Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (11 page)

Chapter Eighteen

‘A
h. Miss Rowena.’ A figure bounded forwards from the ballroom door. ‘I have found you at last.’

Rowena jumped. Drawing back, she surveyed Mr Neave’s rubicund face. He held out his arm to her. ‘Let’s take turn around the room.’

It took several seconds before a possible excuse occurred to her by which time they had passed an interested bevy of the local populace. Mr Neave was certainly one to arouse interest, and not only by his reputation. His evening dress fitted like a first skin, let alone a second. The white waistcoat under his long-tailed coat of blue superfine creaked when he moved. The gentlemen and married ladies passing by must have known a stout corset was laced underneath. And wiser counsels might have recommended Mr Neave wear white knee breeches rather than the black satin ones which only served, with the white stockings, to accentuate his excess of leg.

Rowena backed away. ‘I am promised to Captain Fookes in a moment, I believe.’

‘I’m sure he will not object to a delay when he hears the news.’

‘What news?’

Neave manoeuvred her into a space beside one of the windows. ‘Why, that you have decided to honour me with your hand.’

Rowena snatched her fingers off his arm. ‘No, sir. I have given you no such assurance. You have had my answer. It has not changed, nor will it.’

The tone of her voice, though low, carried in its intensity. The heads of two ladies admiring the flowers on the adjacent pier table turned. Rowena smiled at them and executed a slight incline of her head. The ladies smiled back. It appeared the side of the flowers nearest to Rowena needed further examination. She rearranged her features to resemble polite disinterest. Her voice fell to a bare whisper.

‘I really must ask you to refrain from mentioning the subject again.’

Archibald Neave recaptured her hand onto his arm and patted it. He leant towards her. ‘Of course. Of course. Far too public.’ He beamed at her. ‘Off you go for your dance with yon captain.’

Rowena forced herself to glide away from him, rather than pick up her skirts and run as she truly wished she could.

Captain Fookes was already standing among the other couples. The girl in the pink gown was smiling opposite him. Rowena sighed.

‘Ah, ma’mselle. You ’ave no partner to stand up weeth.’ Madame de Gambade surveyed the room. ‘Ah. Just the one. Come, ma’mselle. Come.’

She grasped Rowena’s hand and led her towards Lord Conniston.

His appearance bore no comparison whatsoever to that of her previous persecutor. He stood beside one of the pillars supporting the balcony, his pose relaxed, his profile clear and strong as he surveyed the crowd. Something must have amused him because the corner of his mouth quirked. The nascent smile vanished when Madame de Gambade laid her hand on his arm.

‘ ’Ere we are, milor’. Now you may join the room.’

His face impassive, Conniston bowed to the Frenchwoman and then to Rowena. ‘Servant, ma’am.’ He took Rowena’s much-used hand and led her forward in silence.

The musicians overhead struck up a stately tune. Every couple advanced and retired. The gentlemen stepped forward and turned sideways to allow the ladies to progress around them.

‘I see you were enjoying a pleasant conversation with Neave.’

As she crossed in front of him, Rowena shot him an angry upward glance, sure he was teasing her. ‘No I was not.’

Conniston walked around her. ‘You surprise me.’

The couples faced each other along the line.

‘I don’t see why.’ Two steps forward. Two back. Partners’ hands joined for a slow circle. ‘I’m sorry if he is a dear friend of yours,’ she said with a degree of asperity, doubting that he was. ‘But I would be perfectly happy never to have to speak to him again.’

Conniston’s dark brows scowled. ‘Why so?’

Circle in the opposite direction.

Conniston stared at her face. Rowena felt herself flush and her eyes brighten. The music was grating on her nerves. ‘He has not inconvenienced you, I hope.’

Silence. Join inward hands, face the head of the room. Silence. Four slow steps forward.

‘Tell me.’

Four slow backward steps.

‘He has honoured me with an offer.’

Conniston’s fingers tightened in round hers. ‘Has he?’ he said, his voice full of menace.

‘And I have declined. Twice.’

Both hands joined. A slow circle in their own position.

Conniston examined her face more closely. ‘Would you wish me to address him?’

Rowena stopped moving. The gentleman of the couple behind them stepped around her.

Conniston drew her into place. ‘I would not have you pestered,’ he said.

