Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1)

by Caroline Ashton

  Mr Filbee watched her every step across the room. His wife looked at Amabelle’s gown.

  ‘You’ve soaked that. Didn’t I see you had another?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. A muslin. With green sprays.’

  ‘Well put that on and tidy your hair.’

  ‘If you please ma’am, I didn’t . . . I mean, I’ve lost my hairbrush.’

  Maria Filbee sighed. ‘Wait here.’

  Amabelle stood, clutching the dripping jug, very conscious of Mr Filbee’s scowl. Maria disappeared out of the room to return a few moments later holding a brush and comb.

  ‘What are you doing with those?’ Her husband peered over the top of his newspaper.

  ‘The girl needs to tidy herself. We can’t have her working in the shop like that. Whatever would Lady Brinkley think?’

  Her words acted like a spur to her husband’s mind. The newspaper descended. ‘Indeed.’ He scowled. ‘But don’t give her new ones. You have them and give her your old ones.’

  Maria Filbee smiled. ‘What a good idea. You are so thoughtful, my dear.’ She stuck the comb into the brush’s bristles. ‘Here. Take these and be down again in five minutes.’

  It was nearer ten minutes before Amabelle appeared in the shop. Mr Filbee was inspecting the contents of two of the drawers behind the counter. His wife was rearranging the items on the wide table drawn up to the window.

  Mr Filbee straightened up. ‘Here.’ He held out a cloth. ‘Dust those shelves but don’t disturb what’s on them. I don’t want you making a mess.’

  Amabelle looked at the series of shelves beside the mirror. They almost reached the ceiling.

  ‘Don’t stand there gawping, girl. What’s the matter? Haven’t you used a duster before?’

  ‘No. Ellie does.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’ve washed Mama’s ornaments with Rowena though.’

  Mrs Filbee cast a quick glance at her husband. ‘Rowena’s your sister is she?’

  Amabelle twisted the cloth in her hands. ‘Er . . . a friend. She’s a friend. Just a friend.’

  ‘How nice to have a friend,’ Maria Filbee said calmly. ‘I hope she lived nearby.’

  ‘Oh . . . yes. In Fincham . . . Green.’

  ‘How lovely. Now, wipe the cloth along the shelves and when it’s dusty take it out the back and shake it. Be careful or it will make you sneeze.’

  On Amabelle’s first trip to shake the duster, Maria Filbee said, ‘So the sister is Rowena and the maid is Ellie. And they live near somewhere that starts with Fincham.’

  ‘Why do you say so?’ Her husband raised the blind at the front door and flipped the Open for Business sigh round on its cord. It swung against the glass briefly.

  ‘Because the child is a hopeless liar.’ Maria smiled. ‘We’ll soon have it out of her and then you can contact her family.

  ‘Me? Why should I put myself to that trouble? You may write to them. It will read better coming from a woman.’

  ‘As you say, dear. I shall write.’ The window arranged to her satisfaction, she walked to her husband and patted his arm. ‘You are always so clever, dearest.’

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Gerald Marchment commanded his carriage, his wife and his heir and had them all conveyed to Southwold Hall immediately after he had broken his fast but well before Edward had the chance to do the same.

  Phillips showed them into the empty morning room. ‘I’ll inform Miss Harcourt-Spence of your arrival, ma’am, sirs.’

  He proceeded out of the room at a stately pace, closing the door behind him.

  Mrs Marchment proceeded, equally majestically, to the nearest chair, turning it to a position where the unsympathetic morning sun would not fall directly onto her face. She sat down, handkerchief in hand, ready to hear the worst. ‘There! You see, Mr Marchment, I told you we would be far too early.’

  Her reprimanded husband chose not to hear her. ‘It’s well past ten o’clock, Edward. As soon as we’ve seen Rowena and ascertained Sir Richard’s condition, you and I will leave for Lyngham. Your Mama may remain here and help Rowena bear her troubles.’

  Neither Edward nor his Mama looked over-impressed by this arrangement but before either could protest, not that Edward would have dared to, the door opened.

  ‘Rowena, my dear,’ Mrs Marchment raised a hand. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Never mind how she does, madam,’ Mr Marchment told his wife, directing his gaze at Rowena. ‘How does your father?’

