Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (14 page)

‘Whatever the eventual outcome is, there is nothing that can be done tonight. We must hope they find suitable accommodation. Mr Marchment and his son are to resume the search in the morning.’

Obviously, the search was not going to include his lordship. Equally obviously he was about to cut all connection with the Harcourt-Spence family. Rowena’s spirits sank. How he must be congratulating himself on a lucky escape. Her aunt’s words of a dismal, unwed future rang in her ears. No marriage for Amabelle now. Nor for herself. The ill-considered and precipitous action had ruined both their chances. Not that she, Rowena, had any hope of it now. The man she had admired for three years was apparently eager to quit her company. She dragged up her last scraps of self-control.

‘You have been most kind, my lord, and I thank you.’ She rose. ‘I shall retire now. In the morning I shall ride over and speak to Mrs Marchment.’ Remnants of her duties as a hostess surfaced. ‘I trust Mrs Cope prepared supper for you and made a room ready?’

She received an exquisite bow in response. ‘She has. I shall make an early start tomorrow for Ampney Park.’ Rowena felt her throat tighten at the mention of his principal residence. ‘May I wish you a peaceful night?’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ She curtsied and left, determined to preserve a civil countenance – at least until she was out of his sight.

Chapter Twenty Four

L
ord Conniston left Southwold Hall as the house was stirring to life. Mrs Kesgrave had received his lordship’s compliments via the grinning tiger before she had properly woken up. She entered the kitchen with a skirt pulled over her nightgown and a shawl round her shoulders. Her long plait of greying hair hung down her back from under her nightcap. She concocted a hasty dish of ham and eggs onto a tray for his lordship. The boy spooned his up at the kitchen table. He avoided her every attempt to extract interesting morsels of life with the eighth Earl of Conniston. Mrs Kesgrave confided to Mrs Cope some time later that he was a cheeky rascal. And he could grin while he ate.

Laurence Conniston drove himself away with his mind on concerns other than his driving. Consequently he scraped a wheel rim against the right-hand pillar at the exit to the road.

‘You ain’t doing good today, sir.’ The tiger chortled from the rear seat beyond the lowered hood.

Conniston straightened the team’s heads. ‘Silence, brat, or you’ll walk.’

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

The pace was much slower than yesterday’s hectic journey. The tiger leaned sideways seeking to catch a glimpse of his master’s face. The dark brows were drawn together. The light that usually marked his expression when in company with his tiger was absent. He looked fixed in a brown study. The boy sighed. No chit-chat today. He settled back to enjoy a more comfortable ride than was normal.

The tiger’s assessment was correct. Conniston was beset by conflicting thoughts. It was an experience he found both novel and unpleasant. On the one hand he had declared his intention of not withdrawing his offer. On the other his persistence had driven the girl to ruinous action. Not to mention her father’s subsequent accident. That, if he was any judge, would have an unhappy ending. He had seen too much of wounds and gangrene after the battle of Assaye. The heat in India was vastly different from that of an English summer but he was as fearful of the outcome as Doctor Norton at his gloomiest.

And then there was Rowena – Miss Harcourt-Spence. She was undoubtedly a capable young woman. And an entertaining companion. His thoughts diverted to their laughing dispute in the lime avenue. He dragged them back. However engaging she was, the fact remained she was yet to attain her majority. She would need a guardian when the worst happened. And that was likely to be soon.

Conniston reviewed what he had discovered about the Harcourt-Spence family before he had offered for the girl. There were no near male relatives. A distant cousin of some sort living in the north would inherit the estate. There was no one closer, in any sense of the word. And as to females . . . no one in possession of their senses could regard Miss Quigley as other than a liability. There was their aunt, of course. He considered the eleventh Marchioness of Tiverton.

If Harriette was anything to go by, the lady’s maternal instincts were not strong. They appeared focussed on fixing her daughter in an acceptable match as soon as possible. Rowena would not find much comfort there. And as for the runaway . . . he could not for an instant imagine Lady Tiverton welcoming a scandal-ridden girl into her household. If slouching was a sin in her eyes, heaven only knew what she would make of an immoral flight. Conniston could make an educated guess. No, Rowena would spend her days under her aunt’s roof as an unwanted and scandal-tainted individual, enduring a constant flood of criticism.