Rowena blinked.

The couples parted. The line of gentlemen faced the ladies. Advance, bow, curtsey, retire. Execute a circle in your place. Advance.

‘You seem surprised, ma’am,’ Conniston said as she passed gracefully in front of him.

‘I am, sir. Considering.’

‘Considering?’ he said over her shoulder as he walked around her.

‘That you persist when my sister has declined.’

It was his turn to halt on a sudden indrawn breath. His voice came low and fierce. ‘I have, ma’am, your father’s approval. It would be dishonourable in me to withdraw.’

Forward and back. Round and round.

‘As a future brother-in-law I take it as my duty to ensure your comfort. Or at least, prevent your discomfort.’

The music ended.

Bow.

Curtsey.

‘Are you engaged for supper?’

‘With Mr Somerville.’

‘Then permit me to escort you to him.’ He scanned the room. Garton was advancing to Lady Tiverton. ‘Unless I mistake it is about to be announced.’

Mr Somerville was delighted to have her bestowed upon him. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Excellent. Thank you, my lord. I made sure Miss Harcourt-Spence would be captured from me.’

‘Please return her to me after supper. I am promised the next dance.’ Conniston bowed and walked away.

Somerville led her towards the crush at the supper room door. She glanced back. Conniston was escorting not Araminta but a dowager of advanced years and voluminous cerise gown towards the tables. Behind him, the bird-like Madame de Gambade was organising the couples who were destined to eat later into sets for the next dance.

Somerville hesitated when he saw the crowd descend upon the long table spread with dishes.

‘Permit me to seat you, Miss Harcourt-Spence, and bring you a plate. The crush looks too great to be attempted.’

The crush, as he called it, had not deterred several of the ladies from entering the fray. Rowena cast her eye over the room. Neither Araminta nor her father appeared to be in it.

‘Thank you. It’s most kind of you.’

He led her to a table and held her chair waiting for her to be seated. Rowena looked down. She smoothed a wrinkle on the table cover with a finger.

‘Allow me to seat Lady Usherwood beside you, ma’am.’

Rowena jerked her head up. Lord Conniston towered over her. She swallowed and rose. ‘Of course, sir.’ She dropped a slight curtsey to the lady while Conniston helped his partner dispose herself onto a chair considerably narrower than she.

The dowager favoured Rowena with a stern glance. ‘Who are you girl?’

‘Rowena Harcourt-Spence, ma’am.’ She sat and arranged her turquoise skirts about her as Berrington Somerville took himself off to tackle the throng.

‘Ah! Sister of the chit Conniston is to wed.’

Did the entire world know about Conniston and Amabelle, Rowena wondered. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Hmm. I have my doubts. The girl’s just out, ain’t she?’ She fanned herself. ‘He needs someone better able to check him than a schoolgirl.’

A cold shiver slid round Rowena’s throat and down her neck.

‘No, she won’t do. He needs someone older with a smattering of sense in her head.’ A lorgnette was raised. Deeper scrutiny of Rowena was made. ‘You look a sensible girl. Perhaps he should have asked for the older sister instead.’

Rowena wished she could sink through the floor. Why would Lord Conniston need checking by anyone, let alone a wife? She hoped that Lady Usherwood would not – had not – made any such comment to his face. Her hopes were immediately dashed.

‘And so I shall tell him. Turned by a pretty head no doubt. Many men are I’ve found, though you are not unattractive. Ah,’ she continued as Rowena furiously fought for a response. ‘Your supper arrives.’

Two plates appeared in front of her. Mr Somerville bent over her. ‘I thought a sliver of terrine and a portion of lobster might tempt you, Miss Harcourt-Spence. And a few other trifles.’

He had left nothing to chance. One plate was piled with chicken terrine, a square of tongue rolled around an asparagus spear, three slices of lobster tail, an aspic of peas and a scoop of salmon mousse. On the second a tiny red jelly castle wobbled beside a pink blancmange, surrounded by grapes, strawberries and a swirl of thick cream.

‘I’ll return for my own now, if you’ll permit?’

‘Please . . . perhaps there is sufficient for both of us,’ Rowena said.

A wave of puzzlement washed his face followed by what might be disappointment.

