Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (15 page)

The man returned to inspecting the contents of the many drawers, opening and closing them loudly. Eventually the woman reappeared.

‘I’ve settled her down with a dish of tea. She’s fagged out the poor child.’

‘Have you lost your senses, Maria? First, we can’t afford to employ anyone at all and second, even if we could, I wouldn’t take some young female who has wandered in off the street clutching all her worldly goods like that.’ He waved a hand towards the rear door.

Maria smiled. ‘Don’t concern yourself, my dear Mr Filbee. Unless I mistake, she’s a runaway. If we keep her here there might be a reward. You know how useful that would be at present.’

‘A runaway? Why on earth do you think that?’

‘Her hands. They are as soft as a newborn. And her clothes are of the first order. Nothing poor about them. All made ‘specially for her I’ll be bound. Not hand-me-downs she’s had to alter to fit.’

The man looked at the woman from under his brows. ‘A runaway? I don’t know that you’re right. If you are, how’re we to find whose she is?’

‘We’ll listen to the gossip. You’ll be able to hear the taproom chatter and I can listen to the women’s babble. Heaven knows, there’s enough of that. If she is a runaway from a decent family hereabouts, it will be known, you mark my words.’

The man folded his arms. ‘I don’t know . . . you can’t be sure she’s a runaway. And if she is, what if she says we harmed her? It would bring a whole lot of trouble down on our backs.’

‘I’m sure I’m right.’ The woman looped her arm through his. The pair had been wed for less than a year, a fact that had surprised her acquaintances at least a much as his. He was many years her senior and rather set in his ways, but it had taken her very little time to learn how to manage him. And his shop. There had been many improvements since she had become mistress of the establishment. She had, though, found it necessary to pout prettily on several occasions to persuade him to invest the major part of his savings in new stock. Word of the changes had revived interest and custom. A significant increase in their profits followed. That her advice had proved worthwhile persuaded Mr Filbee to accept her opinion of Amabelle’s circumstances.

‘Very well, Maria. The girl can stay.’ He raised an admonitory finger. ‘But you put her to work. I’m not paying her keep without it. We’re not a charity and this isn’t the workhouse.’

‘No, Mr Filbee, dearest. Of course you aren’t. I’ll see we get value from her.’

Chapter Twenty Six

A
mabelle stood at the door of the attic room.

‘Here you are,’ Maria Filbee said, opening a door that boasted only faint traces of its original paint.

Amabelle peered past her hostess’s arm. It was only the second time she had been in a room so close to the roof that its ceiling sloped. This one sloped dramatically. Anyone but a child would find it impossible to stand upright in at least half of it.

‘When you’ve arranged your things you may come down to the kitchen. It’s almost supper time. I expect we can find you a slice of bread and cheese.’ She saw the dismayed expression on Amabelle’s face and smiled inwardly to herself. Confidence in her estimation of Amabelle’s situation increased. Heading for the stairs, she called over her shoulder, ‘You may tidy up in here if you wish.’

Amabelle tried to find some cheer in the room. It was dusty but not as bad as the one in the inn at Lyngham. That one had nothing but two rickety beds. Here one narrow bed was tucked against the wall under the most steeply-sloping part of the ceiling. There was no quilt on it, or even a blanket, and the striped mattress looked rather lumpy but at least there’d be no-one to share the room. Fear that a stranger would appear had kept her awake for most of the night at Lyngham.

There was little else in the cramped space. A three-legged stool was up-ended beside the bed. A small table stood against the tallest wall. A head-high row of pegs was nailed between it and the door. The tiny widow wasn’t caked with grime as the inn’s had been but the limp cloth hanging on it barely covered the glass. The morning light was sure to blaze round it at the first glimmer.

The door opened. Maria Filbee held out a faded quilt and a pillow in a thin cover. ‘Here. These will do for tonight. It’s not cold but I’ll find you more if the weather turns.’ When Amabelle did not move, she walked past her and, half-stooping, tossed the quilt and pillow onto the bed. ‘There’s a sheet too. A wide one. You’ll have to fold it in half. Tomorrow you may cut it in two and hem it for yourself.’ Her comments were met with silence. Amabelle, clutching her bundle, stared from bed to mistress. ‘Aren’t you going to thank me?’ Maria said.

The words came out in a whisper. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘Good. Now hurry down. We mustn’t keep my husband waiting.’

