‘You?’
‘Me.’
The pair paused beside the yellow-painted gig.
‘Oh, very well. You drive and I’ll listen.’
Edward’s Mama, Mrs Florence Marchment, stood up from her chaise-longue in the drawing room in a flurry of lace and sarsnet that quite misled everyone about her determined nature. A wide smile pleated the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
‘Darling boy.’ She wrapped her arms round his neck for a few brief seconds before holding him away. ‘Let me look at you.’ Her eyes travelled across his face from side to side, then from hair to chin and down to his toes. ‘I swear you’ve grown thinner.’
‘Not thinner, Mama. Older. It’s been near three months.’
‘I know. I watched every day.’ With a final squeeze of his upper arms, she re-seated herself on her chaise and patted the striped linen cover at her side. ‘Now, sit and tell me all you’ve done.’
Edward shrugged off his travelling coat and tossed it across the end of the chaise. Its many capes fluttered over like the pages of an abandoned book before it slid onto the floor. He settled himself beside his smiling mother.
The next half hour passed in drinking tea and recounting of some of the less trying incidents of the second Punic War. Mrs Marchment exclaimed at the notion of taking one elephant over the mountains let alone heaven knew how many, with or without Hannibal’s supervision. Her delight at having her first-born home again showed in her eyes and smile.
Matthew listened as patiently as he could, reluctant to restrict his mother’s pleasure. His fidgeting showed how little he was succeeding.
‘Mama,’ he said at last. ‘Where’s father?’
Mrs Marchment lowered her dish of tea that had turned cold during Edward’s account. ‘I expect he’s still closeted with Mr Jamerson. I haven’t heard them emerge from the book room as yet.’ Jamerson was the Marchment’s solicitor. ‘I’m sure he won’t be much more delayed.’ She wrinkled her nose after a sip of cold tea. The dish was deposited, unfinished, onto the fragile table beside her chaise. ‘But I haven’t told you our news.’ A heavy sigh slid into the air from Matthew’s direction. ‘Now, Matthew, ancient wars are ancient wars but a wedding is a wedding.’
‘Oh ho,’ Edward said. ‘That will please the ladies. Who’s the unlucky man?’
‘Now dear, you mean lucky. It’s Lord Conniston. He’s been much at Southwold Hall of late.’
‘Southwold?’ Edward grinned. ‘So Rowena’s captured a goodun then?’
‘Now that is vulgar talk. And it’s not Rowena. She’s over twenty, almost beyond any idea of a husband now. No, it’s Amabelle.’
All the humour left Edward’s face. ‘ ’Bella and Conniston? You can’t mean it. She’s only out this year. And he’s ancient.’
His Mama folded her hands triumphantly in her lap. ‘I thought that would surprise you. At one time Papa and I thought you two might try to make a go of it. Not that that would have suited. No, Lord Conniston must have much more appeal to Sir Richard. And he’s not ancient. I doubt he’s much into his thirties.’
Edward scowled. Only having a brother, he had long regarded Amabelle as the younger sister he had never had. ‘That’s still too old for ’Bella.’
‘Well, there’s bound to be an announcement soon.’
Matthew bounced up from his chair. ‘Oh, come on, Eddie, do. Abbie dropped her pups last month. Seven of them. All fine except the last . . . he’s a bit weedy but he’s doing well.’
His mother sighed. ‘Away with you then. Go and see Abbie. Matthew’s been with her every day since.’ She flapped her hand. ‘Go on. Papa should be free by the time you return. You can pay yours respects to him then, Edward.’
Edward collected his coat. Both boys bowed to their mother then the younger hustled the elder unceremoniously out of the room.
Florence Marchment shook her head from side to side causing the lace tails on her cap to flutter. She lifted a copy of The Ladies Companion and addressed her interest to an article therein on the most efficacious way of preparing a hare for jugging. She must show it to cook.
Down in the stables prone on a sheaf of hay, Edward looked at the last and smallest of Abbie’s seven pups his brother held out to him.
‘Here, now you’ve seen all of them. I’m going to call him Mimimus ’cos he’s the smallest. He’s weaned though.’ He smiled at Edward. ‘Eddie? What’s amiss?’