Rowena smothered a sigh. ‘Although, perhaps now I take a closer look it will all be wonderful.’

Somerville’s smile reappeared. ‘Excellent, ma’am. I was sure you would like it.’ He turned back to the battle.

Conniston laid a much more modest plate in front of Lady Usherwood. His own was not much fuller. Seating himself between her ladyship and Rowena, his eyebrows rose at the sight of her plate.

‘You are hungry, perhaps, Miss Harcourt-Spence.’

The dowager rapped his arm with her closed fan. ‘No she is not. That silly puppy Somerville seems to think she is.’ She released her fan to let it swing from her wrist by its tasselled cord. She prodded her fork at a small portion of chicken. ‘I think you’ve chosen the wrong one, Conniston.’

He and Rowena stared at the chicken.

The fork waved across the table. ‘Not this. Her. She’d be a better choice.’

Colour rushed into Rowena’s face. ‘Ma’am! I beg you. My sister is a wonderful girl. She will make an excellent wife for Lord Conniston.’ She dared not raise her eyes to his face.

The levelness of his voice surprised her. ‘Eugenie, if I did not know your reputation for being outrageous I might take offence.’

The fork waved again. ‘At my age it is the only pleasure I have left.’

Rowena tried to look amused. Mr Somerville, arriving at last, merely looked puzzled. He sat down and addressed himself to his overloaded plate.

After supper Conniston kept her close company. At the end of the evening he led her to her aunt and uncle who were receiving the thanks and goodbyes of their guests. A subdued Harriette stood beside them.

‘Haven’t you enjoyed yourself?’ Rowena whispered.

A shake of the head.

Lord and Lady Tiverton bowed to the final departing guest and then advanced from the anteroom into the hall.

‘What is it?’

A shrug. ‘Mama.’ A sniff. ‘She said I was too forward.’

Forward was not a word Rowena would ever have associated with her cousin. ‘Surely not. When did she think you were?’

‘In the Strip the Willow.’

‘You? I don’t think anyone would have noticed what you were doing. Miss Neave was the centre of all attention.’

A miserable nod. ‘I know that but Mama says I must follow what you do, not her.’

Rowena looped Harriette’s arm through hers. ‘Don’t let it trouble you. No-one will have noticed.’

Despite her cousin’s distress, and her own embarrassment with Mr Neave and the dreadful dowager Lady Usherwood, Rowena retired to her bedroom with mixed feelings. She had done as her father had asked. While Annie unpinned her hair, she tried to congratulate herself on progress. She had been very clever and obtained a firm commitment from Lord Conniston. He had made it clear that he intended to maintain his interest in Amabelle. For her part, she had made sure Lord Conniston had been left in no doubt that Amabelle would be . . . would agree to be his wife. And a wonderful one at that.

Climbing into bed after the maid had gone, she decided to write to Papa in the morning and tell him. He would be so pleased with her. She blew out her candle. Darkness enveloped her.

Yes, Papa would be very pleased.

Silence grew loud in her single room.

She was pleased too, of course.

Yes, she was very pleased.

Wasn’t she?

Strangely enough she found it difficult to fall asleep. Visions of Laurence Conniston leaning on a pillar, smiling at her and eating a large chicken thigh disturbed her dreams.

Chapter Nineteen

S
ir Richard Harcourt-Spence sat at his desk in the morning sun. Shafts of light fell across the porcelain cup of dark brown tea beside the inkwell. The day was starting well. Bright and clear, perfect for a stroll through the woods. Perhaps pot a few pigeon on the way. He sipped his tea. Yes, that was what he would do. Behind him the grandfather clock struck nine in its polished case. The door opened. Phillips walked in balancing a silver platter on one set of fingertips. A thick fold of paper lay on it.

‘The post, sir.’ He extended his arm, bringing the platter within Sir Richard’s easy reach. ‘Nothing to pay, sir.’

‘Good.’ Sir Richard picked it up. Tiverton’s name was scrawled across it underneath
Southwold Hall, Fincham Wortly
. ‘This must be from Rowena.’

Phillips hovered.

‘Thank you, Phillips.’

The butler bowed and backed himself out of the room.

