Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (13 page)

They walked on in silence.

‘I have it.’ Conniston’s remark fluttered the birds overhead. ‘I shall send Mrs Catesby to stand in your place while you visit us.’

Rowena gasped. ‘Who, sir, is Mrs Catesby? She is not known to any of us.’

He waved an airy hand. ‘The wife of my agent. A very capable woman, I gather.’

‘But what will Mr Catesby think? Does he not have need of her himself?’

‘That is of little account. He can eat at Ampney and I’ll have Mrs Brinscott send down an extra maid to his house.’

‘But his family? Are there children?’

‘Of course.’ He stared at her. ‘Hence the extra maid. Do you think I’d remove Mrs Catesby without provision for their care? Besides, they are not infants any more. The eldest works in the stables.’

Rowena hurriedly reviewed the shift in opinion of him his first comment had induced. ‘You are very kind, but I really could not allow you to disrupt their family.’

‘Nonsense. Mrs Catesby will be pleased to have a change of scene. And some time away from her usual duties.’ He smiled. ‘It is settled, then. Now, you seemed interested in the notion of visiting Italy. Have you studied their artists? Which is your favourite?’

Chapter Twenty Two

T
he stroll developed into a lively discussion of the artistic merits of Classicism, Neoclassicism and the florid period dividing them. Rowena found her opinion of him reversing yet again. He was not boorish. Rather he was perfect company, even if he did find David’s
Oath of the Horatii
melodramatic.

Their discussion so occupied them they failed to notice the rainclouds gathering beyond the trees. When the first heavy drops plopped through the leaves and raised miniature craters in the dust Conniston looked up. ‘Good God,’ he said only to apologise for his words. ‘We’d better return to the house at once.’ He hurried her to the head of the avenue and halted. The rain was falling much heavier than in the shelter of the trees. He frowned at her thin muslin gown. ‘A dilemma, ma’am. Should you prefer sanctuary here or make a dash for the Abbey?’

Rowena composed her features into a mask of anxiety. ‘What are a few raindrops, my lord, compared with Lady Tiverton’s disapproval if we’re late for nuncheon?’

For a moment he was deceived, then he laughed. ‘So very true. Let us avoid her frowns at all costs even if it means a soaking.’ He eyed her half boots. ‘Are you able to hurry in those?’

‘Indeed I am.’

‘Hmm.’ The boots were subjected to another inspection. ‘Nevertheless, I insist you allow me to support you.’ He took her left hand in his own and lightly rested his right round her waist. When she grasped a bunch of her skirt with the other, he laughed. ‘Well then, Diana. Forward.’

The rain increased. They arrived under the portico with their clothes darkened by thunder drops. Conniston’s breathing had barely changed but Rowena was left gasping. She knew it was not only from exertion. Her hand had trembled in his at every step. Her waist had burned under his fingers. She prayed he thought it caused by their speed. He must never know how she had tingled at his touch. Flushed, she glanced at his face.

He was smiling down at her, his eyes amused and clear. The scar on his cheek had turned faintly pink. The movement of his mouth crinkled it a little. She half raised her hand to smooth it. ‘I see you have the speed of Atlanta, ma’am. Well done.’

His words recalled her to her senses. She snatched her hand down. ‘Two goddesses, sir?’ she managed. ‘Diana and Atlanta? I fear I am not so graced.’ Eyes lowered and her expression hurriedly composed, she walked past the impassive footman into the marble hall. Her boots left small muddy imprints on the tiles.

The Earl regarded his own footwear. ‘Forgive me, ma’am, if I leave you. Lady Tiverton will not approve of muddy boots.’

Rowena caught sight of her reflection in the window by the door. ‘Nor of disordered hair.’

The Earl studied her curls. ‘If you say so, ma’am. I see nothing amiss.’ He bowed again and ran up the stairs.

Walking at a slower pace Rowena reached her room. She stared at herself in the looking glass. So he had found her hair acceptable. She hugged the comment to her. He had liked her hair. She tidied herself slowly. Her mouth curved into a trembling smile. She forced it away. ‘Stop it,’ she told her image. ‘That way lies madness.’ The memory of his touch returned. Her heart disobeyed her instruction.