  ‘I thank you for your concern, sir,’ Rowena said, curtseying to Mrs Marchment. ‘Mrs Cope tells me he had a quiet night but I’m sorry to say he has not woken.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Mr Marchment grunted.

  His wife hurried into speech. ‘I’m sure that’s all to the good. Rest will soon bring him to his senses.’

  The look she received from her husband showed he disagreed. ‘Edward and I will set off now,’ he said, ‘and bring the stupid girl home. We’re sure to find her. There cannot be many girls of her standing marooned in Lyngham with my idiot son. Someone will be bound to have seen her.’

  Mrs Marchment waved the scrap of lace handkerchief. ‘Never say so, sir. Matthew is a sensible boy, he will have taken her to the vicarage, I’m sure.’ The handkerchief subsided into her lap. ‘There is a vicarage in Lyngham, isn’t there?’

  ‘No doubt, but –’

  A commotion sounded outside the front of the house. Wheels crunched on gravel. A horse whinnied. A door opened and was banged shut.

  The occupants of the rooms stared at each other.

  Matthew burst into the morning room, flushed and untidy.

  ‘Matthew, darling, you’re home.’ His mother clapped a hand to her chest in relief.

  Rowena hurried towards the hall. ‘Amabelle?’ She stopped. ‘Where’s Amabelle? Isn’t she with you?’

  ‘No.’ Matthew ran his hand across his hot young face.

  Mr Marchment looked from empty hall to younger son. ‘Explain yourself, sir. Where’s Amabelle?’

  ‘In Barton Green for all I know.’

  ‘Barton Green? What’s she doing there?’ Rowena clasped both hands round his arm.

  ‘Indeed, sir. Why have you left the girl alone?’ Mr Marchment advanced upon his son. ‘I’d have expected better from a son of mine.’

  ‘Better? Better?’ Matthew’s face coloured a deeper red. His fists clenched at his sides. ‘I think that’s dashed unfair of you, sir. Have you tried to stop the silly idiot when she’s taken a madcap notion into her head? I have and it isn’t easy, I can tell you.’ He paced backwards and forwards across the floor.

  ‘I’m sure –’ his mother began.

  ‘I think you might be a little more generous, sir,’ the much-tried youngster told his father. ‘First the stupid girl drives over to us and nearly kills herself and Ellie. Then instead of me waving her off alone on her hair-brained scheme, I go with her, trying to persuade her to give it up every step. And what does she do after I’d paid for rooms at the inn? And dinner? Ha!’ He spun on his heel and paced some more. ‘Off she goes on the stage to Barton Green without so much as a by your leave or a thank you.’

  Rowena caught his arm and pulled him to a halt. ‘I’m sure you did all you could, Matthew, and I’m very grateful.’

  ‘Well I’m glad someone is.’ The alarms and exertions of the past twenty-four hours were steadily catching up with him. ‘It was dashed hard going, I can tell you. And the inn at Lyngham.’ His hands encompassed the enormity of it. ‘I’m never going there again. Dreadful place. The only rooms the beast of a landlord would grant us were up in the attic. Dashed awful. Not to mention the whole thing being dashed awkward too. I’ll never forget the look he gave us when I said she was my sister. And I’m sure there were fleas.’

  A squeak emanated from his mother. ‘Fleas? Oh never say so.’ She flapped her handkerchief at him. ‘S
tay away until you have doused yourself.’

  Matthew executed the most perfect of bows. ‘I thank you ma’am.’ Sarcasm edged his voice. ‘Praise I did not expect, but a little sympathy would not be amiss.’

  ‘Don’t presume to address your mother in that fashion or I’ll horsewhip you myself.’

  ‘You do that, sir. It will be a pleasure after the past few hours.’

  ‘Oh, never say so,’ his mother wailed.

  ‘Papa,’ Edward said. ‘Should we perhaps be setting off for this Barton Green?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please, Mr Marchment.’ Rowena released Matthew. ‘I beg you to waste no more time.’

  ‘Very well.’ The disgruntled patriarch bowed to her. ‘Come along Edward. As for you, Matthew,’ he scowled at his younger son. ‘You may conduct your Mama home.’

