Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

D
arnebrook Abbey’s balls were held in the magnificent eastern wing. The present Lord Tiverton’s grandfather had enjoyed dancing so much he had ordered it built especially for the purpose. A curved colonnaded walk, its arches filled by full-height windows, connected it to the main building. Guests passed through an anteroom with the retiring room to the side where ladies could hand their cloaks to a line of hovering maids. The ballroom itself was renowned the length and breadth of the county. A stunning vision of luxurious elegance, its gold and cream walls ascended to a ceiling painted with more of the pastoral scenes of frolicking Greek goddesses that the ninth Marquess had so admired. Two glittering chandeliers, each the size of a child’s cot, shone light over the gilded plaster panels that adorned the walls. Matching gold trails framed the tall windows. On the opposite wall a line of creamy marble pillars supported a balcony for the orchestra. A row of spindly sofas stood beneath it for the convenience of the dowagers and any girl unlucky enough to find herself without a partner. At the far end, across the highly-polished wooden floor, double doors opened into the supper room.

Lady Tiverton stood in the centre of the ballroom, a vision in a Pomona green morning dress of pleated and tucked French silk. A short train had settled around her feet. Garton hovered behind her left shoulder. Hands clasped, he bent his greater height to catch her slightest comment as she executed a slow circle, her critical eye checking every detail of the preparations.

She stopped and pointed at the pier table between the nearest pair of windows. A massive floral display in an exquisite vase soared almost to the candle sconces. She frowned. Garton’s breath stopped in his throat.

‘Those flowers,’ she said. ‘They really will not do. The lilies in the centre are positively truncated.’

Garton bowed. ‘I’ll inform the head gardener, m’lady.’

The inspection circle continued back to the first vase of flowers without further comment. ‘It will do. Now, make sure the windows are clear. The estate workers will want to see our dances.’

Garton bowed again. If he knew anything about it, the women on the estate might come and stare but the men would rather be downing a mug of ale in tap room of The Tiverton Arms.

Rowena slipped through the huddle of workers hovering by the open door. She crossed to her aunt. ‘Good day, Aunt Tiverton.’ She bobbed a curtsey.

‘Ah, Rowena. Well met. Tell me what you think of the flowers.’

Rowena looked up and down the length of the ballroom at the incredible number of flowers. Had this amount been taken from Southwold Hall’s gardens there would not have been a single bloom remaining.

‘Perhaps,’ she began. ‘Perhaps if the red ones were replaced by something paler?’

‘Ah!’ Lady Tiverton snapped her fan at the nearest vase. ‘You have it. It’s the red . . . what are they, Garton?’

Garton looked at the offending peonies. ‘I believe they are called foxgloves, m’lady.’

‘Well have them removed. We’ll have pink roses instead.’

Garton bowed. ‘Very good, m’lady.’ He had no idea if there were any such roses in the gardens. If not, the head gardener would be quite set about.

‘Now, come with me, Rowena. You can tell me what you think of Harriette’s gown.’ She led the way out of the ballroom. The hovering workers flattened themselves against the wall. Lady Tiverton failed to notice. The youngest of them, a gardener’s boy, stared at her, his eyes enormous, his cap clutched, two-handed, at his chest. He had never seen her ladyship so close before. He cringed when her train brushed the toe of his boots. He did not breathe again until she had disappeared from his stunned sight.

Garton address the head gardener at the boy’s side. ‘Get them red things out. Her ladyship wants pink roses.’

‘We ain’t got none left,’ the gardener said. ‘Them’s all in the grand eating room. Her la’ship said she wanted them in there.’

‘Well get some from somewhere else. She’ll be sending you off otherwise.’ Garton marched away.

The head gardener looked at his boy.

The boy looked at his boss, otherwise known as his eldest uncle. ‘Couldn’t we swap ’em?’

The gardener sniffed. ‘We’ll have to. I ain’t getting turned off for no bunch of flowers.’

Lady Tiverton and Rowena found Harriette and the young guest amusing themselves in the morning room. Harriette had abandoned her embroidery and was hanging over Araminta’s shoulder, gaping at her attempts to paint the view outside. Araminta had dragged two chairs to the window. A box of paints balanced on one with a gilt-banded china cup beside it filled with stained water. Seated on the other, she stroked a brush-load of paint across a page of a sketch book. The result so far could not by any means be described as pastel. The gently-coloured lawns and trees outside the window had been transformed into a flamboyant vision of sandy grass and russet leaves dappled with violet shadows.