Edward pulled himself into the present. ‘Sorry, Matt, something just crossed my mind.’ He took the squirming little bundle. ‘Minimus is good. Have you named the others?’ Matthew shook his head. With a gritty effort of will, Edward helped his brother select six more names.
Chapter Four
Next morning after a comfortable night in his old bedroom and a late breakfast of thickly-sliced ham and pound cake, Edward had Jessie, his father’s oldest, most placid mare, saddled and set off for Southwold Hall. It was not an easy ride. Not because Jessie would have much preferred to stay chomping grass in the sunny top meadow, which she would and was letting him know it, but because he was attempting to balance a wicker basket on the pommel of his saddle. To make it worse, the wicker basket was not empty. And it was moving. The second of Abbie’s pups was making determined attempts to escape from the old jacket tucked round it, and whimpering all the time. The sound was unnerving Jessie so none of the three was happy.
The route to Southwold Hall took Edward through Fincham Wortly, a route that added to his problems. Several of his parents’ friends, in fact most of them, appeared to have decided today was one for promenading along the main street, looking in shop windows or peering over market stalls and hailing whichever of their own friends they chanced upon. Every one of them who set eyes on him called Edward to a halt to exclaim how delighted they were to see him. The gentlemen enquired about life at university and how it must have changed since they were there, or not, as the case may have been. The ladies declared upon how pleased his dear Mama must be to have him home again. And when they saw the puppy’s little head with its brown eyes and wet black nose appear over the edge of the basket yet again, Edward was forced to explain where he was taking it. That, of course, set off a whole new line of comment, with particular mention of Lord Conniston’s excellent estates.
By the time he escaped from the town the puppy was howling and Edward was considerably less happy than before. In the shade of a wide oak he pulled Jessie to a halt. The basket much inhibited his movement but he managed to dismount without tipping the wriggling contents onto the ground. He sat on the grassy bank. The puppy looked up at him. Edward sniffed. He frowned. The puppy put its paws on the basket’s edge. Edward lifted it and the jacket out. The faded woollen cloth was decidedly damp. Muttering more fiercely, Edward sat the puppy on the grass beside him. He anchored the jacket with one foot and tried to rip it in half. When the cloth stubbornly refused to part, he fished in his pocket for his penknife and struggled a slit in the back seam. The cloth parted. He flung the damp half over the hedge. The other half he folded back into the basket ready for the puppy. It had gone. Four feet away along the bank it was perilously close to what looked like a rabbit hole. Edward leapt up, captured it and wrapped it back into its travelling accommodation.
Jessie had taken no interest in him at all, nor in the puppy’s adventures. Seeing an opportunity, she had ambled down the road to investigate a particularly luscious clump of grass poking through the gate to the field. Edward began to regret the decision for his journey. It was several minutes before he was safely remounted, complete with basket and puppy. Quite ignoring the birds chirping in the leafy branches overhead and the black and white cows placidly chewing the cud in the fields while their calves staggered around on spindly legs, he trotted off towards Southwold Hall, intent on arriving before the puppy could ruin the remaining half of the jacket.
He saw the gates of the hall with as much pleasure
as greeted his arrival in the morning room
‘Eddie!’ Amabelle dropped her embroidery on the settee and ran towards him. ‘You’re home.’
‘Obviously, lambkin.’
Amabelle dragged at his arm ‘You can’t call me lambkin any more. Not now I’m out.’
‘I’ll try to remember, lambkin.’ Edward bowed to Thomasina sitting among a selection of shawls on the armchair nearest the unmade fire.
‘Miss Quigley. I hope I find you well. You too Rowena.’
‘You do, thank you Edward,’ Rowena said. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you home.’
Thomasina struggled free of a red Norwich shawl. ‘Your dear Mama must be so pleased,’ she twittered, her fingers tangled in the fringe.
For the umpteenth time Edward greeted the remark as if it were the first occasion he had heard it that day. ‘Thank you, ma’am, she is.’
Amabelle was peering at the basket. ‘What have you brought?’
Edward held it out to her. ‘A present. If you’re careful, you may look.’
Amabelle reached out her hand and poked a finger into the remains of the jacket. The jacket wriggled.
