‘If you would sit down, my lady, I’ll remove your boots.’
Rowena sank into the deep, feather mattress. She held out a foot. No-one had ever removed her boots before. At least, not since childhood.
Mackenzie took them both and, rising from her knees, placed them side by side at the foot of the bed before quietly setting about unpacking the portmanteau that had been placed outside the apartment door.
Rowena swung her feet up and lay back gratefully. Her eyelids drooped. Her breathing steadied. In a few moments she was fast asleep. Mackenzie stopped by the bed, a silver-backed hairbrush in her hands. The new Countess looked tired. Vulnerable and exhausted. Mackenzie had a romantic heart beneath her stern exterior. A young girl, pale faced and golden haired, lying against some flower-strewn, soft green silk was how she had always pictured Elaine of Astolat. Mackenzie sighed. This one would need a gentle hand. And perhaps a shoulder to lean on to mourn her dear parent while she tried to find her feet in a new world. Mackenzie was under no illusion that this was a love match. Gossip about the young Miss Amabelle had permeated the servants’ hall. Although she had not permitted any discussion to include her, she had nevertheless known of it. Mackenzie was a kind-hearted woman. The Countess’s marriage was one of convenience. She promised herself she would do her utmost to smooth her new mistress’s path.
Chapter Thirty Nine
The hateful Mrs Kently sat at the head of the dining table in Southwold Hall. In the very seat that Sir Richard had always occupied. Amabelle stared morosely at her plate. She had abandoned all hope of forcing down the least morsel of food. If needs be she would creep down to the kitchen that evening. Mrs Kesgrave would find her something to eat. Something to stifle the pangs that curled in her stomach. Nothing would stifle the pangs of guilt in her head. She sniffed back fresh tears.
‘I declare,’ Mrs Kently said, ‘the drapes in the room your father previously occupied positively reek of tobacco. I think I will remove them and have some new ones made.’
Previously occupied? Even Cousin Thomasina was alert enough to wince at that.
‘Do just as you please, ma’am,’ Amabelle said, flinging down her fork. ‘I shan’t be here to see it. I’m going to finish packing my sister’s things.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘She’s the Countess of Conniston now.’ She laid heavy emphasis on the title and had the doubtful pleasure of seeing a spasm of chagrined envy cross the Kently woman’s face.
Rather than going upstairs to Rowena’s room, Amabelle hurried through the door at the rear of the hall. In the kitchen, Mrs Cope sat in her stick-backed chair at one side of the range. Mrs Kesgrave had pulled a straight chair up to the other side. Her hands were folded in her lap and her head nodded. Ellie and the skivvy were slumped on the bench beside the long, scrubbed table. Where there was usually a buzz of activity, no-one moved. Not even when Amabelle entered, although Mrs Cope did look round.
‘Does that person want something?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’ She wrapped her hands round her arms. ‘How can she sit there eating and going on about changing Papa’s room?’
Her words stirred Mrs Kesgrave into action. ‘Heathen woman.’ She stared at Amabelle. ‘I don’t suppose you could swallow a bite.’ She stood up and pointed to her vacated chair. ‘You set yourself down, luv. I’ll fix you summat.’
She waddled over to the pantry door. Once off the latch, it swung open so the ample cook had space to enter. Sounds of clattering and carving soon emerged from the inside. Holding a plate of cold chicken in one hand and dish of rose blancmange in the other, Mrs Kesgrave made her stately way to the table.
‘Here, Miss Amabelle. Have a bite of this.’
‘Oo,’ the skivvy sighed, eyeing the moulded pink castle. ‘Blank mange. I never had none of that.’
‘And you ain’t having any now. I didn’t slave away making this for the likes of you to gobble.’
‘Oh let her have some. It’s not as if Papa’s paying for it any more.’ More tears hovered.
The skivvy’s eyes turned from the sniffing Amabelle to the blancmange. She jumped up from the bench and fairly ran to the cutlery drawer. She was back at the table, spoon in hand, before Amabelle had settled herself into the high-backed chair at the head of the table that Cook kept for her own use. Not even Phillips or Mrs Cope dared to sit in that place.