‘Harriette, close your mouth at once,’ her mother instructed. ‘You’ll catch flies.’

Lady Harriette Foulkes jumped back, her mouth snapping shut. She opened it immediately. ‘Sorry, Mama.’

‘Indeed. Now, has your maid prepared your gown for this evening?’

‘I . . . I think so, Mama.’

The fan gestured towards the door. ‘Then we –’

‘Oh let’s go and see it.’ Araminta waved her paintbrush in the general direction of the door. Purple paint sprayed a line of drips across her cornflower gown. She discarded the brush into the cup. It tumbled out, onto the floor. More purple paint swiped across the damask on the chair.

‘Indeed, Miss Neave. An excellent idea. I was about to suggest it myself.’

Araminta Neave hurried to the door. She led the way out of the room ahead of Lady Tiverton. The Marchioness drew a deep breath and followed in her wake with slow paces. The lace trimming her cap trembled. Harriette’s mouth dropped open again. She glanced at Rowena who had suddenly found something amiss with the cuff of her sleeve.

Araminta lifted her skirts and bounded up the stairs. Lady Tiverton frowned at the undesirable amount of ankle that was displayed. Worse still, so were the ribbons tied round the pink stockings to hold on the rosy slippers.

At the top, Araminta leant over the banister, watching her hostess ascend at a more sedate pace. ‘Pa and I had a bungalow in India. No stairs. Much easier for old folk than these.’ She patted the rail.

Rowena tripped on the next step.

‘Indeed, Miss Neave. How quaint. I believe there are alms houses somewhere on the estate like that. For the lower orders, of course.’

Harriette sent a swift, pleading glance to her cousin.

Rowena promptly pitched her voice ahead of her aunt. ‘What colour is your gown, Harriette?’ she asked brightly.

‘Jonquil. With roses,’ Lady Tiverton said.

‘How lovely. Amabelle has a lovely jonquil gown too. She looks . . . er, lovely in it.’

They reached the landing without further comment. Lady Tiverton preceded the girls into her daughter’s room. The gown in question lay on the bed ready for inspection.

Lady Tiverton bent over it. ‘Yes. Quite suitable.’ A finger flicked one of the organza primroses on the bodice. ‘Yes.’

Araminta arrived at her shoulder. She stared at the lemon confection. ‘My goodness.’

Harriette and Rowena paused at the foot of the bedstead. Harriette swallowed.

‘How tame,’ Araminta announced. Harriette inched closer to Rowena.

‘Tame? Whatever do you mean, Miss Neave? Such pale colours are entirely appropriate for young girls.’ Lady Tiverton’s eyebrows rose.

‘Are they?’ Araminta shrugged. ‘I prefer something more striking. Something like Lady Bradfield’s gown. There was a plate of it in
La Belle Assemblée
last month. She looked so elegant.’

‘Indeed,’ Lady Tiverton said, eyebrows descending into a frown. ‘I’m surprised you read such things. At your age.’

‘Oh, I saw it when the boy brought pa bought the wrong section of it. He sent him back for the right one but I kept it anyway.’

‘Inde –’

Araminta ignored the interruption. ‘It said her gown was purple silk with three tiers of flounces round the hem. Every one of them . . . would you believe it..? was held up by silk roses with amethysts in their centres. There were even more of them under the bodice. And round the sleeves.’ A distant look smoothed her face. She sighed. ‘I’m going to ask pa for one just like it.’

Purple silk and amethysts failed to impress Lady Tiverton. ‘I’m sure you are,’ she said. ‘Now, I must see if Garton has had the flowers changed. Come along Rowena.’

She glided out of the room with only the slightest twitch to her short train. Rowena hurried after her.

Lady Tiverton took her time to descend the stairs. ‘I wish you to do something for me.’ She paused and eyed Rowena on the step behind her. ‘I want you to find out how long Mr and Miss Neave will be gracing us with their presence.’ She scowled. ‘I fear Miss Neave is having an inappropriate influence on Harriette.’

‘Oh, I’m sure not.’

‘I am sure yes. Harriette has as much sense as a mouse. After Miss Neave honoured us with the sight of her gown yesterday evening Harriette asked for a ruby crape one.’ She tapped her niece’s arm with her fan. ‘Ruby crape! I ask you. Ruby crape for a girl just out. Impossible. And what, pray, is
La Belle Assemblée
?’