Conniston reined in. He sat with his hands on his lap, staring between the horses’ heads. A disquieting thought circulated in his head. Several minutes passed. Todwick eventually leant forward.

‘Is summat wrong, master?’

His voice startled Conniston. He collected both his wits and the reins. ‘We’re retuning. My plans have changed and I must speak to Mr Marchment again.’

The Marchment household was not prepared for visitors. Truth to tell, it was in a state of uproar. Mr Marchment put down his dish of tea beside his empty plate and declared himself greatly in favour of horse-whipping his younger son and sending Amabelle to a nunnery. In vain did his wife and heir try to explain that the practice of immuring young girls in nunneries was somewhat outdated.

‘There must be some sort of institution for stupid girls,’ the harassed father exclaimed. ‘Bethlehem hospital, for instance.’

‘My dear, that’s for mad people.’

‘Well she is mad. Who ever’d want to be a milliner when they could be a countess? If that’s not a definition of madness, I don’t know what is.’

‘Perhaps we’ll find them today, sir.’ Edward rose from the table. ‘I’ll have the horses saddled and –’

The dining room door opened. Bryonie Seaton crept round it. ‘Please’m, his lordship’s here again. He’s asking for the master.’

The master waved a distracted hand. ‘Show him in. Show him in. Let’s not stand on ceremony. Let’s have all the world in. Tell them all about the stupid miss and my idiot son.’

‘Bring an extra plate and cup, if you please, Bryonie,’ Florence Marchment said. ‘It’s early and his lordship might not have eaten.’

‘I’m sure he has.’ Edward had seen Lord Conniston only briefly but his opinion of him had been quickly formed.

Laurence Conniston bowed to his hosts. ‘Forgive me for intruding but a thought occurs to me.’

‘Please be seated, Lord Conniston.’ Mrs Marchment indicated the empty fourth chair at the table. The one Matthew usually occupied. ‘Have you broken your fast? There is plenty we can offer you.’

‘Thank you, ma’am, but no. I breakfasted at Southwold Hall.’ Edward silently congratulated himself on his judgement. ‘I think, once we have recovered Amabelle,’ Conniston continued, ‘she should go to my sister’s place. She cannot be brought home, or come here. She was seen to leave, albeit in an unusual manner.’

A heavy sigh escaped the Member of Parliament. ‘The stupid chit. Why did she have to involve Matthew in her madcap scheme? And when did she think it up? I ask you, what imp drove her to flee on the spur on the moment like that?’

‘It wasn’t an imp, sir. I told you she’d already asked me to take her to Lyngham but I’d said no.’

Three heads turned to Edward.

‘What?’ Conniston demanded. ‘When was this?

‘A week or so ago, sir. Not long. She’d some daft notion of decorating bonnets.’

‘Well, she does do it rather well. That Anglouême she had in May was –’

‘Never mind her damn bonnet, madam.’ Gerald Marchment glared at his wife. ‘If only you’d told us then, Edward. Why didn’t you?’

‘I thought she’d . . . er, change her mind about ..., er . . .’ His words faltered into silence.

‘About marrying me, I suppose?’

‘Well yes. To be honest.’

‘Indeed. So, to continue –’

The door opened a crack. No-one entered but the sounds of a minor struggle and a chink of china could be heard. The door opened wider. Bryonie entered with a plate and cup on a tray that was far too big to manage with ease. The Marchments and their guest watched in silence as she lowered a corner of the tray onto the table. Balancing it carefully, with her tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth, she removed the plate and cup to his lordship’s side. Satisfied, she grasped the tray, curtsied and announced.

‘The plate and cup, ma’am. As you asked.’

‘Thank you, Bryonie.’ Mrs Marchment nodded.

The girl bobbed another curtsey, shot an awed glance at Lord Conniston, and backed herself out of the room.