The whole family was the small dining room. The Marchioness, facing the door from her seat at the far end of the table, had Lord Conniston on her right and Miss Wexley on the left. She looked her niece up and down.

‘Rowena, you are only just in time.’

‘I apologise, ma’am. We . . . I was caught in the shower and had to change my shoes.’

Lady Tiverton sniffed. ‘Very well. Make sure you don’t take a cold. Damp feet are a sure way to one.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Harriette, seated next to her father, patted the high-backed chair beside her. ‘Sit with me, cousin, do.’

Rowena walked to the chair, conscious of Conniston’s eyes upon her. A footmen pulled the chair out and slid it gently back under her. Fearful the turmoil of her emotions would betray her, she concentrated on arranging her gown. A linen napkin, fanned into a peacock’s tail, stood on the plate before her. Only when she had shaken it out and settled it across her lap could she look across at Conniston.

His lordship favoured her with a slight incline of his head. No light showed in his face. No humour. It was quite different from a bare half hour ago. His cool regard shocked her. Why had he changed so? What had happened? They had been such entertaining companions. The transformation drained the joy from the memory.

‘What ails you, child?’ Lady Tiverton waved away a dish of green beans. ‘You have turned quite pale. You must have taken a chill after all. Have some castor oil before you retire. I set great store by a good dose of castor oil.’ She permitted a footman to place a small portion on beef in the exact centre of her plate. ‘I hope you and Conniston have discovered a way round Amabelle’s stupidity.’

Rowena covered the sudden rush of emotions by helping herself to a spoonful of peas.

Conniston’s impassive voice cut through the silence. ‘We discussed the possibility of a tour of France and Italy for Amabelle, ma’am.’

‘Ah, excellent idea. Assuming the Monster isn’t still at large. It should appeal to the child.’

Miss Wexley was heard to whisper something about his lordship being so generous, so kind, but no-one favoured her with a response.

The footmen circled the table moving the silver dishes to whoever looked in need until Garton decided the party was served. He signalled and the men retreated into a line at the serving table. Conversation died into a silence broken only by the chink of cutlery on porcelain. Garton allowed himself a satisfied twitch of the lips.

Within seconds his satisfaction vanished. A cacophonous hammering sounded on the main door. The merest flicker of his eyebrow indicated to the head footman that he was in charge until peace was restored. Garton paced slowly from the room.

Lady Tiverton was unmoved by the interruption. She continued her supervision. ‘Harriette, don’t slouch so. It’s very unbecoming.’

Harriette’s shoulders jerked back and her spine arched rigidly. ‘Sorry, Mama.’

‘So you should be. You don’t see your cousin slouching all over the place. And I’m sure Amabelle did not attract Conniston by inferior posture.’

His lordship signally failed to enlighten the party as to what had attracted him to Amabelle. Rowena had never understood it. No-one could deny her half-sister was beautiful. The brilliant eyes in her heart-shaped face would light up at the slightest occasion. But Conniston had seen many seasons. And debutants. He must have realised Amabelle was too immature to assume the management of even the smallest household. Rowena’s spirits sank. Amabelle could not have sustained the debate she had so recently enjoyed with him. She would bore him within the month. Judging by his expression now, he would not make the slightest effort to hide it. Amabelle’s spirits were delicate and mercurial. She would be cast down and deeply unhappy. The pendulum of Rowena’s opinion swung once more. Perhaps her sister was right to decline such a volatile man. Perhaps –

The door opened and Garton entered balancing one of the Abbey’s silver platters on his fingertips. Lady Tiverton put her fork down. She watched her butler approach. He bowed and lowered the platter until it was level with her elbow.

‘A message, milady. Sent post haste.’

Everyone stopped eating. Her ladyship slid her knife under the seal leaving a smear of sauce on the paper. She unfolded it. Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed. Her hand gripped the letter until it crumpled. ‘That will be all, Garton, thank you.’ She wafted a hand at the footmen. The butler caught their eyes. He led them in a stately line out of the door.

The instant it closed, Lady Tiverton slumped back in her chair. ‘Amabelle has fled.’

The women gasped. Conniston shot to his feet. His chair rocked backwards. Even Lord Tiverton roused himself.

‘What?’

