‘Now, I suggest a quiet marriage. I can see no sense in a postponement just because we’re in mourning.’ She scanned her niece. ‘Of course you’ll be in black which is not perhaps the most fortunate of things but I dare say we will manage to have you present a reasonable appearance.’
‘I think I must disagree.’ Lady D’Arborough’s voice cut across the planning. ‘It would be most improper for Conniston to celebrate his wedding when Miss Harcourt-Spence is in full mourning. They must wait at least the year.’
Lady Tiverton was uncertain as to which horror presented the worst appearance: that of having a weeping Amabelle under her roof for a year; or the possibility of Conniston withdrawing his offer. That he had not done so when pursuing Amabelle failed to surface in her mind.
The fiancé put an end to the discussion. ‘There is no question of a delay. Miss Harcourt-Spence and her sister will otherwise see their home taken over by people they barely know. If they are to change residence, for example to Darnebrook Abbey . . .’ He executed the smallest of bows in that chatelaine’s direction. ‘Then they might just as well accustom themselves to changing their residence to Ampney Park.’
‘Most definitely,’ Lady Tiverton said. She rubbed her hands together, a rather common gesture for her. ‘Now, who do we wish to see first?’ The ribbons on her bonnet fluttered as she shook her head. ‘It’s a shame the vicar left so precipitously.’
‘I think he said something about a Christening, Mama.’
‘Oh, that is most inconvenient.’ She stared at her daughter as if it was entirely due to her that the Vicar had left.
Harriette shrank further into her chair, her eyes flickering from her mother to her cousin. The expression on Rowena’s face puzzled her. She looked unnaturally calm which was, in the circumstances, amazing.
‘Now, someone must be sent for him as soon as may be.’ Lady Tiverton was well into her stride. Organising a ball for several hundred persons earlier that year had failed to exercise her nerves so it was certain a quiet family wedding would be a mere bagatelle. ‘If Amabelle hasn’t recovered herself to stand up with you, Harriette will do in her place.’
A long sniff emanated from Lady D’Arborough. ‘There will be the banns of course.’ She silently calculated how many times she could manage go introduce Josephine Croyle into her brother’s company in the three weeks it took to read them in both Fincham Wortly’s church and the one on Conniston’s own estate.
Conniston escorted his fiancée to a chair. ‘As I understand it, we may apply to the Bishop for a special licence.’ He deposited Rowena into it with a bow. ‘Do you have the acquaintance of your Bishop?’
‘Yes, I do. He was introduced to the diocese just in time to confirm Amabelle. He declared her a perfect angel.’
Lady D’Arborough snorted yet again. The affianced couple ignored her.
‘Then it will be a small matter to persuade him to allow us a licence since it will assure her safety.’ Conniston smiled.
‘Well I must say, all this haste will occasion comment.’ Lady D’Arborough arranged her heavy garnet bracelet with a certain vigour. ‘It’s well known that you had offered for Amabelle.’
Rowena’s eyes flashed. Conniston placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘An unfortunate choice of word, sister dear. It was not generally known and if anyone gives it a thought it will be a small matter to suggest they had alighted upon the wrong sister.’ He stared down at his own sister. ‘And I’m sure we may count on you to ensure any such comment is met with that response.’
It had been many years since Evaline D’Arborough had dared to face down her brother. She had abandoned the practice after discovering he had, by the age of thirteen, acquired sufficient vocabulary to completely demolish her self-possession. ‘As you wish,’ she said airily, rubbing a finger unnecessarily over a large garnet ring.
‘Excellent. I shall write to the Bishop myself,’ Lady Tiverton announced. ‘I think Tiverton may justifiably be regarded as guardian for the girls.’ She frowned. ‘In fact he may well be.’ She looked across at her niece. ‘Do you know what provision was made in your Papa’s will?’ Rowena shook her head, momentarily deprived of speech.
‘Perhaps we may consult his solicitor.’ Conniston smoothed his hand on his fiancée’s shoulder. ‘I assume it will be one in Fincham Wortly?’