‘Eek.’ She snatched her hand away. ‘What is it?’
Edward turned the material back gently. The sleeping contents were revealed. It presented an attractive sight. Golden fur, smooth as silk, on its plump little body; long, rounded ears flopped over closed eyes and black nose.
‘Oh,’ Amabelle cooed. ‘It’s a puppy. Look Rowena. It’s a puppy.’
‘One of Abbie’s. She had seven a few weeks ago, Matthew said.’
‘A spaniel then.’ Rowena walked forward and peered into the basket.
The little creature stirred. An eye opened. The thin flick of tail started to bang against the side of the basket.
‘How lovely,’ Amabelle breathed. ‘Is he yours?’
‘I rather thought you might like him. And it’s a her.’
Amabelle’s eyes opened wide. ‘Oh, Eddie. How wonderful.’ She swung round. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’
‘Very,’ Rowena said. ‘But what do you know of raising a puppy?’
‘Oh dear, a puppy, well I’m sure I don’t know . . .’ Thomasina’s voice trailed away.
‘Oh . . . it can’t be too difficult.’ Amabelle pushed the jacket further off the creature. ‘Everyone has dogs.’
‘I can show you,’ Edward said. ‘We’ve had lots of them.’
Amabelle swung back to him. ‘Oh, please. That would be good, wouldn’t it, Rowena?’
Rowena doubts sank under her pleasure that something had finally banished Amabelle’s petulant expression. ‘Thank you, Edward.’
‘That’s decided, then.’ Amabelle clasped her hands together. The puppy gave every appearance of want to climb out of the basket. ‘May I hold her?’
‘I think perhaps we should take her outside,’ Edward said. ‘Dogs need . . . er . . . exercising when they wake up.’
‘Oh dear,’ Thomasina’s hands fluttered. ‘Then it must go out.’
‘Come on then.’ Amabelle grabbed his free hand and dragged him towards the door. ‘We can take it to the knot garden.’
Edward managed a half bow before Amabelle had him pulled sideways out of the room. The basket swung in his hand, the puppy whimpered.
‘Quick,’ Amabelle said.
She dragged him across the hall to the drawing room. Dodging round chairs and small tables, she hurried to the nearest of the tall windows. It opened onto a terrace of golden flagstones edged by a carved balustrade and overlooking a knot garden of clipped box hedges. Beyond it the Hall’s tree-dotted park stretched into the distance.
Three white-painted metal benches ranged along the terrace. Amabelle bumped down onto the first, her muslin skirts ballooning around her. She held out both hands. ‘Give me her, please.’
Edward placed the basket on the ground. He lifted the puppy out. ‘We’d better let her run around for a while.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘I’d thought of Primum as she was the first girl born. Primum puella is Latin for first girl.’
‘Oh, that’s too long for such a little creature.
Edward’s face stiffened. ‘Of course you must call her whatever you please.’
Amabelle belatedly picked up his tone. ‘It’s a very clever name. But you are very clever. Going to university.’ A small frown crumpled her forehead. ‘I’m not clever though and I don’t suppose she is.’ She captured the puppy and held it up to her face. The little creature hazarded a lick at her cheek with its soft pink tongue. ‘I think I’ll call her Primrose. That’s Prim for you and Rose for me.’
Edward grinned. ‘Now that’s your clever idea.’
Back on the ground under the concerned eyes of two young people, Primrose reached the edge of the terrace. She pushed her little head between two of the balustrade’s carved pillars. Edward strode over and collected her before curiosity and gravity landed her in the garden three feet below. He put her carefully into her new mistress’s hands and sat down.
‘Oh, she is such a darling. I’ll make her a little bed of my best shawl and she can sleep in my room.’
‘I’d make do with some straw in a box for a while. Just until she’s . . . er . . . a little older.’
The puppy nuzzled Amabelle’s hand. She smoothed a finger over its head and ears. ‘She’s so soft.’ She leant back on the seat, looking down the garden. ‘She will be so happy here.’
Edward scuffed his heel at the paving stone under his foot. ‘I hope she’ll be happy at Ampney Park too.’
Amabelle gaze wandered from puppy to friend. ‘Ampney Park? Why Ampney Park?’
