Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1)

by Caroline Ashton

  The final sentence resonated quite heavily with her ladyship. ‘Well, you had better bring them out. Perhaps there will be something I like.’

  Maria drew Amabelle to a stool beside the silk flowers. ‘Busy yourself, Amabelle,’ she hissed. ‘We mustn’t delay Lady Brinkley,’ she added louder. ‘Be careful how you snip the roses off.’

  ‘I should hope she will,’ Lady Brinkley announced. ‘You’ll be quite entitled to take any damages out of her wages.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Maria flitted to the ranks of drawers behind the counter and lifted a patterned box from one of them. ‘Here are the ribbons, my lady. I am confident they will satisfy your exquisite taste.’

  My lady took so long examining each and every wrap of ribbon that Amabelle had removed the roses and applied the trails of mimosa long before she had finished.

  ‘This one,’ she said, holding a coil of toffee-coloured ribbon aloft so it unrolled towards the floor. ‘This one will do.’

  ‘An excellent choice, Lady Brinkley’ Maria Filbee said. ‘Such unerring taste.’ She carried the ribbon, holding it well away from the floor, to Amabelle. ‘Quick,’ she whispered. ‘Fix this on.’

  ‘And I think I’ll take this one too.’ Lady Brinkley held up a length of crimson ribbon embroidered with roses. ‘I can’t think why you didn’t put this with the roses. It’s most attractive.’

  Maria Filbee forced a smile onto her lips. ‘Of course, Lady Brinkley.’ She tried not to think just how well it would have gone with the roses on a different bonnet.

  Lady Brinkley was eventually satisfied. She draped her shawl more evenly about her shoulders and waited for Maria to open the door. She paused on the step while a bright yellow phaeton passed. It did not. The brown-haired man in a many-caped driving coat reined it to an abrupt halt. His tiger on the back seat had to cling tightly to the folded hood. The man surveyed Lady Brinkley. Lady Brinkley surveyed the coat of arms emblazoned on the phaeton side. She turned to Maria.

  ‘It would seem you have another client, Mrs Filbee.’

  The Earl of Conniston alighted from his vehicle, favouring Lady Brinkley with the slightest of bows. She flounced out of the doorway and gave the coat of arms a second penetrating glance. If she could commit it to memory, her bosom friend Leonora Quenington might know whose it was.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ Maria dropped a slight curtsey. ‘May I be of service?’

  ‘I hope so, ma’am.’ Conniston stepped into the shop. ‘I am looking for –’ He stopped moving and talking and stared at the cowering figure clutching a bunch of red silk roses at the rear of the room. ‘Good morning, Amabelle,’ he said.

  Maria looked from her new visitor to her apprentice. Thoughts of a reward, hopefully not too small, invaded her mind. She smiled. She liked it when she was right. Happily, she often was.

  Chapter Thirty

  Amabelle sat beside the Earl in his phaeton. He drove it at a smart clip through the centre of Barton Green. She stared down at the hastily-gathered bundle between her feet.

  ‘Put your head up, child.’ Conniston flicked his whip over the lead horse’s ear. ‘Otherwise people will think something is amiss.’

  The pretty bonnet trembled. The flower-trimmed peak rose. Dark curls that had fallen over a pale face parted. A pair of flushed cheeks and pink eyes were revealed.

  ‘Better,’ his lordship said. Silence greeted his remark.

  The phaeton reached the cluster of cottages at the limits of Barton Green. Amabelle watch the final signs of habitation disappear. Memories of the last few minutes at the Filbees’ establishment burned behind her eyes. His lordship had been horrid. His lordship had been overbearing. His lordship had told the Filbees that she was his ward who had absconded in a fit of pique. His lordship had even thanked Maria Filbee for taking such care of her. His lordship had actually handed over several gold coins for her keep. His horrid lordship had bought her like the meanest slave. Two tears welled over her lower lids and trickled down her cheeks. She gulped.

  ‘Is Papa very cross with me?’

  Laurence Conniston was not an unkind man. He was however a practical one and did not want an hysterical female frightening his horses. ‘You must wait until you are home for news of him.’

  ‘Are we going straight there?’