‘Please, ma’am, what are you called?’

‘I am Maria Filbee. You may call me Mrs Filbee. What shall I call you?’

‘Ara . . . Amabelle, ma’am.’

‘Amabelle who?’

‘Um . . . Marchment, ma’am.’

‘I see.’ Maria Filbee certainly did. ‘If her name is Marchment,’ she said to her husband minutes later, ‘then I am the Queen of Sheba.’

Up three flights of stairs, Amabelle unrolled her clothes and hung them on the pegs. She tried to brush the creases out of her green-sprigged muslin dress and wondered why she had brought her cream silk evening gown. It was never going to be needed. She took off her bonnet and hung it up by its ribbons. Making the bed would have to wait. Even if supper was only going to be bread and cheese, she didn’t want to miss it. She had not eaten since a scant meal that had passed for dinner yesterday evening.

Supper was not bread and cheese. It was a thin slice of chicken and two potatoes. Amabelle could have eaten four times as much. Afterwards, she lay flat on her new bed, her head on the pillow which had more lumps than feathers in it, and hugged her grumbling stomach. Tears trickled from her eyes into her ears. This room was so different from her own at Southwold Hall and although Mrs Filbee had been pleasant, it was not like having Rowena to bear her company. As for Mr Filbee, he’d barely spoken a word to her throughout the short meal. Amabelle was sure he had watched her every move, her every bite.

Distinct feelings of regret crept into her mind. She missed Rowena. News of her flight must have reached her by now. She wondered how she had taken it. Perhaps she was sitting in Amabelle’s room at home, crying. The trickle of tears expanded into a stream. Amabelle pressed her hands over her mouth to stifle her sobs. She really, really wished the hateful Lord Conniston had never set eyes on her. She gulped. The rough blanket scratched her cheeks as she swiped away the salty tears. She would
not
cry. She would be brave. When she was settled she would write to Rowena and assure her she was safe and well. Yes, that’s what she would do. And she’d tell her of the many successes she’d had fashioning bonnets for Lady Whoeveritwas and all the elegant ladies hereabouts. Perhaps, in a year or two, she might even have her own shop.

Exhausted, she fell asleep with a stray tear still wet on her cheek.

Morning arrived very much before she wanted it to. Maria Filbee rapped on her attic door and opened it.

‘Amabelle. Get up. It’s past seven of the clock and there’s work to do before the shop opens.’ She paused long enough to see Amabelle open her eyes and raise her head from the small pillow before whisking herself away.

Amabelle scrambled out of bed, still half asleep and quite forgetting about the low ceiling. She yelped and rubbed her head. For want of a nightgown she had slept in her shift. She looked down at the crumpled lawn. How she could manage to clean it? There was no Ellie to hand it to now. If only she had thought to bring a nightgown with her, or at the very least a hairbrush. The plait down her back was tangled where the ribbon had fallen off during the night.

She looked around the room. What should she do? Wash her face. She padded barefoot to the little table. The basin on it held no water. The glaze over the painted blue flowers was so crackled it look as if someone had flung a net over them. When she smoothed a finger across them, it came away covered in dust. Her toe hit something under the table. A jug. She picked it up. Its spout was chipped but more importantly, it too was empty. She stared at it. Perhaps the skivvy who had worked in the scullery last evening would bring her some.

‘Amabelle.’ Mrs Filbee’s voice echoed up the stairs. ‘Hurry along do.’

There was nothing for it; she would have to fetch the water herself. She pulled her gown over her head and pushed her feet into her soft shoes.

The stairwell was dark. She left her door open to allow the dim light to penetrate the gloom. Each tread creaked under her weight. Clutching the jug to her chest she crept down. At the next landing there was a length of drugget on the floor. The bright colours looked fresh and new. It continued down the final flight of stairs into a hall decorated with two hunting prints of a particularly gory nature. A mirror hung between them. Amabelle caught sight of herself. Oh, why hadn’t she thought to bring a hairbrush? She hurried on through the door at the back of the hall that led into the room where she had eaten supper.

Inside, Mr Filbee sat in a chair by the stove, reading a newspaper. His wife sat at the table leafing through a journal and sketching bonnets and collars on a paper beside it. Bangs and crashes sounded beyond the room.

Mrs Filbee looked up. ‘What is it, Amabelle?’

‘Please ma’am, I need some water.’

