The sisters ate almost in silence. Not until they entered Rowena’s own sitting room did Amabelle burst into speech. ‘This is pretty.’ She ran across the pale patterned rug and peered into the adjoining bedroom. ‘Even prettier.’ She emerged smiling. ‘I’d have though Conniston would have had something darker.’
Rowena forced a mask of blankness onto her face. ‘Conniston has his own apartment.’
Amabelle was not deceived. ‘Oh, of course,’ she said. ‘Mama and Papa did too. Or anyway, rooms. Ampney is so much larger.’ Amabelle paused. She still needed to find a way of helping Rowena. ‘When are you expecting Conniston home?’
‘I think he said a week. Possibly a day or two more.’ Rowena knew his departure had been discussed among the servants. She had caught more than one speculative glance during the three days she had been at Ampney Park. For a husband, even an aristocratic one, to leave home the day after his wedding was not something that reflected positively upon his bride.
‘It must have been really important’
Rowena detected a strange note in her sister’s voice. ‘Please don’t fret yourself,’ she said, repeating her earlier advice. ‘You will find him the most generous-spirited of men.’
In her new room that evening, Amabelle sat on the bed and hugged her knees. Her small white teeth gnawed at her bottom lip. What must she do? What could she do? There had to be a way to solve the puzzle. Beyond the window, the brilliant evening began to fade. The sky lost its high, bright blue. Lavender hues crept upwards. The shadows under the spreading trees edging the lawns darkened. Just above their tops the evening star glittered and still she cudgelled her brain towards a solution.
When the last of the light had faded from the sky, she had it.
It was another four days before Amabelle saw her new brother-in-law. He drove his yellow-painted phaeton smartly up to the main door, jumped down and marched inside, followed by his tiger. He entered the drawing room and bowed over his wife’s hand. ‘Servant, ma’am.’ Turned to Thomasina. ‘Ma’am. I hope I find you well?’
‘Oh, yes, indeed. Very well, thank you, my lord. Most kind of you to ask. Most kind. Thank you.’
Conniston looked about him. ‘Your sister, ma’am? I trust she has arrived too.’
‘Indeed. She is at present walking in the rose garden. She has found it quite her favourite place.’
A bow. ‘I am pleased she has found something to like here.’
Rowena rose. ‘If you will excuse us, Cousin Thomasina, there is something I must discuss with Lord Conniston.’
Thomasina fluttered and twittered and generally gave them to understand she would immediately lock herself away rather than cause them the least inconvenience.
‘Pray do not disturb yourself, ma’am. My library is at hand. Lady Conniston may talk to me there.’
Conniston ushered Rowena out of the drawing room and escorted her into the double-storey library. The word ‘library’ did not properly describe the impressive room. There were indeed a significant number of glass-fronted bookshelves lining one end but the other was taken up with tables and specimen cabinets of shining lacquer or inlaid wood. Each one displayed, or sheltered, treasures and objects the previous earls had collected. The walls above them supported portraits of the same collectors, mounted in heavy gilt frames that glowed against the painted walls.
Conniston closed the door behind them. ‘How may I be of service, ma’am?’ His eyes roved over the slim, elegant figure of his wife. The thud that was now becoming a familiar occurrence struck his heart. She herself was a treasure any man would desire.
Rowena clasped her hands. ‘It’s Amabelle.’
‘What’s the matter with her? She’s not still unwell, I hope?’
‘No. At least I think not. There is something troubling her . . . other than Papa’s death, I mean.’
‘She has said nothing?’
Rowena shook her head. Conniston watched the light play across her blonde curls. His fingers ached to run through them.
‘I think . . . I believe she is nervous of the reception she might receive from you.’
Conniston’s dark brows arched. ‘Indeed? But she has no need. I made sure I showed her only the most brotherly of attentions before our wedding.’
‘I know. And I will always be grateful to you, my lord.’
Conniston rubbed a thumb across his scar. ‘Very well, I will make further efforts to reassure her. Will that suffice?’
‘Thank you, my lord. You are very kind.’
Conniston was conscious of a fierce desire to be even kinder. He quashed his feelings down by frowning furiously.
Rowena saw the change in his expression. Her heart turned colder. If only he would abandon this dreadful formality, she was sure she could survive the strain upon her. The tension in her chest grew to be unbearable. ‘If you will excuse me, my lord, I will see if I can find her.’
‘As you wish, ma’am. Perhaps the sooner we meet, the sooner her mind may be put at rest.’
He walked to the door and opened it for her. As she passed, the faintest drift of lavender water reached him. He closed his eyes and breathed it in.
Rowena found Amabelle seated in the sunniest spot of the rose garden. Tall, clipped beech hedges surrounded it. Four square beds overflowed with colourful blooms. Pinks, creams, fiery oranges, deep reds, bloom upon bloom trembled in a slight breeze around statues of a Greek god or goddess in the centre of each bed. The fine gravel crunched under Rowena’s slippers. The sound attracted her sister’s attention.