Lady Tiverton swivelled round to her niece. ‘You must prepare yourself, Rowena. Your father went after them. He has suffered a fall and has been brought home quite out of his senses.’

Rowena rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘What? Who? What are you saying, ma’am?’

The letter waved in the air. ‘Read for yourself.’

Rowena pushed her chair aside and hurried round to grasp the paper.

‘Who has written?’ Lord Tiverton demanded, pushing himself to his feet. ‘And who’s the
them
he went after?’

Rowena scanned the sheet. ‘Mr Marchment.’

‘Marchment?’ Disbelief coloured Tiverton’s voice. ‘You must be mistaken. He’s old enough to be her father. Not to mention that he’s married.’

‘No, no. Mr Marchment has written,’ Rowena said. ‘It’s Matthew she’s with.’

Her aunt was less than satisfied. ‘And he is?’

‘The Marchments’ younger son.’ Rowena sank, trembling, onto her chair. ‘He says Papa is very bad.’

Conniston had not spoken. He strode round the table. In a single movement he twitched the letter from Rowena’s limp fingers. The four women watched him read it. Harriette clutched Rowena’s cold hands in hers.

‘It appears that Amabelle went to the Marchments’ house with her maid.’

‘Oh, thank goodness,’ Miss Wexley sighed. ‘If her maid is with her it must be quite innocent.’

‘Hardly, ma’am. It’s thanks to the girl we know Amabelle and . . .’ he scanned the letter, ‘Matthew left together. The maid has returned to Southwold Hall swearing she knew nothing of Amabelle’s intentions. ‘

‘Then she’s ruined,’ Miss Wexley gasped.

Conniston froze her with a glance. ‘Thank you, ma’am. That is not necessarily so. If we can recover her she may yet avoid a scandal.’

‘I don’t see how,’ Lady Tiverton said. ‘She’s been gone all day. No-one can reach her before tomorrow.’

‘A night alone with a man. Unmarried. She is ruined. Ruined,’ Miss Wexley repeated, the napkin crumpled between her hands.

‘Please stop saying that,’ Rowena snapped. ‘There must be some way to find them.’ She pulled her hands from Harriette’s grasp and jumped up. ‘I must go home. Please, sir, will you allow me the use of one of your carriages?’

‘Of course, my dear,’ Lord Tiverton said. ‘And outriders.’

‘Nonsense.’ Conniston strode purposefully towards the door. ‘I will drive you.’

‘No. I thank you, but there is no need.’

He glared at her. ‘No need? No
need
, ma’am? The young woman for whom I have offered has fled her home rather than accept me and you say there is no need? Even if action cannot save her own honour, mine stands in need of it.’ He grabbed the door handle. ‘Please prepare yourself as quickly as possible.’ He bowed to his hostess. ‘I trust, ma’am, you will ensure none of this reaches beyond the persons in this room.’

Lady Tiverton wafted a hand. ‘Indeed I will do my best but these things always get out. I must agree with Sybil, it is in every degree unlikely the stupid girl can escape scandal and ruin.’ Her shocked eyes settled on Rowena. ‘And of course her action will ruin you too. Not that you’ve much hope of a match anyway at your age but even if you had –’

‘Come, Rowena,’ Conniston said, ruthlessly interrupting. ‘Collect your belongings, there’s no time to lose.’

Rowena hurried towards him and allowed him to usher her out of the room. Garton, waiting outside, stared at the wall as they passed.

Chapter Twenty Three

I
n minutes Rowena had her belongings bundled into her portmanteau. She hurried down the stairs. Outside the main door Conniston was pacing up and down beside his phaeton. His eyes were as dark as his beaver hat. The many capes on his driving coat whisked angrily every time he turned. From his scowl, Rowena feared she had not been fast enough. The young lad who was his tiger snatched her portmanteau and hovered behind one of the tall, fluted pillars that supported the portico roof.

Conniston not speak. He handed Rowena up into his phaeton without a word. Once he had joined her, he cast one word at his tiger. ‘In.’

The young boy swung the portmanteau onto the rear seat near that of his master and sprang into place between them. He gripped the folded hood, grinning.

Harriette stood with her parents at the top of the steps, wringing her handkerchief in her hands. Conniston’s valet hovered at a discreet distance behind them with Garton.