‘It’s Mr Halberton.’ Rowena cast a quick look at her fiancé’s rigid face. ‘He has rooms on the High Street.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. If you will allow me I’ll ask Phillips to send someone for him.’
Rowena nodded silently. Conniston bowed over her hand and went in search of Phillips
Lady Tiverton watched him go. ‘Excellent,’ she said for the third time.
The vicar and the solicitor knew of the situation within the hour. Augustus Halberton was delighted to see the change in the young ladies’ prospects. A tall, well-built man who looked as if he might be more at home guiding two shire horses behind a plough shook Conniston’s hand with vigour. As a doting father of three sons and a glowing daughter, he had been saddened when Sir Richard had explained the prospects for the Harcourt-Spence girls.
‘I’ll prepare a contract for Miss Rowena today, my lord.’ He teetered on the brink of a social solecism, only preventing himself at the last moment from saying it would be the quickest thing to adapt the one he had prepared a few weeks ago for his lordship’s proposed marriage to the younger sister.
He departed Southwold Hall with a smile on his face, anticipating the pleasure of telling Mrs Halberton how fortunate the Harcourt-Spence girls were to be after all. It was news that would please Mrs Halberton, not least because she would be able to repeat it, in the utmost secrecy of course, to all the ladies of her acquaintance.
No sooner had the solicitor departed than the vicar returned. Lady Tiverton had a letter already penned for his Grace. She handed it to him seconds after he crossed the threshold. He took it with some hesitation.
‘Um . . . I had expected to be discussing arrangements for Sir Richard’s internment, ma’am.’
‘That is easily decided. My family always has Rock of Ages.’ She turned to Rowena. ‘Did your Papa have a favourite hymn?’
Seated on a straight-backed chair by the window, Rowena swallowed. ‘He was rather fond of the Twenty-Third Psalm, ma’am.’
‘That is settled then.’ Lady Tiverton wafted a hand in Conniston’s direction. ‘I dare say you’ll read a lesson, will you not?’
‘I think perhaps the neighbour – Marchment is it? – may wish to do that,’ Conniston said. ‘Do you not think so, Rowena?’
She nodded. ‘He and Papa . . .’ Her voiced faded. She swallowed again. ‘Were close friends.’
Lady Tiverton shrugged. ‘If you say so. Write to him, Rowena. It will give you something to do.’
Conniston’s fingers tightened on Rowena’s shoulder. ‘Perhaps we might allow Miss Harcourt-Spence a few moments more before we hurry her into activity.’ He stared down at Lady Tiverton. ‘If you will excuse us, I think perhaps she might benefit from a stroll in the fresh air.’ With a bow to the two married ladies, he helped Rowena to rise and ushered her from the room.
In the knot garden Rowena said, ‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘Not at all. It seemed to me that things were moving at a pace you found distressing. To lose one’s parent and gain a fiancé in the space of an hour is sufficient to try even the stoutest heart, without being set about by a pair of . . . what shall I say? Organising females.’
Rowena plucked a stem from a cloud of gypsophila. The tiny white flowers fluttered in her hand. ‘Lady D’Arborough seemed keen to delay maters.’ She cast a quick glance up at Conniston before returning her attention to the flowers.
Conniston stopped walking. He arrested her with the slightest touch upon her elbow. ‘Rowena, let us agree now that even if we are joined by expediency, there will
at least be honesty between us. I will tell you now my sister had been most determined that I should marry the daughter of a friend of hers.’
Rowena stared at him in surprise.
‘I assure you I have never given either my sister or her friend the slightest encouragement in that direction. And I have been at pains to ensure no such hopes were raised by me in the young lady in question.’ He bent forward slightly, the better to see Rowena’s face. ‘Will you accept my word on that?’
‘Of course, my lord.’
‘And you will agree that honesty is to be the basis of our relationship?’
Rowena nodded. She let a hand fall into the folds of her gown. Hidden in the soft muslin, two of her fingers crossed.
‘Good.’ Conniston continued to walk, conscious that the charming face that had looked up at him was twisting his heart in a fashion he had not encountered before.