The cook sighed. ‘Just you mind your manners, young Betsy. Put your spoon down and fetch one for Miss Amabelle. One from the silver cupboard, mind, not a kitchen one.’
The skivvy forced herself away from the promised treat and was back in seconds with a spoon and fork in her fist. ‘ ’Ere you are, miss.’
Amabelle took the fork. She managed two slivers of chicken before helping Betsy attack the blancmange.
‘I wonder when we’ll hear from Miss Rowena?’ Mrs Cope said. She tutted. ‘Countess Conniston, I should say. I wonder if she’s there yet?’
‘She ought to be.’ Mrs Kesgrave looked at the remaining smears of blancmange with a certain amount of regret. ‘They weren’t stopping to overnight anywhere. At least not as far as I heard.’ A small frown wrinkled her forehead. ‘I wonder what her new place is like?’
‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ Amabelle said. ‘We’re all going there. Rowena promised.’
‘Ah, well . . .’ The cook settled herself back in the fireside chair. ‘That’s as may be. Or maybe not. There’ll be folk a-plenty there already. And you can’t trust the gentry.’
Amabelle was licking her spoon like the skivvy. She stopped and lowered it. ‘But you do trust us, don’t you?’
‘Well of course, miss. You’re family. We know where we are with you.’
‘That’s right,’ Mrs Cope added. ‘We’ve known Miss Rowena since birth.’
‘Then you know she never breaks her word. She’s just like Papa.’ Her voice broke but she forced herself to continue. ‘If she’s said there’ll be places for you, then there will.’ Amabelle dropped her spoon onto the plate, almost hitting the skivvy’s fingers that were wiping over the last spears of blancmange. ‘In fact . . .’ she stood up, ‘if we all pack our things now, we’ll be ready to leave horrible Mrs Kently the second Rowena says.’ She paused, looking round the kitchen. ‘I don’t want to stay here any more.’ Tears bloomed in her eyes. ‘It’s not the same now Papa has gone.’ The tears flooded over her lids. Her lips trembled.
Mrs Cope pushed herself out of her chair. The skivvy watched, open-mouthed as the young mistress sobbed her heart out on the housekeeper’s shoulder.
Some considerable time later, Amabelle plumped herself down on Rowena’s old bed. The mattress was bare. The rose-patterned quilt was rolled, inside out, into a bundle at the foot and the sheets were in the kitchen awaiting inspection by the new mistress. The pile of books balanced in the centre of the bed slipped sideways. There were really only the books and a few clothes left to pack. Most had gone with Rowena yesterday. The rest must be folded into the battered trunk that stood, its lid flung open, beside the little carved table, the one that had always supported Rowena’s brush and comb. Always, until yesterday.
Amabelle roused herself. She collected the books. At the bottom of the pile was one covered in blue leather. Silver points protected the corners and a silver clasp shut the side. Diary was stamped on the front in silvered letters. How could Rowena have forgotten to take it with her?
The lock was firmly shut. Amabelle pressed the catch several times but it stayed firmly shut. She put the diary in her lap and stared at it. Would it say anything about Papa? How he was when they’d brought him home?
She bit her lip. She rubbed her finger over the lock. Should she? Perhaps he’d said a few words about her. Would they be kind? Or angry?
With a deep breath, she pulled a pin from her hair. A few pushes and twists and the lock yielded. The diary fell open at a page almost halfway through.
&nb
sp; and how well it suits him. Noble. Dignified. But there is a lift in it to match what I think must be a pleasing sense of humour. Amabelle’s mouth fell open. Rowena had a fancy. She wondered who it was. And why she had never mentioned him. Grey eyes. Curling brown hair that a girl might envy. There was a slight mark upon his cheek but nothing to detract from his pleasant aspect. She blinked. The pages turned under her fingers. I stood up with him for two dances at my come out ball. He is the most graceful of men. Several more pages flipped over. He made me laugh so much on our drive today that Aunt Tiverton almost woke. The neat writing flowed over more pages. Any woman would be most fortunate to engage his attentions. I would count myself the luckiest of them all if it were to be me. Amabelle flapped the rest of the pages over, searching for the final entry.