Mrs Filbee pointed her pencil at the rear door. ‘Go through there and ask Annie for some. Be quick about it.’

In the scullery a girl of about thirteen was elbow deep in a sink scrubbing at pots. She looked round. A strand of lank hair fell across her face. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

‘May I have some water, please?’

The skivvy pointed wordlessly at the tap that rose awkwardly behind the sink.

Amabelle walked over and turned it on. Freezing cold water erupted into the jug, splashing her arms and gown. She turned it off as quickly as she could. ‘Thank you,’ she said, trying hard not to cry.

Mr Filbee watched her every step across the room. His wife looked at Amabelle’s gown.

‘You’ve soaked that. Didn’t I see you had another?’

‘Yes, ma’am. A muslin. With green sprays.’

‘Well put that on and tidy your hair.’

‘If you please ma’am, I didn’t . . . I mean, I’ve lost my hairbrush.’

Maria Filbee sighed. ‘Wait here.’

Amabelle stood, clutching the dripping jug, very conscious of Mr Filbee’s scowl. Maria disappeared out of the room to return a few moments later holding a brush and comb.

‘What are you doing with those?’ Her husband peered over the top of his newspaper.

‘The girl needs to tidy herself. We can’t have her working in the shop like that. Whatever would Lady Brinkley think?’

Her words acted like a spur to her husband’s mind. The newspaper descended. ‘Indeed.’ He scowled. ‘But don’t give her new ones. You have them and give her your old ones.’

Maria Filbee smiled. ‘What a good idea. You are so thoughtful, my dear.’ She stuck the comb into the brush’s bristles. ‘Here. Take these and be down again in five minutes.’

It was nearer ten minutes before Amabelle appeared in the shop. Mr Filbee was inspecting the contents of two of the drawers behind the counter. His wife was rearranging the items on the wide table drawn up to the window.

Mr Filbee straightened up. ‘Here.’ He held out a cloth. ‘Dust those shelves but don’t disturb what’s on them. I don’t want you making a mess.’

Amabelle looked at the series of shelves beside the mirror. They almost reached the ceiling.

‘Don’t stand there gawping, girl. What’s the matter? Haven’t you used a duster before?’

‘No. Ellie does.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’ve washed Mama’s ornaments with Rowena though.’

Mrs Filbee cast a quick glance at her husband. ‘Rowena’s your sister is she?’

Amabelle twisted the cloth in her hands. ‘Er . . . a friend. She’s a friend. Just a friend.’

‘How nice to have a friend,’ Maria Filbee said calmly. ‘I hope she lived nearby.’

‘Oh . . . yes. In Fincham . . . Green.’

‘How lovely. Now, wipe the cloth along the shelves and when it’s dusty take it out the back and shake it. Be careful or it will make you sneeze.’

On Amabelle’s first trip to shake the duster, Maria Filbee said, ‘So the sister is Rowena and the maid is Ellie. And they live near somewhere that starts with Fincham.’

‘Why do you say so?’ Her husband raised the blind at the front door and flipped the
Open for Business
sigh round on its cord. It swung against the glass briefly.

‘Because the child is a hopeless liar.’ Maria smiled. ‘We’ll soon have it out of her and then you can contact her family.

‘Me? Why should I put myself to that trouble? You may write to them. It will read better coming from a woman.’

‘As you say, dear. I shall write.’ The window arranged to her satisfaction, she walked to her husband and patted his arm. ‘You are always so clever, dearest.’

Chapter Twenty Seven

G
erald Marchment commanded his carriage, his wife and his heir and had them all conveyed to Southwold Hall immediately after he had broken his fast but well before Edward had the chance to do the same.

Phillips showed them into the empty morning room. ‘I’ll inform Miss Harcourt-Spence of your arrival, ma’am, sirs.’

He proceeded out of the room at a stately pace, closing the door behind him.

Mrs Marchment proceeded, equally majestically, to the nearest chair, turning it to a position where the unsympathetic morning sun would not fall directly onto her face. She sat down, handkerchief in hand, ready to hear the worst. ‘There! You see, Mr Marchment, I told you we would be far too early.’

Her reprimanded husband chose not to hear her. ‘It’s well past ten o’clock, Edward. As soon as we’ve seen Rowena and ascertained Sir Richard’s condition, you and I will leave for Lyngham. Your Mama may remain here and help Rowena bear her troubles.’