Sir Richard slipped his thumb into the fold and cracked the red wax seal into fragments. One splashed into his tea. The page unfolded. Another smaller sheet closely covered with neat writing fell out. He picked it up and inspected the superscription.
Dearest Amabelle
. Rowena had written to her sister as well. No doubt it was full of comments on the frills and furbelows the ladies had worn to the ball. That sort of thing entertained Amabelle. Not that she deserved to be entertained. He laid the sheet down and surveyed the one addressed to him. A slow smile spread across his face. He stood up and went to open the study door.

‘Mrs Cope,’ he yelled. ‘Mrs Cope, can you come here?’

After a few seconds the door at the back of the hallway swung inwards and the housekeeper appeared.

‘Yes, sir?’ The housekeeper’s eyes fell on the sheet of paper in Sir Richard’s hand. And on the second, lying on the desk.

‘Send Ellie for Miss Amabelle, will you?’

Mrs Cope nodded and vanished back through the door towards the kitchen.

As the household had broken its fast, Mrs Kesgrave was taking her ease in a Windsor chair drawn up to the grate. She sipped at a large blue-striped pottery cup of tea and regarded Ellie over the rim. Ellie was sitting on the bench at the table, her two elbows on the scrubbed surface and her chin propped on her fists. Now why wouldn’t the girl join the rest of the servants clustered outside the back door for a few moments’ advantage of the sun before the next onslaught of work? Mrs Kesgrave sniffed.

‘What did he want?’ she asked.

‘Ellie to fetch Miss Amabelle to the study.’

Hearing her name, Ellie stopped wishing and wishing she could have seen the Tiverton’s ball and sat up. ‘Oo, I wonder why.’

Mrs Cope frowned at her. ‘It’s not for the likes of you to wonder why, miss. Just you get yourself upstairs and give her the master’s message.’ She watched the girl hurry out of the kitchen. Seating herself opposite the cook she lowered her voice. ‘There’s a letter. I couldn’t see who from, more’s the pity.

‘If he’s asking to see Miss Amabelle it has to be from Miss Rowena.’

‘Or Lord Conniston.’

‘Hmm.’ The housekeeper shook her head. ‘No. No, it didn’t look like a love letter.’

‘What’s one of them look like?’

‘I don’t know as I could rightly say, never having had one. But there was two sheets. I saw that.’

‘Oh dear. I hope nowt’s happened to Miss Rowena. She’d be a sad loss to us.’

The two women looked at each other. Memories of Thomasina Quigley’s erratic behaviour needed no mention.

Ellie arrived back, panting. ‘She’s in there. I wonder what he wants.’

‘I told you afore,’ Mrs Cope said. ‘Don’t go being so curious. It ain’t becoming. And you know what curiosity did to the cat, don’t you?’

Ellie lowered her head. ‘Yes’m.’

‘Tell me.’

‘It killed it, mum. Curiosity killed the cat.’ Under her breath she added, Satisfaction cured it.

‘That’s right. Now, Miss Rowena’s winter pelisse looked right dusty to me. Off you go and give it a good brushing in the yard.’

Ellie scampered up the back stairs. Hurrying out of Rowena’s bedroom with the pelisse over her arm she collided with a tearful Amabelle running along the landing to her room.

‘Oh, miss. Whatever’s the matter?’

Amabelle burst into a fresh set of tears. ‘Horrible. He’s horrible.’ Her clenched fists trembled against her cheeks. ‘I won’t. I won’t.’ She ran into her room. The door banged too and fro with the force of her shove at it.

Ellie bit her lip. Should she go in to Miss Amabelle? She looked right upset. There was no telling what she would do. Or should she brush the pelisse? The cat’s life was put at risk. She tiptoed through the open door. Amabelle was pacing across the room and back again.

‘Is there anything you need, miss?’

The set-about young woman stopped in her tracks. ‘I need lots of things. What I don’t need is Lord Conniston for a husband.’ She folded her arms high across her bodice and stamped her foot.

‘Oh dear.’ Ellie hovered by the door, twisting one cuff of the pelisse.

Amabelle marched the width of the room and back again. She stopped. Her index finger tapped against her little white teeth. ‘Ellie?’

‘Yes, miss?’

‘Um . . . Papa said I might drive over to the Manseley Grange. I’ve . . . um, some old clothes and things to take for . . . er, those people Mrs Marchment sends things to.’