Harriette looked on anxiously as Lord Conniston’s snatched up his whip. ‘Take care, dearest Rowena,’ she called. ‘Hold on tightly.’

Lady Tiverton gave her daughter’s twisting hands a sharp slap. ‘Do not fidget, Harriette. Laurence, let us know how you find my brother.’

‘If there’s anything we can do, do not hesitate to send,’ the Marquess added.

The pair of horses champed their bits and skittered their hooves on the gravel. Conniston grasped the reins firmly, keeping them in check.

‘As you wish.’ He looked over his hosts’ heads at his valet. ‘Thrupp, bring the chaise direct to Southwold Hall but don’t flog the horses. I’ll see you there.’ Before the valet could bow, let alone reply, Conniston flicked his whip. The horses sank their hindquarters to take the strain then sprang into action. The phaeton rocked on its springs and launched forward. Rowena lurched in her seat.

‘Hold on,’ Harriette squeaked. ‘Hold on, Rowena.’ She waved her handkerchief frantically at the retreating carriage.

Swallowing the fearful gasp that almost escaped her, Rowena clutched the side of the folded hood. Her fingertips scraped on the metal lid of the carriage lamp fastened there. With her feet braced against the front, she clamped her lips firmly together. Not one murmur of protest would she utter at his lordship’s driving style. All she wanted was to be home in the shortest possible time. To see her father.

The gravel sweep from Darnebrook Abbey was raked and levelled by repeated effort. Not so the long drive through the grounds nor the roads beyond. His lordship seemed unconcerned. Even the horses appeared used to such speed. Rowena was not. One particular corner tested her resolve to breaking point. Holding tight to the phaeton’s side with one hand, she flung the other arm past Coniston’s shoulder and locked her fingers into the hood.

‘Yes?’ Conniston queried, controlling the racing pair with an unbreakable grip on the reins. ‘Is there something amiss?’

Rowena’s knuckles whitened on the hood’s spines. ‘Nothing. A slight cough only.’ She gritted her teeth and wondered how much longer this frantic pace would be maintained. Surely his lordship must have some concern for his animals and slow down soon.

Slow he did, but not until they reached the Bell Inn he had favoured at Clare. Without waiting for any assistance from his lordship, Rowena staggered down from the phaeton, convinced every one of her bones was bruised beyond recovery. Her knees sagged as they took her slight weight. A small hand grabbed at her elbow to steady her.

‘Take care, missie. Him do like to go a-pace, don’t he?’

She looked down into the tiger’s grinning face.

A stern voice sounded behind her. ‘Mind your manners, Todwick. Don’t bother the lady.’

The boy’s grin widened. ‘Yes, sir. Mi’lor. Master.’

Rowena pulled herself as upright as her aching body allowed. ‘There is no need to scold the boy. I am grateful for his hand.’ She tried to sound haughty and composed but it was impossible to look down on someone seated above you. She raised her chin defiantly.

Conniston grinned sardonically. ‘I’m relieved to see you aren’t one of those fainting females. The sort who cannot bring themselves to do aught but sit about or promenade slowly.’

‘I assure you, I never faint.’ Her chin lifted further. ‘I must beg you to excuse me. I am in need of a glass of water.’

Conniston jammed his butt of his whip between the seat cushion and side panel and jumped down. The capes of his driving coat flared around his shoulders. ‘Take the lady inside, Todwick. Procure her some water. I’ll see to the horses.’

Rowena headed for the door with shaky steps? Was Conniston about to unhitch the sweating animals himself? She paused at the threshold. She should have known better. The Earl was standing still, arms folded. Four ostlers dashed around unbuckling straps, untangling reins. Two tired horses were replaced with two fresh ones in the shortest possible time.

‘Insufferable,’ Rowena said.

‘Yes’m,’ the tiger grinned.

She lifted her chin again and staggered inside.

For all her discomfort, Rowena was glad they made good time. Daylight was fading as Conniston turned the phaeton into Southwold Hall.

Trailing shawls and fluttering handkerchiefs, Thomasina teetered out of the door to greet them, Phillips and Ellie behind her. ‘Oh, my dear, my dear. I despaired of your ever returning.’