Neither Edward nor his Mama looked over-impressed by this arrangement but before either could protest, not that Edward would have dared to, the door opened.

‘Rowena, my dear,’ Mrs Marchment raised a hand. ‘How are you?’

‘Never mind how she does, madam,’ Mr Marchment told his wife, directing his gaze at Rowena. ‘How does your father?’

‘I thank you for your concern, sir,’ Rowena said, curtseying to Mrs Marchment. ‘Mrs Cope tells me he had a quiet night but I’m sorry to say he has not woken.’

‘Hmm,’ Mr Marchment grunted.

His wife hurried into speech. ‘I’m sure that’s all to the good. Rest will soon bring him to his senses.’

The look she received from her husband showed he disagreed. ‘Edward and I will set off now,’ he said, ‘and bring the stupid girl home. We’re sure to find her. There cannot be many girls of her standing marooned in Lyngham with my idiot son. Someone will be bound to have seen her.’

Mrs Marchment waved the scrap of lace handkerchief. ‘Never say so, sir. Matthew is a sensible boy, he will have taken her to the vicarage, I’m sure.’ The handkerchief subsided into her lap. ‘There is a vicarage in Lyngham, isn’t there?’

‘No doubt, but –’

A commotion sounded outside the front of the house. Wheels crunched on gravel. A horse whinnied. A door opened and was banged shut.

The occupants of the rooms stared at each other.

Matthew burst into the morning room, flushed and untidy.

‘Matthew, darling, you’re home.’ His mother clapped a hand to her chest in relief.

Rowena hurried towards the hall. ‘Amabelle?’ She stopped. ‘Where’s Amabelle? Isn’t she with you?’

‘No.’ Matthew ran his hand across his hot young face.

Mr Marchment looked from empty hall to younger son. ‘Explain yourself, sir. Where’s Amabelle?’

‘In Barton Green for all I know.’

‘Barton Green? What’s she doing there?’ Rowena clasped both hands round his arm.

‘Indeed, sir. Why have you left the girl alone?’ Mr Marchment advanced upon his son. ‘I’d have expected better from a son of mine.’

‘Better? Better?’ Matthew’s face coloured a deeper red. His fists clenched at his sides. ‘I think that’s dashed unfair of you, sir. Have you tried to stop the silly idiot when she’s taken a madcap notion into her head? I have and it isn’t easy, I can tell you.’ He paced backwards and forwards across the floor.

‘I’m sure –’ his mother began.

‘I think you might be a little more generous, sir,’ the much-tried youngster told his father. ‘First the stupid girl drives over to us and nearly kills herself and Ellie. Then instead of me waving her off alone on her hair-brained scheme, I go with her, trying to persuade her to give it up every step. And what does she do after I’d paid for rooms at the inn? And dinner? Ha!’ He spun on his heel and paced some more. ‘Off she goes on the stage to Barton Green without so much as a by your leave or a thank you.’

Rowena caught his arm and pulled him to a halt. ‘I’m sure you did all you could, Matthew, and I’m very grateful.’

‘Well I’m glad someone is.’ The alarms and exertions of the past twenty-four hours were steadily catching up with him. ‘It was dashed hard going, I can tell you. And the inn at Lyngham.’ His hands encompassed the enormity of it. ‘I’m never going there again. Dreadful place. The only rooms the beast of a landlord would grant us were up in the attic. Dashed awful. Not to mention the whole thing being dashed awkward too. I’ll never forget the look he gave us when I said she was my sister. And I’m sure there were fleas.’

A squeak emanated from his mother. ‘Fleas? Oh never say so.’ She flapped her handkerchief at him. ‘Stay away until you have doused yourself.’

Matthew executed the most perfect of bows. ‘I thank you ma’am.’ Sarcasm edged his voice. ‘Praise I did not expect, but a little sympathy would not be amiss.’

‘Don’t presume to address your mother in that fashion or I’ll horsewhip you myself.’

‘You do that, sir. It will be a pleasure after the past few hours.’

‘Oh, never say so,’ his mother wailed.

‘Papa,’ Edward said. ‘Should we perhaps be setting off for this Barton Green?’

‘Oh, yes, please, Mr Marchment.’ Rowena released Matthew. ‘I beg you to waste no more time.’

‘Very well.’ The disgruntled patriarch bowed to her. ‘Come along Edward. As for you, Matthew,’ he scowled at his younger son. ‘You may conduct your Mama home.’