  So saying he walked out of the door, glaring at Phillips who was inspecting the quality of the dusting in the hall.

  Edward clasped Rowena’s hand as he passed her. ‘Try not to worry. We’ll bring her safe home.’

  Father and elder brother left the younger son to the tender mercies of the mother.

  ‘Sit down, dear.’ Mrs Marchment indicated the chair nearest to hers, forgetting about the risk of fleas. ‘Tell us everything that happened.’

  Matthew was only too pleased to relieve himself of the burden of the past hours to a sympathetic audience. It was some time before he realised the master of the household was not present.

  ‘But where’s Sir Richard? Has he gone to Lyngham?’

  A heavy silence fell in the room. Matthew looked from face to face.

  His mother wrenched herself from her maternal concerns. Reverting to her normal calm manner, she said, ‘Sir Richard has suffered a grievous fall. He and Edward set off after you as soon as they might. By the greatest misfortune they chanced upon a gig and thought it was you. The driver took such exception to being chased down that he frightened Sir Richard’s horse into rearing.’

  ‘But Sir Richard’s a magnificent horseman. However was he dismounted?’

  Mrs Marchment shook her head. ‘We don’t know. Edward was too put about to say. After all, he had to arrange to have him brought home.’

  ‘Brought?’ Matthew looked from his mother to Rowena. ‘Couldn’t he ride?’

  ‘Papa was knocked out of his senses.’ There was a quaver in Rowena’s voice. ‘He has yet to be restored to us.’

  ‘Good God, that’s dreadful.’ Matthew’s face bore testimony to his attempts to find something supportive to say. He failed. ‘Whatever will ’Bella say when she comes home?’

  ‘I very much hope,’ his mother said in ringing tones, worthy of a dowager, ‘that she will be brought to a proper sense of a daughter’s duty.’

  Rowena twisted her hands together. ‘Always assuming she is brought home.’

  ‘Now, my dear, you must put your trust in Mr Marchment. He will discover her, I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh yes he will. Pa knows everyone in the county.’

  The thought of everyone in the county being questioned about Amabelle’s disgrace brought a tremor to Rowena’s lips.

  ‘Barton Green is in the county, isn’t it Mama?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, darling. How long did it take you to drive home?’

  ‘I don’t know. It felt like forever. And anyway, I only came from Lyngham.’

  ‘Perhaps we could find a map. Have you a map, Rowena? Perhaps in poor Sir Richard’s book room? If we –’

  Rowena jumped up. ‘Would you like some tea, Matthew? Excuse me while I arrange it.’

  She hurried out of the door, only to lean with her back against it, hands covering her face. Ellie was crossing the hall. A flat work-basket dragged from one hand and bumped against her knee. The tin of grate blacking balanced on the cloths in it wobbled precariously. She stopped.

  ‘Is everything all right, miss? Do you need anything?’

  ‘I need a lot of things, Ellie.’ Rowena pushed herself upright. ‘Most of all I need Papa to wake up and my wickedly stupid sister to be found.’

  Ellie had never heard such critical words uttered about Amabelle by her sister before. She clutched the basket handle with both hands. The tin wobbled closer to the edge. ‘Oh, miss. We’re ever so worried.’ Her chin trembled. ‘If only I’d stopped her, miss. She’d be safe home and the master wouldn’t be at death’s door.’

  Rowena drew a deep breath. ‘You did all you could, Ellie. And Papa is not at death’s door. I don’t know why you think he is.’

  ‘But Mother Haswell said he was, miss, when she was having her bread and dripping with cook. She said she’d seen the signs before and she said –’

  ‘Mother Haswell should not gossip in the kitchen. And you should not repeat it to me or anyone else. Now run along and ask Mrs Kesgrave to send us some tea.’

  Close to tears, Ellie hurried across the hall to the plain door at the rear. The tin departed the basket and rolled across the tiles. She grabbed it up and fled.

  After the door had banged shut behind her, Rowena steeled herself to re-enter the morning room.

  ‘We’ve decided Barton Green is just over the border, my dear. That will put it in Lord Conniston’s county. Perhaps he –’

  ‘Oh, heavens – I promised I would write to him if there was any news. Will you excuse me a moment while I scribble a note?’ She ran to the door. ‘The tea will be here soon. Please don’t hesitate to take some.’