Conniston stared at the plate. He appeared to collect his thoughts with some difficulty. ‘As I was saying, the girl cannot come here or go to her home. Nor can she be said to have been at Lady Tiverton’s. There were too many people at the ball and her absence was remarked upon. It will have to be my sister.’

‘You mean Lady D’Arborough? At Rushton Court?’

Conniston was in no way surprised that his connections were known. He had been the subject of gossip and speculation for far too many years to think otherwise. ‘Indeed, ma’am.’

‘That’s a first-rate idea,’ Edward said. ‘It will account for her absence and no-one here will know otherwise. I don’t suppose, my lord, that your sister would comment outside the family?’

Lord Conniston preferred not to dwell on the likely content of his sister’s precise comments.

‘I’m glad you approve, Edward,’ his father said with a degree of asperity. ‘It will be a relief to us all. It would have been better had you told Sir Richard of her intention in the first place. Then he could have locked her door and none of this would have happened.’

Edward’s mother came to his rescue. ‘My lord, how did you find Sir Richard this morning?’

‘I didn’t. I saw him last night and . . .’ Conniston cast an assessing glance at the young man sitting opposite him. He decided his discretion could be relied upon. ‘I have to say I am not hopeful.’

Mrs Marchment pulled a scrap of linen from her sleeve. ‘Oh dear. How distressing.’ She held the handkerchief to her mouth.

‘Then the sooner we find Amabelle, the more chance she’ll have to make her peace with her father.’

‘Indeed, Mr Marchment.’ Lord Conniston rose. ‘If you will excuse me, I’ll leave for my sister’s at once.’

His host also rose. ‘Edward and I will head for Lyngham now. See if we can pick up some trace of them.’ He tugged his waistcoat down. ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s not as if it’s a large place. Not like London. Now if they’d gone there –’

‘Oh, never say so!’ His wife’s usual calm deserted her again.

Marchment patted his wife’s shoulder. ‘No, of course not. I was just saying . . .’

‘Indeed,’ Conniston repeated. ‘I’ll bid you good day ma’am.’ He bowed to the teary-eyed woman and left the room.

Edward raced after him. ‘May I thank you, sir? It’s a relief to know there’s a chance of rescuing Matthew.’ He paused. ‘And Amabelle, of course.’

‘Indeed,’ Conniston said for the third time in as many minutes. He was struggling with the realisation that his concern was not for Matthew, Amabelle nor his own wounded pride. It was for a quite different person. If any action of his could assure Rowena Harcourt-Spence’s comfort and future, he would take it in short order.

The thought continued to vex him as he drove away from Manseley Grange. To be honest, the more he thought about it the less he liked it. He was not accustomed to having his peace of mind disordered. Or indeed the peace of his days. Since his enjoyable dispute with her at the Tiverton’s, Rowena Harcourt-Spence had disrupted his thoughts more than once. He came to the conclusion that his offer for Amabelle was a wild mistake. One induced by her pretty face and charming manner. It was strange he should have fallen so, considering he had always been the major catch and seen every debutant, pretty or otherwise, in the past decade. Annoyed with himself for not realising his mistake sooner, he flicked the whip over the lead horse’s right ear and urged his phaeton forward at a faster pace.

Once again the little tiger clinging to the back seat quelled the cheeky comments that usually amused his master.

Chapter Twenty Five

M
atthew sat on the truckle bed he had occupied overnight in the smallest of the White Hart’s attic rooms. He spread all of his remaining money on the tatty blanket. It did not amount to much. By the time he’d paid for breakfast, and for Misty’s stabling, there’d be little left. He chewed his thumb joint. If only he could find some way of persuading Amabelle to return home everything might yet be well. He transferred his teeth to his thumbnail. So far she’d shown not the slightest inclination whatever to accede to his reasoning. Or to his increasingly urgent requests. To his mind she was hell-bent on ruining herself. And as for her stupid idea of finding employment . . . well, there was precious little hope of that. He’d no idea how much bonnet-trimmers received in the way of wages but he was pretty sure it didn’t let a decent woman support herself. The stupid girl. Hazy memories of comments Edward had let slip about so-called fallen women caused him to bite through his nail. If Edward knew of such creatures, so did his father. Matthew did not wish to dwell Mr Marchment’s comments to a son of his who had allowed a neighbour’s precious daughter to become one.

