Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1)

by Caroline Ashton

‘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.’

  Rowena pressed her hands over her mouth.

  ‘But he’s offered for Miss Rowena’s sister.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve heard the girl won’t have him.’ A laugh rumbled down the room. ‘The stupid chit. Anyway, now she has, you’re quite at liberty to encourage him.’

  ‘Well . . . if you say so, pa, but I really don’t want to be part of society. It’s all too boring.’

  ‘We shall see. You might change your mind if we can get you to some of these balls and such next Season.’ A pause. ‘I’ll still wed Miss Rowena though. I’m not getting any younger. If I’m going to do it, I need to do it now.’

  ‘If you want to, pa. She can nurse you when you’re old.’

  Under her hands, Rowena was forced to bite her lip.

  ‘She’d do more than that I hope. Anyway, to please me, see if you can engage Conniston a little. I’ll offer for Miss Rowena again. There’ll be plenty of opportunity at the ball.’

  A heavy sigh. ‘If it’ll please you, pa, but I really don’t want to.’

  ‘Good girl. Come along now.’

  Footsteps sounded. Rowena shrank back into the seat, heart scarcely beating. The footsteps receded. A door opened. It shut.

  Silence.

  Rowena’s heart thumped into disbelief.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The countryside around Darnebrook Abbey was throbbing with excitement. Or at least those families who had received invitations to the Tiverton Ball were. Embossed invitation cards had been displayed on the mantles of those so favoured for the best part of a month, much to the discomfort of less favoured individuals. Dresses had been bought, stitched or made over. Carriages and gigs were ordered, borrowed or hired. Dance steps were practiced on wet afternoons. Morning calls had discussed little else.

  When the great day dawned skies were assessed with concern. Would it be too hot for comfort in a ballroom full of energetic dancers? Would it pour with rain and soil the ladies’ slippers and trains? The day, pleasantly warm and dry, was greeted with relief. When it faded into the early evening a welcome coolness arrived.

  As the first of her guests’ carriages pulled to a halt under the portico, the Marchioness of Tiverton marshalled her husband, her daughter and Rowena into a receiving line at the entrance to the ballroom. She ran her eye over them.

  ‘Harriette, do not stoop so. It is quite unbecoming.’

  ‘Yes, Mama. I mean no, Mama.’

  Further down the room, Araminta chattered to her father, Lord Conniston and Madame de Gambade, the petite dancing mistress of uncertain years. Her accented babble was interrupted several times as she demonstrated steps and turns. Madame de Gambade clapped her hands delightedly. The tall ostrich plume on her head nodded and flared in a manner Lady Tiverton privately considered excessive. But then Madame was French and that was never an advantage to Lady Tiverton’s mind.

  The footman at the door cleared his throat. ‘Doctor and Mrs Glennard.’

  The ball had begun.

  Rowena danced with the Reverend Augustus Nethercott’s elder son, Everard; with Captain Fookes of the Fifteenth Light Dragoons, currently paying a duty call on his Mama in Fordingham; and with her cousin Tristan’s former playmate, Berrington Somerville.

  When the set ended, Mr Somerville offered his arm. ‘Would you care for some refreshment, ma’am?’

  ‘Now, now,’ said a familiar voice behind them. ‘You young sprigs mustn’t keep Miss Rowena to yourselves.’

  Archibald Neave lifted Rowena’s hand from Somerville’s arm prior to transferring it to his own.

  ‘I say,’ Somerville protested. ‘I can’t allow that. You’ve had Miss Harcourt-Spence’s company all week.’ He recaptured Rowena’s fingers. ‘I’m sure you will have the pleasure later.’

  Rowena tried to look as if it would be a pleasure. The disappointed suitor watched them depart for the supper room.

  All the tables were occupied, either by couples flushed from dancing or by gentlemen intent on savouring the products of Darnebrook’s kitchens or avoiding the dancing mistress’s attempts to commandeer them to partner a girl in the next set. Along the wall opposite the windows a line of footmen and maids, each holding a silver tray of tidbits, stood in front of the long empty table that would later be filled with the buffet dishes. Couples and small groups meandered up and down in front of them, picking at this tray or that.