‘Dearest, Conniston is home.’ She reached the iron bench and sat down. ‘I want you to know he is in no way dissatisfied with your company here.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he is not. That isn’t the trouble.’ Amabelle stopped speaking, anxious that she had given herself away. ‘I mean there isn’t any trouble. None at all.’ She jumped up. ‘I’ll go and see him now.’
Rowena started to rise. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No.’ Amabelle’s hand reached out. ‘No. I’ll go alone.’
‘As you wish.’
Amabelle hurried off, hugging her secret to her. Excitement that she could . . . would . . . repay her sister’s loving kindness bubbled inside her. Not even a slight nervousness at seeing Conniston again tempered her delight.
Rowena watched her sister running down the path between the roses towards the house. ‘Whatever is the matter with the girl?’ she asked herself.
Chapter Forty One
Amabelle ran up the flight of angled stone steps leading to the pair of tall, many-paned windows of the morning room. The windows had been flung open. Slightly breathless, she stepped inside. The room was empty. She crossed the thick rug to the painted and gilded door. A liveried footman stood in the hall, his face as stony as the steps outside. Not even the down on his cheek moved.
‘Do you know where Lord Conniston is?’
The man looked down from his greatly superior height. ‘No, ma’am.’
‘Oh, dear.’
Amabelle was an extremely pretty young girl and the footman was only eighteen. ‘You could try his library, miss. He’s often in there.’
‘Is he? Oh well, I will. Thank you.’
Amabelle ran three steps away. She stopped. ‘Where is the library?’
‘I’ll show you, miss.’
The young man paced slowly, too slowly for Amabelle, to the library door. He opened it. His eyes followed her as she entered the magnificent room. Conniston sat at a reading table half way down the length of the room, poring over a thick tome.
‘Amabelle.’ He rose. ‘Are you looking for your sister? She left me to find you, I believe.’ He studied her face. ‘Or is there something you need?’
Amabelle slowed to a halt. ‘No. No. I . . . um . . .’
Conniston painted a smile on his face. ‘Join me.’ He
indicated the second chair at the table. ‘I think this might be of interest to you.’
She advanced to the table slowly and perched on the edge of the chair. The book in front of her was filled with coloured etchings of continental cities. Page after page showed her views of Paris, Rome, Venice, Vienna. City after city turned under her gaze.
‘I thought, perhaps, when matters there are more settled I would take Rowena to see some of these places.’ He indicated the book. ‘Perhaps you would like to accompany us. I’m sure Rowena would wish you to. As, of course, would I.’
Amabelle managed a smile. ‘You are very kind. I think Rowena would enjoy it. She was always looking at Papa’s books about . . .’ Her voice faded.
Conniston’s heart ached at the sadness on her face. He rested a hand upon her shoulder. ‘I am sure your Papa would not wish you to be unhappy.’
A gulp. ‘No, of course.’ Another gulp, even larger.
‘Would you like me to summon Rowena for you?’
A shake of the head. ‘No.’ A sniff. ‘No thank you. I am quite well.’
Conniston was suddenly aware he was towering over her. He sat down. ‘Was there something particular you wanted?’
Now the moment had come, Amabelle’s courage failed her. ‘No . . . no. Nothing in particular.’ She cast a desperate glance round the room. ‘I just wondered if there was a book I might borrow.’
Conniston looked at the hundreds of leather-bound volumes ranked behind the glass doors and was lost for inspiration. He bit his lip. There had to be something.
‘Ah,’ he said after a few moments’ painful silence. ‘I know what might amuse you. He walked to the farthest bookcase, opened the double doors and extracted a single volume. Its red linen cover was faded and worn. The hardboard showed through at the corners. When he laid it down, the title that had been stamped in gold was hard for Amabelle to read.
‘It’s Les Contes de ma Mère l’Oye. A first edition. In French of course.’ A thought occurred to Conniston. ‘How is your French?’
‘Quite good. Not as good as Rowena’s though.’
‘Then you will probably be able to read the stories in it. They may be . . . will be a little childish but perhaps you can manage with them until I can arrange to take you to the subscription library in Staunton Lacey.’
Amabelle opened the cover and ran her finger down the list of contents. It stopped at La Belle au Bois Dormant. ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ She smiled up at him. ‘That’s my favourite. Thank you.’
‘Please don’t mention it. I am your brother now. You may depend upon me.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
When she did not move, he said, ‘Was there something else?’
Clutching the book, Amabelle drew a breath and held it. After a moment the air rushed out of her lungs, taking her courage with it. ‘No, No. That’s all, thank you.’
She jumped up from the table. Seconds later she had rushed from the room.
After dinner that evening, Conniston invited his self-possessed wife to walk along the terraces of the Italian garden. The low sun, enormous and shimmering, hung just clear of the trees rimming the hill across the valley. Its slanting rays warmed the stone of the house to honey and fired the multi-paned windows into life. They burnished Rowena’s hair, sparking the diamond band threaded through her curls into myriad flashes. She wore it, and the matching necklace, at Conniston’s request. Left to her own choice, she would have been content with the new black gown the seamstresses had produced in two days. Its fluttering lace was sufficient embellishment for her present mood.