He scooped his worldly wealth into his money pouch and stuffed it into his coat pocket. A light scratch on the door made him jump. He opened it. Amabelle stood in the narrow corridor outside, clutching her bundle of clothes.

‘I’m ready. I want to find Madame Scholes. The chambermaid says she’s the best milliner here.’

‘Don’t tell me a chambermaid in an inn like this knows who make the best hats.’ Matthew scoffed. ‘Maids don’t wear your sort of thing.’

‘Well you’re wrong. She does. Her sister works for Squire Winstead’s daughter and when she got married she went to Madame Scholes for her bonnet.’

Matthew’s interest in Squire Winstead’s daughter, her bonnet and her marriage was minimal. He cast a quick look at the attic stairs. No-one was about. He pulled Amabelle into his room.

‘Look, ’Bella. You’ve got to give up this stupid idea and go home. You’ll never find work. Not enough to keep you fed and decent.’ He dragged a hand through his hair. ‘If nothing else just think how Rowena must be feeling.’

Amabelle flattened herself against the wall. Tears brimmed in her eyes. ‘Why is everyone against me? No-one will help.’ A fat drop trickled down her cheek.

‘How can you say that, you ungrateful girl? Didn’t I drive you? Just as well I did or you’d be lying in a ditch by now dead of a broken neck.’

More tears followed the first down Amabelle’s cheeks. ‘I didn’t mean you. Really, I didn’t.’ A sob. ‘If you hadn’t helped me they’d be forcing me to marry that awful man.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, ’Bella. You have to marry someone. It might just as well be him.’

Matthew paced to the bed. He kicked the nearest leg which promptly collapsed. The lump of stuffed linen that had passed as a pillow rolled onto the floor. ‘Just look at it. This place is awful and it’s the best I could afford. Without money you’ll end up God knows where.’ He made a half-hearted attempt to resurrect the bed, muttering under his breath. Then his shoulders drooped. ‘Let me take you home, ’Bella, perhaps now your pa will have changed his mind.’

Amabelle shook her dark curls. ‘No he won’t. Once his mind is made up, Papa never ever changes it. Ever.’ She drew a shaky breath. ‘I’ll wait for you downstairs. Then we’ll see what to do.’ She trailed out of the room, leaving Matthew staring at the door.

Twelve minutes later he had scraped the burgeoning fluff off his chin with his penknife, brushed his jacket and breeches and tidied his shirt as much as he was able. He dragged his fingers through his hair for want of a comb and betook himself downstairs. He scanned the hall, even peeped into the taproom. Amabelle was nowhere to be found. At length he approached the landlord.

‘The young missy? She said to tell you she was going for a stroll and not to worry about her.’

‘A stroll?’ Matthew’s hand disordered his hair. ‘She didn’t mention a stroll to me.’

The landlord looked down from his superior height. He was a burly man who had greeted Matthew’s explanation of their arrival with distinct scepticism. ‘Ah, well, she seems a headstrong lass for sure.’

‘She is that. Truth to tell, she’s . . .’ Matthew caught his words. ‘Er . . . yes, well . . . my, um, sister’s taken a bit of a shake after . . . after our father’s death. Not thinking straight at all.’

‘I thought the miss said it was your ma that died.’

‘Oh yes. It was. Her too. Both of them. Very tragic.’

The landlord’s brows threatened to meet in the middle. ‘Well, when you find the girl you’d both better be on your way.’

‘Yes, well . . . we will be leaving. That’s our plan.’

‘Hmm. If you say so.’ His attention was taken by one of the serving wenches and Matthew turned away, relieved.

The next few hours Matthew could honestly say were the worst of his life so far. By the end of them he had paraded up and down every street and byway in Lyngham, stared into every establishment that was in any way likely to provide bonnets, fripperies or gloves for ladies. At one particular place he had been stared down by a harridan who had actually barred the door to him and threatened to call out the Beadle if he did not remove himself immediately. At once. Matthew had scurried away, his face scarlet and his temper in no way improved.