  At a card table near the second window, The Reverend Mr Nethercott pushed his remaining tasty morsel of pastry into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. He dabbed at the crumbs with a finger, he conveyed them to his mouth then pushed the plate away. Licking the final soupçon of flavour off his finger, he surveyed the room. ‘Ah,’ he said, catching sight of Rowena and her escort hovering by the door. He rose and flapped his fingers at them. ‘Here, Berrington. Here. Take my seat. I must remove myself before I succumb to the sin of gluttony.’ He rose and held his chair for Rowena, patted her shoulder when she was seated then drifted away to be engulfed by the crowd.

  ‘Now, Miss Harcourt-Spence.’ Berrington Somerville looked at her with an expression of concern. ‘It is passing warm in here. Would you take a little ice, perhaps? Or a lemonade?’

  ‘A lemonade, please.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Excellent.’

  He weaved his way between the tables with determined steps, his eyes firmly on the line of maids. Several of his parents’ acquaintances were seated between him and his goal and commanded his attention. So intent was he on reaching the lemonade, he greeted then with little more than a polite nod.

  Rowena watched her partner’s determined progress until a laugh drifted across the room. It was the vibrant, trilling laugh she had come to know so well in the past few days. Fanning herself somewhat violently she looked in its direction. Seated four tables away beside the door, Araminta Neave was smiling up into the face of a man standing over her. He turned, exposing his profile to Rowena’s view. A scar crossed his cheek. Rowena looked down sharply until another of the laughs dragged her attention back. Madame de Gambade was bearing down on the pair. Jumping to her feet, the laughing Araminta pulled Conniston’s hand. Smiling, he allowed himself to be dragged back into the ballroom.

  ‘Isn’t the lemonade refreshing, Miss Harcourt-Spence? Perhaps you would prefer some blancmange?’

  Recalled to herself, Rowena looked at the glass placed in front of her. She forced a smile onto her face and took a sip. ‘Not at all Mr Somerville. It’s delicious.’ To prove it, she took another gulp. A delicate, somewhat wrinkled, hand descended onto her shoulder. The lemonade gurgled in Rowena’s throat. She swallowed hard, coughed and blinked away the tears that sprang to her eyes.

  ‘Oh, la, ma’mselle.’ Madame de Gambade fluttered her hands. ‘I declare I ’ave inconvenienced you.

  ‘Not at all, ma’am.’

  ‘C’est bien. Maintenent, it ees a shame to see such a ’andsome couple not dancing. Come, come . . .’ She beckoned with all her fingers. ‘We prepare ourselves for the Kelsterne Gardens. You will make an excellent first couple.’

  ‘But we have
only just seated ourselves, ma’am.’ Having at last secured a place and his opportunity of a private discourse with the delightful Miss Harcourt-Spence, disappointment covered Berrington Somerville’s face. The opportunity was demolished in a flurry of French and deplorable English. Rising, Somerville and Rowena were led, or rather, propelled into the ballroom.

  ‘Ah, ’ere we ’ave an incomplete set.’

  The dancing mistress guided them to a pair of couples who had been looking rather disconsolate. She reeled off the introductions. Rowena discovered she was to dance with Ma’amselles Nethercott and Gifford and M’sieurs Wadesworth and Rennick. Mr Rennick was quite the tallest man Rowena had ever seen. She smiled up at him as the set curtsied or bowed. The smile vanished when she caught sight of Lord Conniston behind his shoulder. By his side, her hand lightly in his, stood a beaming Araminta.

  Rowena found herself struggling not to frown. The orchestra in the balcony struck the first notes. Still staring at Conniston and his partner, she missed the set’s first two steps. Somerville was obliged to tug gently at her hand. Her attention summoned, she skipped her way gracefully through the chains, links and circles of the dance. She even managed a smile when, approaching the bottom of her set she came face to face with Conniston dancing towards the top of his. Colour filled her cheeks.

  ‘I say, Miss Harcourt-Spence,’ Berrington Somerville declared at the end. ‘You look quite spiffing.’ He escorted her to one of the gilt chairs under the balcony while fervently expressing his hope of another dance. Or even, if he might be so bold, to be her escort to supper.

  Relief swept over Rowena. She smiled and thanked him and promised him her company. Now, if the dreaded Mr Neave asked her to be his dinner partner she could decline with a clear conscience. She leant back in her chair, watching Madame de Gambade organise couples into long sets for Strip the Willow.

  Mrs Nethercott, seated on the chair beside her, whispered in her ear. ‘I’m pleased to see you are not dancing this set, Miss Harcourt-Spence. I’m surprised dear Lady Tiverton has allowed dear Harriette to join in. Far too vigorous, I fear.’