Beyond the gardens, swathes of lawn descended to the river. A warm breeze wafted scents of roses towards the house. The view was empty now of gardeners, all gone to their cottages. Tomorrow they had more acres of grass to scythe.
Conniston guided her to the first flight of steps. ‘I think I made progress with your sister today. With our sister, I should say.’
‘Oh, I am pleased, sir. She said she had something particular she wanted to say to you.’
‘Indeed?’ A frown tightened his forehead. ‘She just asked me for a book.’
Rowena stared at him. ‘How strange. From the way she spoke I assumed it was more important than that.’
He smiled at her. ‘I see we are of a mind.’ He extended his arm for her to take. The feather weight of her hand caused him to clench his fist against the pleasure it gave. They stepped down to the first of the terraces. ‘Could you perhaps discover what she really wanted to ask?’
‘I will try.’ The calm and the scents of the evening were beginning to affect her self control. She wondered how soon she could decently call their promenade to a halt. More importantly, she wondered how soon she could remove her hand from the warmth of his arm before her trembling fingers gave her away and embarrassed them both.
They were approaching the next flight of wide steps. She turned towards them, quite naturally lifting her hand from his arm to raise her hem.
Rowena struggled through the next half an hour while they wandered along the paths, admiring the fifty tiny waterfalls cascading from between ferns into a narrow rill the stretched along the terrace’s full length. Afterwards she never knew how she had managed it.
Sitting in her room later watching Mackenzie smooth the folds out of her shawl all she could remember were Laurence’s dark eyes on her and the muscle in his jaw that had flickered almost continuously. How he must have disliked the time he had to spend with her. Only consideration for preserving her reputation in front of the servants could have forced him to do it. Helping her mistress to undress, Mackenzie wondered at the Countess’s melancholy expression.
In Conniston’s apartment, his valet was equally puzzled. What had placed his master in such a foul mood? Thrupp took extra care to do nothing to attract his displeasure. It was rare for his lordship to be other than pleasant to every member of staff but today ..? he was usually more relaxed with his valet. Usually. Thrupp had to own he was pleased and relieved when Conniston dismissed him before he had done more than remove his coat and loosened his cravat.
At the central stairs both apartments shared, Thrupp and Mackenzie came face to face. Neither spoke but both exchanged a glance that was full of meaning. Thrupp kept his counsel. Mackenzie remained determined to disturb her mistress’s bed so the chambermaid would think more than one person had occupied it.
Alone in his room, Conniston paced its length. Eventually he sighed. Sleep would not be coming any easier tonight than on any of the other nights since Rowena had arrived under his roof. Grasping a candelabrum, he flung out of the door and thumped down the stairs to the library. If he stayed here, studying the estate accounts into the night, sleep must surely follow.
The ledgers lay in a low pile on a side table. He put the candelabrum down beside them and hefted the top one, carrying it to the reading table. A book he did not know lay in the middle if the polished surface. Its blue cover had been opened, revealing a page of neat black writing. Slivers of paper marked other pages. He leant over the chair and put the ledger down beside it. The writing looked familiar. He picked it up. Words from the page leapt at him.
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. Grey eyes. Curling brown hair that a girl might envy. There was a slight mark upon his cheek but nothing to detract from his pleasing aspect.
Was someone writing about him? He turned to the diary’s first page. No name was inscribed there. Now he must find out what it meant. He slipped a finger down the nearest marker. He hesitated. This was someone’s private thoughts. What right had he to read them? Curiosity overcame him. Were they Amabelle’s? Was she regretting her refusal? What a devilish situation that would be.
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.
The next marked page intrigued him even more.
He smiled at me today. How I long to see him smile at me every day.
He turned to the final marked 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?
Rowena. It was Rowena.
He sank down onto the chair.
Rowena.
She had written those words.
He stared blankly at nothing. The candles flickered, guttering, burning low. A tumult of emotions battled in his mind. The words said Rowena loved him.
But how could this account be real? She had shown no such disposition. Had she come to hate him for preferring her sister to herself?
Yes. That must be it. Nothing else could account for her coolness towards him. She had left it there to taunt him with her soured admiration. He closed the diary and put it on the table before him. His fingers would not leave it alone. How often had her fingers had touched this cover? Every day? Every day she had opened her secret realm and consigned her thoughts to it. If only he had known her mind before.
Despair overran all other emotions. How could he ever declare to her the truth of his own feelings? She would never believe him.
One of the candles guttered out. The night-time chill invaded the room. It gripped his heart. In its cold grasp he knew he could not support these questions any longer. He had to have the truth of it. Even if she had put the diary there herself to torment him for his stupidity, he had to know.
Lifting the diary as if it contained the most fragile of flowers he carried it to his wife’s apartment. Pausing in the hall, he put the candelabrum on the table where the maids placed the breakfast trays. His hand trembled on the door handle. He drew a breath and turned it.
A soft light gleamed from the next room. Rowena was sitting up in bed. A book rested on the covers over her drawn up knees.
Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) Page 29