There was one last hope. A small square sign in the window of a clean, but modest house in a turning off the high street read:
Seamstress. Work of the highest order undertaken
in a flowing, elegant hand. Matthew mentally girded his overworked nerves, knocked on the door and entered.

The room was plainly furnished and spotlessly clean. On a round table in the centre lay a collection of fashion plates cut from journals. A small dark woman wearing thick spectacles emerged through a curtained doorway. Her eyebrows arched above the wire-framed lenses when she saw Matthew.

‘May I help you, sir?’

‘Er, yes. Thank you. I’m looking for my . . . er, sister. She was . . . that is she said she was going to try for employment. As a seamstress, I mean.’ He wiped his hands down the sides of his jacket. ‘I wondered if perhaps you’d seen her. Dark-haired. Quite pretty, I suppose.’

The woman shook her head. ‘No, sir. I’ve had no such person in here.’

Matthew was not sure he liked the emphasis she placed on the word
person
. However he thanked her politely and backed himself out of the door as adroitly as he could.

Returning to the inn, the landlord accosted him at the threshold. ‘You be staying another night? The pair of you?’

‘I thought so. But I can’t find my sister at present.’

The weary-looking girl who had carried water up to him earlier paused at the entrance to the taproom. ‘Do you mean the dark-haired miss who came in with you yesterday?’

‘That’s her.’

‘I saw her getting on the coach in Main Street.’

‘Coach? What coach?’

‘I dunno. The one with red doors.’

‘Ah, that’ll be the mail to Barton Green,’ the landlord vouchedsafe. ‘Be well on the way by now.’

Matthew could not stifle a groan. He had lost Amabelle. He knew for certain what he’d previously thought the worst day of his life had just been surpassed. The inevitable interview with his father would be unsupportable. Not to mention one with Sir Richard. He anguished over a plan of action. Any plan. Any action. He could either go to this Barton Green place, where he had never been before and try to find Amabelle, or he could go home and brave the wrath of two fathers. He became aware of landlord and skivvy staring at him. He pulled a breath into his chest.

‘Ah . . . yes . . . thank you. She must have shot off to visit our aunt. I expect she’s left a note upstairs.’

The landlord narrowed his eyes. ‘You’ll be wanting to settle your bill?’

Memories of his small financial reserves afflicted Matthew. He crossed his fingers behind his back and hoped it was sufficient.

Minutes later he was driving the Harcourt-Spence’s gig back to Manseley Grange. His speed was not as great as it should have been but Misty was content to amble slowly through the countryside, pausing now and then to chomp at a clump of grass that attracted her attention in various gaps in the hedgerow. Letting the reins droop, Matthew fretted over impending events.

While Misty and Matthew headed east, Amabelle was being jolted west. It was her first experience of transport designated for public use and she was not at all comfortable about it in any sense of the word. In fact she was decidedly uncomfortable. For a start she was crushed into a corner by a man whose girth almost beggared belief. Added to which, his breath smelt strongly of onions. After ten minutes in one position, he wriggled himself into another which he presumably found more comfortable before pulling a snuff box out of his pocket, extracting a few particles, sniffing them vigorously up his bulbous nose and then sneezing violently into a red handkerchief. Amabelle stared as hard as she could out of the clouded window. She forced herself to conjure happy visions of a future filled with elegant ladies demanding another of Miss Amabelle Harcourt-Spence’s elegant bonnets.

The man beside her belched. Amabelle winced and caught the eye of the man opposite. He smiled. At least, she thought, he must think he’d smiled but it was the strangest one she’d ever seen. His small, yellow teeth gave him a wolfish appearance. The thin woman beside him dug him in the ribs with her elbow and glared at Amabelle and particularly at the bundle in her lap. Unwelcome tears prickled behind Amabelle’s eyes and the happy visions began to wobble. She turned her face to the window and swallowed.