‘What people’s that, miss?’

‘Er . . .’ A frown. ‘I don’t remember. They just need things.’ She waved an airy hand. ‘Go down and tell Thaddeus to put Misty to the gig.’

‘Oh, miss. You’re never going on your own.’

‘Certainly not . . . you’re coming with me.’

Ellie’s eyes widened. No-one in the house would ever forget Amabelle’s first attempt at driving the gig. It had very nearly been her last attempt at anything.

‘Don’t stand there staring. Go tell Thaddeus.’

Ellie clutched the pelisse and dragged unwillingly out of the room.

‘And tell him not to bring it to the door,’ Amabelle called after her. ‘I’ll come down to the stables.’

The back stairs at Southwold Hall were steep and narrow. Not caring that the pelisse dragged over each step behind her, Ellie ran down them as if the hounds of hell were after her. She burst into the kitchen.

The housekeeper looked up from her second cup of tea. ‘Ellie, girl. Whatever ails you?’

‘Oo, Mrs Cope, mum.’ She bit her lip; she dropped the pelisse onto the table and fidgeted from foot to foot. ‘Miss Amabelle says she’s to take the gig to the Marchment’s.’

The housekeeper raised her eyebrows at the cook.

‘Well, there’s a surprise,’ Mrs Kesgrave announced. ‘Perhaps the girl’s accepted his lordship at last.’

Mrs Cope eyed the fidgeting maid. ‘Why are you hopping like a scatty hen? It’d be good news.’

‘Oo, Mrs Cope, mum, she says I’m to go with her.’

The two older women looked at Ellie.

‘Well . . . ,’ began Mrs Kesgrave.

‘Ah,’ said Mrs Cope. She rallied her forces. ‘Well, that’s not so bad. She’ll hev learnt her lesson by now.’

Mrs Kesgrave gave herself to thought. ‘How long did it take Tod Patterson to get that wheel fixed after the last time?’

‘I can’t remember. I think the smith had it for nigh on a week.’

Ellie’s face grew paler.

‘Well,’ the housekeeper asked. ‘What are you waiting for, girl? Get yourself down to the stables.’

‘Oh,’ Ellie wailed. ‘Oh, yes’m.’

She hurried out of the kitchen, through the maids and skivvies chattering in the yard and round to the stables. Blank or puzzled faces met her request.

Will Dunnaby, head groom, looked her up and down. ‘Yer making it up. That miss don’t drive.’ He snorted a laugh. ‘Or can’t, truth to tell.’

‘That’s what she said. She said she would drive to Manseley Grange and Thaddeus is to put Misty to the gig.’

‘Seems odd to me,’ Thaddeus said. ‘D’you think we should wait ’til Mr Patterson’s back and ask him?’

‘Don’t go asking me,’ Dunnaby said. ‘You’re the one as was told to do it. It’s nowt to do with me.’ He turned and walked away.

Thaddeus and Ellie stared at each other. ‘I suppose I’d best get to it then,’ he said.

He had barely fastened the last of Misty’s traces when Amabelle arrived in the yard clutching a roll of material tied with two pieces of ribbon knotted together. She pushed it under the seat as far as she could.

Ellie stared. ‘Isn’t that your best spencer, miss?’

‘Oh, well . . . yes, it is. I tore it. Yesterday. On a nail.’ She gathered up her skirts ready to climb into the gig. ‘Get in, Ellie. I don’t want to keep Mrs Marchment waiting.’

Thaddeus boosted Ellie up beside her. ‘Would you rather I drove, miss? The roads are right tricky now they’re so dry.’

‘No thank you, Thaddeus. I can manage.’ She picked up the reins and flicked them, on Misty’s back.

Startled out of her daydream, the mare leapt forward. Ellie smothered a shriek and clutched at the rail beside her.

‘Walk on,’ Amabelle said.

The last Thaddeus saw of them was Ellie’s fearful face as the gig rounded the corner out of sight.

In the Marchment stables, Matthew flicked one of Abbie’s soft ears. ‘Well, old gal. That’s the last of your pups weaned. I expect you’ll be wanting a good rest now.’

The dog’s tail thumped on the straw bedding in the unused loose box. She licked his hand and nudged at his pocket.