And there is was. August the second of this year. In an untidy hand that scrawled across the page.
Conniston has offered for Amabelle. What can I do? What can I do but watch their happiness? How will I ever bring my heart to support her in her marriage? Where can I find the generosity and love to see her live my dreams?
Amabelle stared at the page until her eyes hurt. Rowena? Rowena loved Conniston? How could that be? It couldn’t be true. Rowena had never mentioned him, save to urge her acceptance of his offer. Not one other word had crossed her lips. Amabelle clutched the diary to her chest. No, it couldn’t be true. She read it again. There could be no doubt. The words could not possibly mean anything else. It had to be true. Amabelle’s heart ached. How much his offer must have cost Rowena. What a price she’d been forced to pay. No wonder she had so firmly believed that marriage to him would bring happiness.
All her own woes and fears dropped from Amabelle. She held her sister’s heart in her hands. Rowena, dearest Rowena, had been prepared to sacrifice her happiness for her own. The knowledge overwhelmed her. Feelings of utter selfishness brought fresh tears to her eyes. Well that would change now. Now she would do whatever she could to ensure that Rowena was the happiest sister in the world. She deserved nothing less. She sniffed and wiped her tears on her the hem of her gown.
A second bout of pokes and twists with the hairpin locked the diary. Hidden in the middle of the other books, no suspicion that its secrets had been breeched would arise. The remaining clothes followed it into the trunk. With the quilt crammed on top, it looked as if it had been packed in haste. Amabelle lowered the lid. Her fingers trembled on the stout leather straps that held it shut. She buckled them tight.
Chapter Forty
‘Miss Quigley and Miss Harcourt-Spence, my lady.’ Bodellick announced from the door of the vast drawing room.
‘Amabelle.’ Rowena’s face brightened. She bounced up from the damasked and gilded settee and ran forwards.
Amabelle met her halfway. They embraced fervently. Watching the sisters with a fonder eye than he would allow the other staff to see, Bodellick assisted a fatigued Thomasina to seat herself in an armchair so wide it was clearly designed in an earlier age when ladies wore wide panniers over their gowns. She subsided into it with a grateful sigh. The sisters were still exclaiming and embracing.
‘Shall I have some refreshments brought, my lady?’
Rowena switched from being a delighted sibling to the chatelaine of one of the country’s most imposing piles. ‘Thank you, Bodellick. If you would be so kind.’
‘Of course, my lady.’ The butler bowed and withdrew.
‘He called me Miss Harcourt-Spence,’ Amabelle twirled and plumped down on Rowena’s vacated settee.
‘Of course he did. You’re the eldest . . . Miss Harcourt-Spence. The only Miss Harcourt-Spence, actually.’ Rowena looked at the limp Thomasina. ‘I expect the journey has tired you sadly, cousin.’
‘Oh, no, dear. I’m sure the Earl’s carriage was quite the most comfortable I’ve ever been in.’
‘It was as well you ordered it,’ Amabelle said. ‘Mrs Cope and Cook and Ellie took up all the space in Papa’s.’ Her face clouded for a moment. ‘It’s a shame it will have to go back.’
A wave of sadness crossed Rowena’s face. ‘Did you know Mr Patterson’s decided to stay in Fincham Wortly?’ She sighed. ‘I’ll miss him. I’ve known him all my life.’
Both sisters sat in silence, both thinking upon the other person they would, and did, most bitterly miss.
Thomasina had dozed off before Rowena spoke again.
‘Did you manage to pack the rest of my things?’
Her comment reminded Amabelle of her need for a plan. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said airily. ‘I just dumped them all in Papa’s old trunk and shut the lid.’ She smiled brightly. ‘I had so much of my own things to pack, not to mention . . .’ She cast a quick look at Thomasina. ‘All her shawls. I’m sure there are even more now.’ She looked down and picked at a finger. ‘Will Lord Conniston be joining us today?’
‘I’m afraid not. He has been called away. Apparently Colonel Lavington begged his attendance for some crisis or other.’
‘Oh.’