‘Some sort of ladies’ journal?’ Rowena twisted her hands. ‘Um . . . aunt, I don’t think I can ask how long she’s staying. Perhaps Uncle Tiverton –’

‘Nonsense. He has no idea.’ Lady Tiverton continued her descent. She reached the hall. ‘It was Conniston who asked for them to be invited.’

Rowena stood stock still on the bottom step. ‘Lord Conniston?’

‘Indeed.’ Her aunt twisted back to stare at her. ‘Don’t dawdle.’

‘No, aunt.’ Her bottom lip found its way between her teeth. ‘Perhaps Uncle Tiverton could ask Lord Conniston. Or you could?’

‘Me? Certainly not. No, you may ask him with complete propriety. While you’re dancing with him. After all, he’s offered for Amabelle.’

The thought of approaching Lord Conniston to discover how long a young lady in whom he had evinced a considerable interest was going to enjoy his company sent waves of something approaching nausea through Rowena. Her aunt’s instruction coupled with her father’s order wiped all of the happy anticipation for the ball from her mind.

‘And,’ her aunt continued. ‘You’ll be staying here for the next few weeks.’

‘Will I? But I thought –’

‘I have decided. Harriette will need your example to follow once Miss Neave has departed. I’ve told your Papa’s man to take the carriage home. And your maid. She’ll be needed there. I find you never have enough at Southwold. Minchin will find you one of ours.’

‘Well . . . yes, of course, ma’am, but I think Papa –’

‘Your Papa will not object in the least.’ Another wave of the fan. ‘Now, you may run along. I don’t need you any more.’ The imperious fan dismissed her.

After a precautionary peep round the hall to make sure no doors were opening that might reveal an emerging Mr Neave or Lord Conniston, Rowena walked, or rather ran, across the hall towards the orangery. The long room was the smaller version of the ballroom. The windows were the same full height but instead of a polished wooden floor, this one was tiled with pale marble. No crystal candelabra descended from its ceiling. Instead torchères were mounted along the back wall at frequent intervals. Each gilded band of acanthus leaves supported a single candle whose size proclaimed its origin as the Tiverton chapel. Tall palms in tremendous tubs guarded each side of the door. Orange and lemon trees in decorated pots lined the rear wall. The citrus smell on the warm summer afternoon was delicious. Rowena took a deep breath. The trials of the day, of the week, faded away.

She wandered between the classical urns, trailing her fingers over the leaves and flowers. White-painted metal seats were placed at intervals between the plants. More palms around them created secret arbours. Rowena walked the room’s full length and sat down on the cushioned bench along the end wall. She lent back. Her hands folded loosely on her lap, palms upwards. The peace of the orangery was soothing. She breathed in deeply. The perfume of the exotic climber above her head filled the air.

After several calming breaths, she felt sure her normal, serene disposition had returned. She considered her father’s order and her aunt’s request. Choosing the right moment to confront Lord Conniston was vital. His recent cavalier treatment of her showed he could no longer be trusted to behave like a gentleman. It had quite reversed her previous good opinion of him. He was an unfit husband for any woman of sensitivity, especially Amabelle. She wished he would retract his offer. Wished she could lead him to do so but she could not. Despite her new misgivings, she must obey her father.

Sitting in the peace of the orangery, she planned her comments. First, expand upon Amabelle’s sweet nature. Second, express her own certainty that she would soon accept his offer. After that, mention Amabelle’s infinitely superior qualities as a countess than Miss Neave. Finally, enquire about the length of the Neaves’ stay. That should serve both her father’s and her aunt’s wishes.

Much encouraged, she leant back against the striped linen cushion. The warmth and the scents in the orangery became quite heady. Rowena’s eyes drooped. In a moment she was hovering on the brink of sleep.

The hall door opened. ‘Come in here, ’Minta.’ A pause. ‘There’s no-one about.’

Rowena’s eyes flew open. Every muscle in her body tensed.

‘What is it, pa?’

‘I’ve asked Miss Harcourt-Spence to marry me.’

At the far end of the room, hidden by the palms and bushes, Rowena smothered a gasp.

A pair of hands clapped. ‘That’s fine news, pa. She’s a bit too staid for me but she’ll do for you.’

Rowena’s fists clenched.

‘Indeed she will. She’s a handsome woman and someone of her standing can help you into society.’

‘Oh, pa. You’re not thinking I’d marry Lord Conniston, are you?’

‘If you did, you wouldn’t need any help into society.’