After what felt like hours of purgatory but was hardly more than four, the coach pulled into the market place in Barton Green and dragged to a halt. Amabelle clutched her bundle to her chest and jumped out as soon as the step was let down. She hurried away before the fat man could belch or sneeze over her again or the wolfish man smile.

Several steps down the pavement, she slowed to look about her. Barton Green was quite the largest town she had seen, apart from London and there she had been escorted at all times. Unlike now. The shops lining the market square seemed bright and prosperous. Amabelle’s spirits lifted. There was bound to be someone here who would employ her. She walked past a butcher’s and a greengrocer’s, her hopes high. She averted her face from another inn and hurried on, ignoring some puzzling comments from two young ostlers lounging under the arch. Across the street one half-timbered building with a large, many-paned window beside the door had a table drawn up to the glass. On it Amabelle could see two papier maché heads dressed with heavily-trimmed bonnets. Gloves and mittens were arranged in a fan beside them. At the back, a rose-coloured shawl was draped over a small chair. Amabelle screwed up her courage. This could be the answer to her dreams. She darted in front of a smartly painted barouche carrying two ladies of undoubted fashion and quietly opened the door.

A small brass bell suspended over her head jangled. She hovered on the polished floorboards, one hand clutching her bundle and the other holding the door open. To her right was a counter of polished wood with a tall bank of drawers behind it and two chairs placed before it. Opposite the counter a padded chair stood in front of a narrow table and large mirror. What space was left it was filled with shelves displaying more bonnets on wooden stands. The topmost shelf held a row of white and green striped boxes.

A man of middle years dressed in sombre clothes was closing one of the many drawers behind the counter. The clothes and the lines on his face and the grey in his hair reminded her of the tallest pall bearer who had turned out for Mother Shipley’s funeral. Her heart fell into her boots. She had expected – had hoped – to see a woman. She clutched at her bundle with both hands. The door swung shut behind her, causing the shining brass bell to jangle a second time. The man turned.

‘Good day, miss. How may I –’ His greeting ended abruptly when his eyes fell on the bundle. His welcoming smile evaporated. ‘What’s your business, my girl?’

‘Please . . . if you please, I was wondering if perhaps you were in need of someone to trim your bonnets.’

‘To what?’

‘To trim your bonnets.’

He folded his arms across his black jacket. ‘Now why would I be wanting that? And why would you be wanting to do it?’ He scowled. ‘I think you’d best be off. We don’t want your sort in here.’

Amabelle clutched her bundle tighter. ‘Oh, but please –’

The door at the rear of the shop opened. A young woman in a pretty green gown and lace cap entered. She stopped. ‘Who is this?’

The gloomy man turned. He indicated Amabelle with a jerk of his head. ‘This young miss thinks we’ll want her to trim bonnets for us.’

The woman inspected Amabelle from the top of her flower-trimmed straw to the pale leather boots that peeped out from under her gown. She took quick notice of the little she could see of the frogs on the pelisse bundled in Amabelle’s arms. She walked forward, concentrating her gaze on Amabelle’s bonnet. She pointed at the roses edging its crown.

‘Did you trim that?’

‘Yes, ma’am. It’s my best one though Mrs Marchment liked my cream one better.’

The woman walked closer. ‘Let me see your hands.’ She uncurled Amabelle’s right fingers from the bundle. ‘Those hands haven’t been used to hard work, have they? A lady’s maid, were you?’

‘Oh, no. I was . . . well . . .’ She recalled the story Matthew had told the innkeeper. ‘My Papa has recently died and I need to find work. My guardian was . . . he was . . . um . . .’ Amabelle swallowed. The rest of the story failed her. She lowered her eyes in confusion but only looked to be modestly grieving.

‘I see.’ The woman smiled. ‘Perhaps we may help you. I think I shall give you a trial. Lady Brinkley has ordered a new bonnet. We’ll see if you can trim one to her liking. She favours Austrian pleats and a plume or two.’ She held out her arm. ‘Come with me.’

The man hurried round the counter. ‘What are you doing, Maria? We can’t –’

‘Just wait, please, dear. I’ll be back in a moment.’ Maria continued to usher Amabelle into the back room.