step to the bed and rubbed one of the cream tassels fringing the hangings between her finger and thumb. Her head bent, averting her face. ‘It’s just that I think he likes me,’ she said in a low voice.

‘I see.’ A pause. ‘Has he said anything about the future? Offered for you perhaps?’

The tassel swung free. She faced Rowena, her hands clutched under her chin. ‘Oh, no, miss. And if he did I wouldn’t . . . well, I mean, I couldn’t. I’d have to leave service, wouldn’t I, if I was wed?’ Her mouth trembled. She hid it with the flat of her hand. Her head drooped and the rug benefitted from tearful examination.

‘Oh I don’t think you should worry about that, Ellie. I’d be most sad to lose you.’

Ellie looked up, her face bright. ‘Honest, miss? But I thought it was custom for maids to leave.’

‘It is but I don’t see why. You could stay on until . . . until there was a child. Even then you could still take in washing. I’m sure we could find a way.’ The troubled eyes cleared. ‘Always assuming Thaddeus didn’t mind you staying on in the house.’

‘Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t, miss. A groom’s wage ain’t great.’

Rowena laughed. ‘You’ve checked it out, have you?’

A blush covered Ellie’s cheeks. ‘Well, I thought I should, miss.’

‘Good. At least you are keeping your senses in order.’ Unlike me, she thought. ‘Very well. Off you go. I must wait upon my aunt.’

With a smile that almost split her face, Ellie ran out of the door, pulling it to behind her. The latch failed to fasten. Rowena sighed. She closed the door properly. Leaning her back against it, she twirled the brush in her hands. If only her life, her problems, were as easily solved as Ellie’s.