  ‘No. I’m taking you to my sister’s.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  The lead horse suddenly took exception to three blackbirds that burst out of the hedge the phaeton was passing. His lordship was occupied for a few seconds. When the animal had settled, he answered.

  ‘My sister, Lady D’Arborough, lives at Rushton Court. It’s barely a couple of hours from here.’ He guided his pair of matched greys round an extremely large rut in the road. ‘She will say you have been staying with her since you left Southwold Hall.’

  The flower bonnet drooped again. ‘Can’t we go straight home?’

  ‘Certainly not. That would invite comment. Evaline – my sister – will take you to your home in a few days. No-one can then be in any doubt as to where you have been.’

  The bonnet failed to rise. Two more tears dropped onto Amabelle’s clasped hands. The remainder of the journey passed without another word from her pale lips.

  Lady D’Arborough was not minded to be of generous spirit to Miss Amabelle Harcourt-Spence. When her unwanted guest was shown into the newly-decorated blue salon not even the flushed face and wobbly curtsey that made the simple gown tremble was sufficient to make her view the girl with anything other than a severely disapproving stare.

  ‘So you’re the wilful filly that has been causing all this bother.’ Evaline D’Arborough used a lorgnette and she employed it now to devastating effect now. ‘What flea did you take into your head to do such a thing?’

  The barest whisper informed her ladyship that the wilful filly did not know.

  ‘Humph. Well . . . since you’re here I suppose we had better settle you in. Laurence, ring the bell. I’ll have Mincham take her to a room.’

  Minutes later, Amabelle proceeded out of the salon under the even more censorious eye of Lady D’Arborough’s maid. The sister leant back on her damask sofa and addressed the brother.

  ‘It’s easy to see how you were attracted by the child. She’s pretty enough. I find she has nowhere near enough countenance to make you a suitable wife.’ Conniston took a silent turn about the Aubusson rug in front of the fireplace. Lady D’Arborough raised her lorgnette. ‘Stop that. You’ll wear the surface down.’

  ‘I beg pardon.’ He positioned himself beside the mantle. A porcelain shepherd stood near the end. He moved it a few inches to the right and rested his elbow in the space.

  ‘What are you going to do with her now? Withdraw your offer, presumably.’

  ‘Indeed. I cannot proceed with it in the face of such . . . such . . .’

  ‘Stupidity?’

  ‘I was going to say distress.’

  Lady D’Arborough was a thin angular woman, almost as tall as her brother but without his charm of feature. A narrow fingernail flicked an imaginary speck from her impressive gown. ‘It’s not her distress anyone should concern themselves with.’ She arranged a ruffle at the neck. ‘There’s a sister, I believe. She too must abandon all hope of a suitable alliance.’

  ‘She could still achieve one if we manage to keep this event to ourselves.’

  A snort escaped her ladyship’s sculptured nose. ‘That is in every degree unlikely. Servants talk, they always do.’ She waved the problem away with one hand. ‘No. It will become known. Now if you had followed my advice, you . . . and I . . . would not have been put to this trouble.’

  Conniston sighed. He pushed the blue and gilt shepherd further along the marble ledge with one finger. ‘I’ve told you repeatedly that I have no interest in Josephine Croyle.’

  ‘Nonsense. You could easily apply yourself if yo
u tried. Philomena Croyle’s daughter is everything you could require in a wife.’

  Her brother demonstrated his complete unconcern for the surface of his sister’s expensive rug by flinging himself across it to the window. ‘Apart from the fact, as I have repeatedly said, I have no interest in her.’

  ‘You should have. I admit she has not the most becoming of countenances and she is, truth to tell rather short, but I believe she has an elegant turn of mind.’ She paused. ‘At least Philomena assures me she has.’

  ‘I repeat . . . I have no interest in Josephine Croyle whatsoever. I beg you will leave the subject alone.’

  Evaline D’Arborough folded her lips into silence. Schemes whirred under her elaborate lace cap. As soon as the stupid runaway was restored to her anguished family, she would invite Philomena Croyle and her daughter to stay for a few weeks. He brother would be bound to call sometime during that period. After all, the D’Arborough shoots were famous throughout the county and beyond, and he had never yet missed a season.