He laughed. ‘Alright, you know there’s something for you in there.’ He pulled out a thick strip of roasted ham rind. Abbie’s mouth fastened round it. She pulled it out of his fingers, trapped it with hers paws and set about gnawing one end with her back teeth. After three bites, she stopped and lifted her head. Wheels crunched into the stableyard.

‘Now who’s that?’ Levering himself off the straw, Matthew walked outside and gasped.

Amabelle was practically standing in the gig, fists dragging the reins up to her chin. Misty’s head was twisted round until it almost faced her. Her hooves skittered on the cobbles. Gripping the back of the seat with both hands, Ellie stared through streams of tears.

‘Good God, ’Bella. Have a care.’ Matthew ran forward and reached for the bridle. The mare slowed to a standstill. She snorted hot breath into his face, her eyes wide and wild. He stroked her muzzle, muttering soothing nonsense.

Amabelle subsided onto the seat, panting. ‘Get down, Ellie, and go inside. I want to talk to Mr Matthew.’

‘Wait,’ Matthew commanded. ‘Wait ’til Misty’s calmer. She’ll rear if you bother her any more.’ His voice lowered. More soft nonsense drifted into the mare’s ears. Her eyelids lowered. Her muzzle nudged his cheek. ‘OK, Ellie. You can get down now.’

Ellie was only too pleased to obey. Skirts bundled in one hand, she jumped down. Teardrops dripped off her cheeks all the way to the house.

When she was out of sight, Amabelle lent down to Matthew. ‘You’ve to take me to Lyngham,’ she hissed.

‘What?’

I have to go to Lyngham. If you don’t want to see me shackled to . . . to a monster and a life of misery and . . . and misuse, you’ll to take me to Lyngham right now.’

‘Don’t be daft. He won’t misuse you.’

‘Yes he will. He’s horrid.’ She threw the reins at him and climbed down. She grabbed his arm. ‘You’ve just have to take me. Please.’ She shook his arm. ‘You must. If you don’t I’ll drive myself.’

‘But you can’t drive. You had the gig in Farmer Gordon’s wall the last time you tried. Broke the wheel.’

‘I can drive. I drove here, didn’t I?’ She grabbed the reins from Matthew’s hand. Bunching up her skirts, she braced a determined foot against the gig’s footboard. Two seconds later she was back standing in the gig. ‘Watch me.’ The reins flicked on Misty’s rump. The horse staggered backwards, whinnying loudly.

‘Good God, no.’ Matthew ran round the other side and jumped in. ‘Give them to me.’ He dragged the reins out of her hand. Relieved of the pressure on her mouth, Misty settled. ‘Now then,’ Matthew said. ‘Why on earth are you so set on going to Lyngham?’

‘Because Rowena says horrid Conniston is set on marrying me.’

‘Rowena? Is she home? I thought Mama said she’d be there for weeks.’

‘No she isn’t. She wrote to Papa. Conniston’s not interested in this Araminta. He’s determined to marry me.’

‘Araminta? Who’s Araminta?’ Matthew had the distinct feeling the situation was escaping from him.

A sob broke from Amabelle. ‘I don’t know. I just know I won’t marry him. I’ll be a milliner first.’

Matthew had coped with Amabelle’s tantrums when they were children but this was very different.

‘Look, you’re not really going to drive to Lyngham, are you? Why don’t you go in and talk to ma? She knows all about this sort of thing.’

‘I can’t. Everyone’s against me. Even Rowena. Even you.’ Her lips wavered. ‘I thought you were my friend.’

‘I am, I am,’ Matthew said, rather wishing he was not.

‘Well then?’

Matthew calculated. If he went to his mother now, Amabelle might drive off.

A heavy sigh from the distressed girl interrupted his thoughts. ‘You can stay here if you’d rather.’

Matthew’s shoulders slumped. As he saw it, there were two possibilities. Either he drove Amabelle to Lyngham and then told her Papa where to find her, or he let her drive there and probably kill herself on the way. And Misty.

The shoulders squared. He made his choice. ‘I suppose I’d better take you then.’

He gave the reins a gentle whisk. Misty tossed her head. ‘Walk on, girl. Walk on.’

Recognising a competent hand at last, Misty obliged.