His heart was further twisted when a few days later he stood in St Peter and St Paul’s churchyard in Fincham Wortly watching his fiancée follow her father’s coffin up the aisle in a borrowed black gown and bonnet. The gown she wore had come from Mrs Marchment’s second cousin, the only lady in the vicinity to match Rowena’s height. The lady, however, exceeded Rowena’s width and the resulting excess of material had had to be cinched under her bosom by two circles of black ribbon. A few secret stitches on her shift held the shoulders in place. Lady Tiverton had taken one look at the gaping neckline and decreed that, regardless of the late August heat, Rowena must wear her sables. Further misfortune was thus added to a daughter’s trials. Beads of sweat pearled her forehead and stuck the hairs of the sable to her neck. Much affected, he moved to stand beside her through the hymns and the readings; knelt when she knelt, assisted her to rise when she would; and gently supported her arm as the coffin was lowered into the ground.
Her composure throughout was estimable. Her tender consideration to the trembling Miss Quigley was an example much remarked upon by the assembled ladies who hovered like so many black crows in the drawing room at Southwold Hall. Rowena had taken care to stand as far away from its new owners as possible. She received the condolences of her neighbours and acquaintances calmly while a pink-eyed Ellie offered a tray of sweetmeats to the assembled crowd. Her composure was so complete that Conniston’s heart sank at the realisation that he would never be permitted to rejoice with the spirit he was now certain lay beneath.
Lady Tiverton arrived beside him. ‘I think your decision to offer for Rowena is deserving of merit, Laurence. And she will certainly be a credit to you.’ She allowed herself a sip of pale sherry. ‘Not that I can say the same about Amabelle. She hasn’t emerged from her room as yet. Not even today.’
‘I understand Doctor Norton advised against her attending the service. He felt it would strain her sensibilities to braking point.’
‘So he told me. Personally I am disappointed to find her so lacking in respect.’
‘I believe she continues to blame herself for her father’s death. In that circumstance it is not surprising she is at a low ebb.’
‘If you say so. I say though, that you have done better for yourself in the choice of a wife this time than last. It’s a pity you did not make that choice the first time.’
A muscle in Conniston’s cheek flickered. ‘Indeed, ma’am, I thank you for pointing that out.’
The suspicion penetrated Sophronia Tiverton’s mind that she had just been given a set-down. The thought hovered for a moment until she dismissed it as in every way unlikely.
Conniston looked across the room at Rowena. She looked up as if she felt his glance and smiled warmly at him.
Mrs Marchment fanned herself against the warmth in the crowded room. She leant towards her husband. ‘Mr Marchment,’ she whispered. ‘It rather looks as if Rowena and Conniston might be something of a love match after all.’
Chapter Thirty Seven
Fincham Wortly was in a storm of gossip and speculation. The little town was uncertain as to whether it should be pleased that dear Miss Rowena was to marry an earl and therefore become a countess, or be upset that, because of her sudden, sad bereavement, the wedding would be a quiet one with only the family and their closest friends present. Several of the local ladies found they considered themselves to be a closest friend and were consequently disappointed to discover the truth of the matter. Not that they allowed their own dear friends to believe it. No, hints were dropped into many a reluctant ear to suggest it was only the dear lady’s sense of delicacy that had prevented her accepting the invitation.
Lady Tiverton had launched herself into the preparations with a vengeance. She looked upon it as a restricted preparation for the time when Harriette would tread up an aisle, preferably the one in St George’s in Hanover Square. And preferably to a Duke. Or a belted Earl at the very least. She pushed such thoughts from her for the present and concentrated on the problem at hand. She eyed her niece’s somewhat stubborn countenance.
‘My dear Rowena, no-one could possibly object to you being married in something other than black. A lilac gown would be quite suitable . . . especially if you wore black ribbons and gloves. And it would come in for your half mourning attire, always assuming you aren’t increasing by then.’ She paced across the room that had served as Sir Richard’s study. ‘Yes, lilac will do. Or white, of course.’ She turned sharply. ‘Now who’s your local seamstress? She must be summoned immediately, we’ve barely a week left. Conniston and Marchment set off to see the Bishop this morning. If they cannot persuade him, my letter should settle the matter.’ She snatched up a pen and scratched another line on the sheet of paper on the desk, then tapped her front teeth with the tip of the pen. A drop of ink spattered onto her list.