  At dinner that evening, her ladyship’s disapproving stare was somewhat dissipated when she set eyes on Amabelle’s cream evening gown.

  ‘Well at least you had the sense to take some decent clothing with you,’ she said, demonstrating her complete lack of knowledge of life outside her own favoured halls. There was little outside her own milieu that aroused her interest. Not unless it affected any of the four symbols, all boys, of her affection and duty to her husband. They had arrived at close-spaced intervals in the first five years after her marriage. None of them, happily for her, were of an age to benefit from association with Philomena Croyle’s rather plain daughter. Two, however, were sufficiently mature to appear at the dinner table in the heavy-beamed room of the Elizabethan edifice that was Rushton Court. Master Maurice and Master Jonathan arrived, clean and brushed, as soon as the second dinner gong sounded. Jonathan was seated between his Mama and Lord Conniston, thus ensuring he was opposite Amabelle. He found himself decidedly unhappy that Maurice, as the elder, was seated beside her.

  ‘Jonathan,’ his Mama proclaimed. ‘Stop gawping at our guest like a common yokel.’

  Jonathan snapped his mouth shut. ‘Beg pardon, Mama, Miss . . . Miss . . .’ He dragged his eyes from Amabelle’s delicate face to his mother.

  ‘Miss Amabelle Harcourt-Spence,’ Lord Conniston supplied.

  ‘She is come to bear me company for a few days.’ Her ladyship raised her voice slightly. ‘D’Arborough? Did you hear?’

  Several yards of polished mahogany away from her, the master of the household roused himself. ‘What? Yes? Quite.’ His rather port-poached eye alighted on Amabelle. ‘Delighted to see you, m’dear. Delighted.’ He returned his attention to the bowl of thick, green soup that had appeared before him, stirring it disinterestedly with a spoon.

  ‘Conniston, I have decided to enjoy Miss Amabelle’s company for a week. Then she may return to her home.’

  ‘Excellent, Evaline. I’m sure you will find her an entertaining companion.’

  His sister surveyed her guest’s gloomy face. ‘Hmm.’ She applied herself to three spoonfuls of soup.

  ‘I say, Miss Amabelle, do you play spillikins?’ Jonathan asked.

  ‘Whoever wants to play that baby game?’ Maurice scoffed. ‘As well play Golden Goose.’

  ‘We shall not play any such nonsense,’ his mother announced. ‘I am sure Miss Amabelle is an accomplished pianist. She may entertain us for a few moments after you join us in the salon.’

  The food in Amabelle’s mouth turned to ash. Neither the prospect of spending time alone with Lady D’Arborough while the senior gentlemen consumed port nor the command to play something acceptable on whatever instrument her hostess favoured appealed to her.

  After dinner, Amabelle survived an intense interrogation about her family and local society and even managed to make a creditable attempt at a short sonata on a gleaming pianoforte. Thereafter Lady D’Arborough lost interest in the younger persons. Maurice and Jonathan claimed Amabelle’s attention. She was soon clapping her hands, shrieking with laughter and bouncing on her toes during an game of carpet bowls that grew more lively by the moment.

  The next seven days passed quickly. Maurice was of an age with Matthew and Amabelle soon lapsed into a similar familiarity with him and his brother. The sun shone for most of the week. Maurice undertook the task of improving her skills at driving a light gig, much to his mother’s disapproval. Her expression of censure was the only cloud on days that proved immensely enjoyable. Best of all was the brief interview with Lord Conniston in which he asked her permission to withdraw his offer.

  ‘Oh, yes, my lord.’ Amabelle breathed. ‘And I’m most dreadfully sorry about . . . about the trouble I have caused you. I beg you to forgive me.’

  Conniston looked from the bowed head and clasped hands to the figure of Maurice impatiently passing to and fro at the far end of the terrace. The matter settled, Amabelle ran off to her new companions. Conniston listened to the bursts of laughter from trio. That was too young for him. He was forced to conclude that marriage to such a young, immature girl would not have suited him at all. No, he needed a woman of more developed character. One who would engage his mind. One, in fact, like Rowena Harcourt-Spence.