Rowena looked at her sister’s unreadable face. ‘Please don’t fret about meeting him. I’m sure he will be as kind as can be.’ She lapsed into silence for a moment. ‘He has been nothing but kindness itself to me.’ There was a wistful note in her voice that did not escape Amabelle.
‘Oh, I’m not fretting about that.’
‘What then?’
Amabelle found herself on the brink of the novel and unpleasant experience of lying to her sister. She was saved by the double doors opening.
Bodellick advanced into the room followed by one footman and three maids. He took station opposite the massive fireplace. Under his stern eye the footman flipped down the legs of a wide butler’s tray turning it into a table. He set it down, bowed to Rowena and stepped back. The first maid placed a silver teapot stand at the corner nearest Rowena and balanced the teapot on top. The second maid lowered her tray. With hands that shook, the first girl lifted the china from it onto the table. The second maid bobbed a curtsey and withdrew to the footman’s side. The third, and youngest, maid held her tray out for a three-tiered cake stand to join the teapot and china. Their tasks completed, the two girls bobbed their own curtsies and joined their fellows.
Amabelle watched the whole process with mouth and eyes wide. Three maids and a footman for a dish of tea. Bodellick coughed. Recalled to herself, Amabelle adjusted her expression.
‘Will there be anything further, my lady?’
‘Thank you, Bodellick, but no.’
The butler inclined his head an appropriate amount before leading his troops out of the room. At the threshold, he turned and closed the double doors.
‘Well,’ Amabelle said. ‘However many servants do you have?’
Rowena picked up the teapot. ‘There are almost forty indoor staff. That’s all I’ve managed to find out so far. I’ve no idea how many outdoor ones there are.’
‘Forty?’ Amabelle squeaked.
‘I think so. There’s the House Steward, though he isn’t really a servant, more of a . . . well, someone like Papa’s agent. Then there’s Bodellick of course, and Mrs Brinscott, the housekeeper.’ A breath. ‘The cook – I mean the chef – and the sous-chef. My –’
‘Whatever is a sous-chef?’
‘Um . . . I think he helps the chef.’
‘Oh.’ Amabelle pulled a face. ‘Who else?’
‘There’s my maid. Conniston’s valet.’ She held up a hand to count off her fingers. ‘One first footman, two seconds and five ordinary footmen.’ One finger. ‘Six chambermaids and five parlour maids.’ Another finger. ‘Another six housemaids . . . I think. A pair of kitchen maids . . . or is it three? A scullery maid.’ A third finger. ‘There are two tweenies and a couple of laundry maids.’ The final finger. ‘And then there’s Conniston’s old nurse who lives on the third floor and he tells me he’s just engaged a couple of tea boys to carry any parcels I might buy.
Oh yes, I forgot the dairymaids.’’
‘Good heavens.’ Amabelle blinked. ‘To think we managed with just Mrs Cope and Cook and so few others.’
Rowena looked around the room. ‘This is a much large place than Southwold Hall.’
‘I could see that.’ A small frown pleated her brow. ‘However will you remember all their names?’
‘I don’t have to. I won’t see most of them.’
‘How odd . . . to live in a house with people you won’t see.’ The frown vanished. ‘Who do you see?’
‘Bodellick and Mrs Brinscott. I can recognise one or two of the footmen and maids. And there’s Mackenzie, of course.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘She. She’s my personal maid. Which reminds me . . .’ She bent forward and poured tea into the nearest cup. ‘She has offered to train Ellie up to be your maid.’
‘Oh, my. A personal maid.’ Amabelle thought for a moment. ‘Well I’m glad it’ll be Ellie. Someone new would be difficult to settle to.’
Rowena pushed all thoughts of how difficult she was finding it to settle out of her mind. ‘Have some cake,’ she said.
Dinner that evening was taken in the ‘small’ dining room, a room so large everyone’s footsteps echoed around it. Cousin Thomasina had retired to bed, assisted on this occasion by the head chambermaid, under Mackenzie’s watchful eye.
Amabelle had dined in style during her Season but she found Ampney Park far more impressive than anything she had experienced before. She was not accustomed to having a footman hold her chair for her, and remain behind it in case she should have need of someone to retrieve a dropped napkin or knife.
Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) Page 28