  Sir Richard’s study was closer than her own room. The smell of his tobacco lingered. Rowena swallowed the lump in her throat. She seated herself at his desk. Sheets of cream writing paper were in a leather folder. Soft shadows of her father’s fingerprints patterned the green leather cover. Tears rose in her eyes. She smoothed her fingers over the surface then over the angles of the cut-glass, silver-trimmed inkwells. The pen lay on the matching tray.

  My dear Lord Conniston . . . she began. She stopped. Was that too personal? How about My Lord Conniston? No, he was certainly not her Lord Conniston. Just Lord Conniston perhaps? Never, that was too abrupt, especially considering the insult her family had offered him. Several seconds of chewing the end of the pen decided her. She crumpled up the paper and started afresh.

  Dear Lord Conniston,

  I regret I must now tell you that Amabelle has fled from Lyngham and Mr Marchment’s younger son and taken the post to Barton Green which I know is in your county.

  She paused, crossed out know is and squashed in believe to be above it.

  I very much regret that news of her situation may become known there which can only add to her disgrace and your discomfort. I must apologise once again on behalf of our family for the insult to your name and position.

  As she wrote the final word a tremendous crack of thunder rattled the window pane. The sky that had shown itself sunny and bright in the morning had darkened to deep grey. She folded the sheet, affixed a wafer then hurried down to the kitchen, calling for Phillips.

  The butler disturbed himself from cleaning the silver epergne at one end of the kitchen table. He stood up. The cook gave her well-scrubbed pine a searching glance, looking for dirty marks.

  ‘Please take this to Mr Patterson and ask him to send one of the grooms to Ampney Park with it.’ She held out the fold of paper. ‘I fear he may be soaked if the rain starts soon but it cannot be helped. It’s vital it reaches his lordship.’

  ‘Ampney Park, ma’am? I thought his lordship was gone to his sister at Rushton Court.’

  Rowena bowed her head to rub three fingertips on her forehead. ‘Was he? I can’t remember.’

  ‘I thought so, miss. That’s where she lives.’

  Rowena rubbed harder, dragging the memory of Lord Conniston’s final words to her the previous evening up through the rigors of the day. ‘No. No. He definitely said Ampney Park.’ She looked up. ‘Tell Mr Patters
on Ampney Park, please.’ Phillips left the kitchen. At the door to the passage, Rowena stopped. ‘Has Miss Quigley risen yet?’

  ‘No, miss,’ Ellie answered. ‘She said she was so flagged by events that she would keep to her room today.’

  Rowena experienced a desire that she too could keep to her own room today. Yet a degree of thankfulness remained. She would be spared Cousin Thomasina’s depressing thoughts endlessly recounted to her. ‘Thank you, Ellie. Please don’t disturb her. I will keep Papa company after Mrs Marchment and Matthew have left.’

  Taking a deep breath, she nerved herself to hear more of Matthew’s adventure until he left and she could climb the stairs to see if her father was better or worse. She felt completely alone with no-one to share her burdens. No, she told herself, that is odious self pity. Even now Mr Marchment and Edward were riding away, trying to solve the problem. They really were very kind. If only a certain brown-haired, grey-eyed individual was . . . No, no, no. She must not wish for that. The present situation had banished him for ever.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  By the time Matthew had related the entire course of his trials the rumbling clouds overhead had turned even darker. Rowena persuaded him to convey his mother home before the storm broke. She waved them off then trod up the stairs with a heart that was heavily laden.

  The door to her father’s room opened silently on its newly-greased hinges. The interior was buried in gloom. The heavy drapes at the window had been pulled tightly closed. The only light was that which escaped through a small gap in the centre or radiated in weak flickers from the fire burning in the grate. Infrequent snores emanated from the slumped figure occupying the padded, bedside chair. Mrs Cope had propped an elbow on the chair’s arm and her cheek on the back of the raised hand. Every few seconds her head jolted up when it threatened to slide off the hand. Each movement produced a short snore from under the skewed linen cap.

  ‘Mrs Cope.’ Nothing. Rowena raised her voice slightly. ‘Mrs Cope.’