  His head snapped back. Why did his thoughts keep straying in that direction? He shook her from them and returned to the house to join his brother-in-law in his book room. Well, tomorrow would see and end of it. He would escort his sister and Amabelle to Southwold Hall. He would pay his respects to Miss Quigley and Miss Harcourt-Spence and enquire after Sir Richard. In the morning he would escort Lady D’Arborough home again and that would be it. There were other interests he could pursue rather than dawdle after females. London beckoned despite the heat, or perhaps he would call upon one or other of his friends. Catching up on the shooting he had missed would drive the last few weeks from his mind. More importantly it would ensure a certain elegant, fair-haired woman would cease to trouble his memory.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Rowena stared out of the morning room window. The midday sun was spreading dark shadows under the single copper beech that stood close to the terrace steps. Burnished leaves fluttered in a slight breeze making patterns against the cloudless sky. The pair of blackbirds that lived in the tree flapped upwards from a lower branch. The grass had been newly scythed. Its scent and the bright chatterings of small birds scratching among the border of gilly flowers and lilies that lined the house drifted through the open window.

  The peaceful scene outside belied the one being enacted in Sir Richard’s bedchamber on the table Doctor Norton had ordered brought up there. Mrs Kesgrave had refused in strident terms to permit her well-loved and well-scrubbed kitchen table to be employed for some heathen act of medicine. A second, smaller table had been carried in from the still-room. Patterson had watched Thaddeus and Gilbert struggle it into the hall and round the corner at the top of the staircase. During their labours, they managed to scrape one corner along the polished banisters. Mrs Cope had frowned at them from the hall. She drew a sharp breath in through her teeth.

  Sitting alone, Rowena tried to banish the image of Mr Patterson standing at its head, holding her Papa’s shoulders down while Doctor Norton wielded his knife over the damaged leg. She pressed her hands together and bowed her head. Soft words begged that Papa would not wake, would stay wrapped in oblivion while the dreadful process continued. Relief that Mother Haswell’s presence had spared her from assisting flooded into her mind. She clenched her bottom lip between her teeth and hoped that her aunt would act upon the news she had sent post-haste to her. Please let her arrive before the day was out.

  The door opened. Mrs Cope bustled into the room with a wooden kitchen tray. She pushed the door shut with her rear. ‘Here we are, Miss Rowena. A nice dish of tea. Just what you need.’ She carried the tray to the small table by the window seat and eased the vase of la
te-blooming sweet peas sideways until there was room to set it down. Without waiting for permission, she poured the dark liquid. No a single drop splashed onto the tray. ‘There, now. You drink it up. We all need a bit of support this day.’

  A knot fastened itself round Rowena’s throat. She tried to clear it. ‘Thank you Mrs Cope,’ she croaked.

  The housekeeper unloaded the teapot and basin onto the table and let the empty tray swing down beside her skirts. ‘Now, your aunt will be here soon and then you’ll have someone to stand with you. It’s a shame Miss –’ She tilted her head.

  The sounds of wheels crunching over the gravel up to the front door echoed round to the back of the house and through the open window.

  ‘Ah . . . that’ll be her now.’ Mrs Cope balanced the tray against her knees. She brushed down her skirt and straightened her cap with both hands. ‘I’d best let her in. Mr Phillips is up waiting outside the master’s room in case there’s summat Doctor Norton stands need of.’

  ‘Oh no, I’ll go.’ Rowena took a quick gulp of tea before setting it down. ‘Thank goodness she’s here at last. Will you ask Mrs Kesgrave for more tea, please? My aunt is sure to need some. She must have set off in haste to be here so soon.’

  ‘Very well, miss.’

  Rowena hurried out of the room and across the hall to the front door. She turned the brass latch and pulled it wide. ‘Aunt –’

  The words died in her throat. Climbing down from his shining carriage was the portly figure Archibald Neave. He was dressed, as usual, in clothes that were too bright and too tight for his bulk.

  He hurried to the door and clasped her hand in both of his. ‘My dear Miss Rowena. What dreadful, dreadful times. Such a burden for you to bear. And your poor pa.’

  Rowena was stunned beyond speech. Mr Neave turned her towards the house. With an arm round her waist he guided her inside.

  ‘I’m not surprised you’re all put about. Any girl would be. But never you mind, I’m here now. I’ll see that all is done for your pa.’