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
Rowena 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 l
ooked 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.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning Rowena sat in the small dining room staring at a morsel of ham on her plate. Her appetite had vanished again. She pushed the ham around with a fork. ‘Stop worrying,’ she whispered to herself, afraid the two maids hovering by the array of chafing dishes on the buffet might hear. ‘It was nothing.’ Images of Lord Conniston laughing at Miss Neave’s comments reared in her mind. ‘Nothing,’ she repeated.
With renewed confidence, she lifted a small sliver to her mouth. The door opened and Lord Conniston entered.
‘Good morning, Miss Harcourt-Spence,’ he said.
Rowena chewed rapidly and swallowed. ‘Good morning, my lord,’ she spluttered.
Conniston bowed, any expression on his face hidden as he strolled to the buffet. Moments later he carried a healthy plate of kidneys with stirred egg to the table and seated himself opposite Rowena. The smell of them caused Rowena to gulp. He smiled at her. The knife in her hand quivered. He smiled again and interspersed the consumption of his breakfast with comments about the weather, the roads and the day’s prospects.
Rowena suspected that he was deliberately avoiding the subject of Amabelle. She cudgelled her mind to think of a way of introducing her name into the desultory conversation. ‘My lord –’ she began. The opening door interrupted her. Araminta Neave appeared on the threshold.
There was no hint of the simple morning gown in her attire. She was dressed for riding in a costume of stunning design and colour. Deep gold velvet skirts trailed from a high bodice. In one hand she carried a matching spencer heavily frogged down its front and sleeves with gold braid. In the other a gold tassel trailed from a dashing bonnet.
Araminta swept towards the table, her skirts trailing behind her, and smiled at them both. ‘Lord C, do you think the Marquess will let me borrow a horse from his stables? I’m desperate to shake the fidgets out of my legs.’
A surprised cough forced itself out of Rowena’s mouth. She hurriedly dabbed the napkin at her
lips, pretending to have choked a little.
‘You are inconvenienced, Miss Harcourt-Spence?’ Lord Conniston asked.
‘Not at all, thank you. A small crumb only.’
‘Indeed. I find ham is often full of crumbs.’ He directed his gaze back to Araminta. ‘You want to ride then?’
‘Oh yes. I love it. Have done for years. Ever since I went to India. After ma died he didn’t want me brought up among a lot of spinsters in England so he came home to fetch me.’
Rowena stared hard at the ham lying pinkly on her plate. Did she count as a spinster? She was intensely grateful that Miss Wexley had not yet appeared. Conniston shot another amused glance in her direction.
Rowena lifted her head. ‘How very exciting, Miss Neave. Were you not at all scared?’
‘Good heavens, no. I don’t scare easily. Pa never allowed it. He said facing down a fear was the only way to conquer it.’
Rowena thought of Sir Richard’s intrepid prowess over the fences and was relieved he had not followed the same child-rearing regime. The arrival of his second wife, a lady of sensitivity and sympathy, was something for which she decided to be even more thankful. Although, now she thought of it, facing down Lord Conniston would serve her father’s orders very well.
‘So,’ Araminta continued. ‘What do you think, Lord C? Will I be allowed a horse?’
Conniston bestowed a smile on the stunning Miss Neave. ‘I think Tiverton will be hard put to refuse.’
Rowena’s heart sank. She rallied. Attack the enemy, she decided. It was the only way. Turn Miss Neave’s philosophy against her. She picked up her fork. ‘Perhaps Lord Tiverton’s horses will be too spirited for you.’
Conniston bestowed the brightest smile Rowena had ever seen on his face to the laughing Miss Neave. ‘In that case, I had better come with you,’ he told her.
Rowena’s fork clattered back to the plate. She bit her lip. There must be something to divert his attention from the vision before them. She cast a glance at the three tall windows. ‘I think I heard mention of rain this morning.’
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