A derisive snort emerged from Conniston’s direction. Rowena made as much haste to alight as she was able without having her aching legs collapse under her. She put an arm around the elderly shoulders and cast an admonishing glance at her driver.

‘I’m here now, cousin. How is Papa?’

‘Oh, my dear, we fear the worst. He is still out of his senses.’

‘That means nothing,’ Conniston announced, stepping down. His driving coat caught on the wheel and he tugged it away. ‘I’ve known unconscious men recover completely after much longer than this.’

He tossed the reins at the butler. Phillips held them away as if they were made of red hot metal until the tiger relieved him of the demeaning burden.

Ellie hovered around the women. The pink and green shawl slid onto the gravel from Miss Quigley’s arm. Ellie picked it up and rolled it none too carefully into a bundle. ‘I’m right glad you’re home, miss,’ she whispered. ‘It’s been awful. Awful.’

‘Would it be an idea, do you think, to take Miss Harcourt-Spence to her father without further delay? I hesitate to mention it, only she has endured a rather hectic drive to reach him.’ Everyone stopped and stared at his lordship. He waved a hand. ‘Merely an idea.’

Nobody pretended to misunderstand him. In short order, Phillips conducted Rowena to her father’s bedchamber. His low-voiced account of such comments as Doctor Norton had seen fit to vouchsafe to him accompanied each step. None was encouraging. Rowena reminded herself forcibly that Doctor Norton was renowned for his pessimism. No doubt from seeing so many terrible injuries during his time with the army. Even so, on entering her father’s bedchamber the sight of him stunned her. She stopped on the threshold, smothering a gasp with her hand.

Mrs Cope was seated on a chair drawn up to the night table, mopping Sir Richard’s forehead with a damp cloth. She dropped it into a bowl of clear water on the table and hurried over to Rowena. ‘Now don’t you be fretting, miss. It’s not as bad as it looks. He’s had a nasty crack on his head but that don’t signify overmuch. He could open his eyes, easy as day, any second.’

‘That’s what I have ventured to suggest.’ Lord Conniston appeared in the doorway.

Mrs Cope remembered herself and bobbed a curtsey. ‘And well you might, my lord. There’s those as likes to talk up mischief and those who don’t.’

Conniston bowed, bringing a surprised blink to Mrs Cope’s face. ‘I see we are like-minded, ma’am. If I may leave Miss Harcourt-Spence in your care I will betake myself to the Marchments’ house and see what may be discovered about this sorry affair.’

Rowena turned. ‘Lord Conniston, sir, I must thank you for –’

He cut her short. ‘You must thank me for nothing. Except perhaps for some little advice. I suggest you lie down for a while now you have seen your father. I doubt he will change much in the next hour and – despite your attempts to hide it – you have been much tried by the journey.’ He turned to Ellie, shuffling anxiously behind him. ‘You girl, take your mistress to her room. See she lies down. And have someone make her a dish of tea.’

Ellie bobbed so many curtsies that she was still doing so when he had descended the stairs and was out of sight.

Rowena slept until nine of the clock and awoke with a start, uncertain where she was or what had woken her. It was the creak of the door inching open.

Ellie’s anxious face appeared in the sliver of candlelight. ‘I wondered if you was awake, miss. Or rather his lordship wondered.’

‘I am now,’ Rowena groaned. Her body ached from neck to feet. She levered herself into a sitting position. ‘Where is his lordship?’

‘In the drawing room with Doctor Norton. He said – he thought, perhaps – you’d like to hear what the doctor has to say.’

‘My goodness, is he still here? I made certain he would have left for the Marchments. He said he would.’

‘Well he did, miss, if’n you mean his lordship. But he decided he’d come back here to be sure you were recovered enough.’

‘Enough? Enough for what?’ Rowena jumped off the bed. She winced as her muscles screamed. ‘How do you know?’ she gasped, rubbing her side.

‘Mrs Cope said. She were there when the doctor told his lordship what he thought. She said as how he didn’t look over pleased. She said he suggested Doctor Norton might find less dismal words by the time he spoke to you.’

Rowena could imagine the tone of voice Lord Conniston had employed. She made her way down to the drawing room. A fire and all the candelabra had been lit and the shutters closed. Conniston and the doctor were seated in two wing chairs drawn up to the hearth, glasses of ruby liquid in their hands. They rose as she entered.