Harriette edged closer to her cousin sitting in the one of the pair of wing chairs her father had not favoured. ‘Best let her have her way,’ she whispered. ‘It’s usually easiest. Otherwise she’ll plague you until you do.’
‘What are you saying, Harriette? Speak up. There is nothing so annoying in a girl as one who cannot command her voice.’
‘I was only saying, Mama, that lilac would be very pretty.’
‘Pretty does not come into it. Suitability is what matters.’
Harriette’s head drooped. ‘Yes, Mama. Sorry.’
‘Now, what next? I think you and Amabelle will be in white. I, of course, will wear my black.’ She jotted another line on a second sheet of paper. ‘Thank goodness I had that black Angoulême for your grandpapa’s funeral last year. It will still serve. I’ll have Minchin replace the grapes with a few black feathers.’ Another line was added to the paper.
Several more lines followed it before Rowena could escape towards the sanctuary of her room. She paused outside Amabelle’s on the way there. Now at least the sound of sobs had ceased. Should she venture in? When she had spoken to her earlier that morning, it had prompted another fit of hysterical weeping. Rowena had listed all the advantages in the forthcoming marriage. None had persuaded Amabelle to lay aside her guilt at being the cause of her beloved sister marrying a man she herself hated.
Rowena continued to her own room. Barely two minutes later Ellie scratched on the door. She came in balancing a stout tankard on a small silver tray.
‘Mrs Kesgrave thought you might like a glass of chocolate, miss.’
‘That’s kind of her.’
Ellie carried the tray closer, her two hands gripping it. Her mouth formed a perfect inverted U. As she drew nearer, Rowena noticed her eyes were puffy and pink.
‘Try not to grieve so for Papa, Ellie. We must be thankful he is spared more suffering.’ She lifted the tankard off the tray.
Released from its burden, Ellie let the tray slump to her side. ‘It’s not that, miss. Not that we’re not all a-grieving for the poor master, o’ course.’
‘What is it then? Has Thaddeus taken a fancy elsewhere?’
Ellie’
s eyes widened. ‘Oh, no, miss. He’s still after me to wed.’ She lifted the tray and ran its rim through both hands. ‘It’s the new mistress.’
Rowena suppressed a sigh. ‘What’s Mrs Kently done now?’
‘She’s going to turn us all off, miss. It’s certain. Her maid said so.’
Colour rushed into Rowena’s cheeks. ‘I’ve heard nothing to that effect. When did she say that?’
‘As soon as she arrived for the master’s funeral. She said that the new mistress would bring all her own people here and we’d all have to go.’ A fresh wave of tears overflowed Ellie’s lids.
There were none in Rowena’s eyes. Only a flash of fire. ‘You may tell everyone that anyone who wants to leave . . . or is made to . . . will be taken on at Lord Conniston’s estates. I shall see to it. Lord Conniston is a kindly man; he will not wish to be the cause of any further –’ She stopped. ‘Of any more distress than my father’s death has already caused.’
Ellie’s tears stopped. She lifted the tray and clasped it to her chest. The sunlight bounced off it into Rowena’s eyes. She winced and held up a hand against it.
‘Really, miss? We can really come with you?’
‘I’m sure you may. Some of the others might prefer one of his lordship’s other establishments to Ampney Park, but you’ll certainly be coming with me once my things here are packed.’
The smile wavered just a little. ‘But ma? What about my ma?’
‘Mrs Jarvis is welcome to accompany you, if that’s what she wishes. She needn’t be left alone.’
‘Oh, thank you, miss. She’ll be that relieved.’
Rowena forced a smile. ‘I’m sure there’ll be a cottage that Lord Conniston can make available to her.’
The tray was hugged closer. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful, miss. She’ll be ever so grateful. She were that keen on the idea of grandchildren. We’ll be able to look after your babies when I’m . . .’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Thaddeus will be coming too, won’t he, miss?’
Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) Page 26