‘That’s Conniston’s major estate. You’ll be going there. Once you’re married to him, I
‘Bah.’ Amabelle straightened. Her dark curls tossed against their restraining ribbon. ‘I’m not marrying him. That’s rubbish.’
Edward stared at her. ‘But Mama said –’
A dismissive hand waved. ‘Papa says so too. And Rowena, but I’m not going to. I don’t like him.’
Now Edward’s mouth drooped open. ‘But he’s an Earl.’
‘I wouldn’t care if he were a Duke. Papa can keep me n my room as long as he likes, I’m not marrying him.’
The expression on nineteen-year-old Edward’s face brightened. ‘He can’t keep you in your room for ever. You’re not there today.’
‘That’s because he said I was to do my needlework in the morning room and learn my manners from Cousin Thomasina.’
‘Good heavens.’
‘I know. If everyone insists I’ll run away.’
The nineteen years became heavily sensible in advice to seventeen years. ‘Don’t be a goose. You’d starve. Or worse.’
‘What could be worse than starving?’
‘Well . . .’ He pulled his heel over a small cluster of grass blades that had seeded themselves between two slabs. ‘You don’t need to know.’
‘Anyway, I wouldn’t starve. I have a scheme. I shall be a milliner and trim bonnets.’ She turned an engaging face towards him. ‘And you’d help me, wouldn’t you? You’re my oldest friend.’
Edward bounced up. Primrose yelped and cowered in Amabelle’s arms. ‘I most certainly would not. It’s a stupid idea. And Papa is a Member of Parliament. I’ll take his place eventually. Helping you run away would stop that for certain.’
Tears bloomed into Amabelle’s eyes. ‘I think you’re horrid. And not a true friend. A true friend would help me all he could.’
‘I am your true friend.’ He pointed at Primrose. ‘I brought you her.’
Words caught in Amabelle’s throat. She blinked. She sniffed. She stamped her foot. She turned a shoulder to her oldest friend.
Edward drew a deep breath. He bowed. ‘Please give my respects to Mis
s Quigley and Rowena.’ He bowed again and walked away leaving Amabelle open-mouthed on the garden seat.
Chapter Five
While Amabelle was snuggling Primrose’s ears and sniffling over Edward’s mean dismissal of her scheme, Thomasina was dozing under several shawls before the morning room fireplace. Small snores reached Rowena sitting at the table. Lying before her were two books. A grey, linen-bound one with a few dark thumbprints on the front cover and a larger, dark brown one.
Rowena nerved herself for the task. She would much rather be sitting in the shade of one of the beech trees and reading poetry than sitting here with the household books. Determined not to sigh, she opened the grey one well past its centre.
On the right-hand page Mrs Kesgrave had written her menus for the following week. Mrs Kesgrave was an excellent cook. Her only drawback was a deep superstition of sauces. To her mind there was a good white parsley sauce for fish, a mint one for lamb and a thick gravy for everything else. Her gammon hams, however, were magnificent and her raised pies and sirloin in onions were renowned countywide.
Rowena had progressed through Sunday’s suggestions to Monday’s nuncheon when the door opened and Phillips, the butler, entered. In his left hand he carried a silver platter. He progressed in measured paces to Thomasina.
‘A letter, ma’am.’
‘Oh, my.’ Thomasina opened her eyes, untangled her mittened hands from her lap and picked up the missive. She held it at arms length, squinting at the superscription.
‘It’s for Miss Rowena,’ Phillips said.
‘Oh, well, dear, you had better open it.’ Thomasina flapped the letter in her hand.
Phillips rescued it and presented it to Rowena.
She slid her finger under the fold. The wafer parted. A large embossed card slid out. Scrolled writing covered the front. ‘It’s from my aunt.’
Thomasina clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, how exciting. What does dear Lady Tiverton say?’
Phillips progressed towards the door rather more slowly than usual.
‘It’s an invitation for Amabelle and me to attend her country ball.’ She turned the card over. Thin writing, almost illegible, meandered across the back. ‘She asks us to spend the next few days with her at Darnebrook Abbey.’ A frown. ‘Something about Harriette and another girl.’
Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) Page 3