‘Miss Rowena.’ Doctor Norton passed his glass to Conniston and reached out both hands to her. He was a tall man. And amply built, as one would expect of a man who allowed game, pies, cakes and ale in place of his fees. Pessimistic he might be, but his heart was as generous as his stomach.

‘How is Papa?’

The doctor freed a hand and ran it over his sparse, greying hair. ‘Well –’

A cough emanated from Lord Conniston’s direction. It might or might not have been caused from having to dispose of a glass not his own onto the mantle shelf.

‘Well, we mustn’t despair. I’ve know many men recover fully from such a blow to the head. As long as the wound in his leg doesn’t fester I’m sure all will be well.’

‘What wound? I though he had just taken a fall.’

‘And so he did but his horse trod on him. His leg is broken. We must hope it heals without –’ Another cough. The doctor abandoned the word gangrene. ‘Without delay.’ He led Rowena to his chair beside the fire. ‘Now, his lordship has told me of the rigours of your journey. I want you to promise me you will take yourself to bed and rest.’

Rowena started up. ‘I’ve rested long enough. I shall sit up with Papa. He mustn’t be left on his own.’

‘And he won’t be. I know you of old. You will take everything upon yourself and you must not. We must not have you falling ill. The women here are sufficient to the task.’ Doctor Norton patted her hand and pushed her back onto the chair. ‘Mrs Cope and Mrs Kesgrave are taking it in turns until Mother Haswell arrives to sit through the night.’

‘And who,’ enquired his lordship, lounging one elbow on the mantle shelf. ‘Is Mother Haswell and why isn’t she here now?’

‘She sees to the lying-in hereabouts,’ Doctor Norton told him. ‘She’s up at Reighton farm for the day. Florrie’s about to drop her first this evening and needs her.’

‘Who or what is Florrie? A cow, perhaps?’

Rowena frowned at him reprovingly. ‘Florence is the Thurlstones’ youngest daughter.’ She assumed Lord Conniston’s bad mood was caused by their hurried journey. Or perhaps he was just reverting to normal . . . although in the lime avenue . . .

‘That’s right.’ Doctor Norton interrupted her thoughts. ‘She was wed last Christmas.’

‘Only just in time, it would seem.’

Both the doctor and Rowena stared at him in surprise.

‘Country ways, my lord,’ the doctor hastened to say. ‘Country ways.’

‘Indeed’. His lordship looked profoundly uninterested in country ways.

Doctor Norton cleared his throat. ‘I’ll leave you now, Miss Rowena, but you can send for me any time you feel the need.’ He patted her hand again and bowed himself out of the room.

Once the door closed behind him, Rowena looked up at Lord Conniston. She wasted no time in preamble. ‘What did the Marchments say?’

‘That your sister arrived in haste, having driven herself in the gig –’

‘She drove? But she can’t. The last time she put herself in the Vicarage hedge and broke a wheel.’

‘Indeed?’ His lordship surveyed her from head to toe. ‘No doubt her determination helped her to avoid a similar experience this time. Although from the way the maid gibbered when I questioned her I’m not sure it was the most comfortable of rides.’

Rowena’s knew Ellie would have found the questioning more uncomfortable than the ride. Laurence Conniston’s frame of mind was becoming increasingly more difficult to assess.

‘However,’ he continued. ‘It seems she persuaded the young sprig to take her to . . . Lyngham, is it? The idiot.’

‘Matthew Marchment is not an idiot. I believe he agreed to drive her there rather than have her break her neck.’

Conniston bowed. ‘You have the advantage of me, ma’am. I have never had the honour of his acquaintance.’

Rowena ignored his sarcasm and chewed her thumbnail. ‘Whatever are we to do? Shall they be made to wed?’

A snort escaped his lordship’s aquiline nose. ‘His father was most . . . how shall I put it ..? unkeen that they do so. His Mama however, when she could cease her chirruping, was of the opinion that they must.’

Of all the ladies of her acquaintance, Mrs Marchment was the least chirrupy. Barring Cousin Thomasina. Rowena hoped only she had experienced his lordship’s cutting comments. She doubted it. He looked in the most furious temper.