So saying he walked out of the door, glaring at Phillips who was inspecting the quality of the dusting in the hall.

Edward clasped Rowena’s hand as he passed her. ‘Try not to worry. We’ll bring her safe home.’

Father and elder brother left the younger son to the tender mercies of the mother.

‘Sit down, dear.’ Mrs Marchment indicated the chair nearest to hers, forgetting about the risk of fleas. ‘Tell us everything that happened.’

Matthew was only too pleased to relieve himself of the burden of the past hours to a sympathetic audience. It was some time before he realised the master of the household was not present.

‘But where’s Sir Richard? Has he gone to Lyngham?’

A heavy silence fell in the room. Matthew looked from face to face.

His mother wrenched herself from her maternal concerns. Reverting to her normal calm manner, she said, ‘Sir Richard has suffered a grievous fall. He and Edward set off after you as soon as they might. By the greatest misfortune they chanced upon a gig and thought it was you. The driver took such exception to being chased down that he frightened Sir Richard’s horse into rearing.’

‘But Sir Richard’s a magnificent horseman. However was he dismounted?’

Mrs Marchment shook her head. ‘We don’t know. Edward was too put about to say. After all, he had to arrange to have him brought home.’

‘Brought?’ Matthew looked from his mother to Rowena. ‘Couldn’t he ride?’

‘Papa was knocked out of his senses.’ There was a quaver in Rowena’s voice. ‘He has yet to be restored to us.’

‘Good God, that’s dreadful.’ Matthew’s face bore testimony to his attempts to find something supportive to say. He failed. ‘Whatever will ’Bella say when she comes home?’

‘I very much hope,’ his mother said in ringing tones, worthy of a dowager, ‘that she will be brought to a proper sense of a daughter’s duty.’

Rowena twisted her hands together. ‘Always assuming she is brought home.’

‘Now, my dear, you must put your trust in Mr Marchment. He will discover her, I’m sure.’

‘Oh yes he will. Pa knows everyone in the county.’

The thought of everyone in the county being questioned about Amabelle’s disgrace brought a tremor to Rowena’s lips.

‘Barton Green is in the county, isn’t it Mama?’

‘I’ve no idea, darling. How long did it take you to drive home?’

‘I don’t know. It felt like forever. And anyway, I only came from Lyngham.’

‘Perhaps we could find a map. Have you a map, Rowena? Perhaps in poor Sir Richard’s book room? If we –’

Rowena jumped up. ‘Would you like some tea, Matthew? Excuse me while I arrange it.’

She hurried out of the door, only to lean with her back against it, hands covering her face. Ellie was crossing the hall. A flat work-basket dragged from one hand and bumped against her knee. The tin of grate blacking balanced on the cloths in it wobbled precariously. She stopped.

‘Is everything all right, miss? Do you need anything?’

‘I need a lot of things, Ellie.’ Rowena pushed herself upright. ‘Most of all I need Papa to wake up and my wickedly stupid sister to be found.’

Ellie had never heard such critical words uttered about Amabelle by her sister before. She clutched the basket handle with both hands. The tin wobbled closer to the edge. ‘Oh, miss. We’re ever so worried.’ Her chin trembled. ‘If only I’d stopped her, miss. She’d be safe home and the master wouldn’t be at death’s door.’

Rowena drew a deep breath. ‘You did all you could, Ellie. And Papa is not at death’s door. I don’t know why you think he is.’

‘But Mother Haswell said he was, miss, when she was having her bread and dripping with cook. She said she’d seen the signs before and she said –’

‘Mother Haswell should not gossip in the kitchen. And you should not repeat it to me or anyone else. Now run along and ask Mrs Kesgrave to send us some tea.’

Close to tears, Ellie hurried across the hall to the plain door at the rear. The tin departed the basket and rolled across the tiles. She grabbed it up and fled.

After the door had banged shut behind her, Rowena steeled herself to re-enter the morning room.

‘We’ve decided Barton Green is just over the border, my dear. That will put it in Lord Conniston’s county. Perhaps he –’

‘Oh, heavens – I promised I would write to him if there was any news. Will you excuse me a moment while I scribble a note?’ She ran to the door. ‘The tea will be here soon. Please don’t hesitate to take some.’

Sir Richard’s study was closer than her own room. The smell of his tobacco lingered. Rowena swallowed the lump in her throat. She seated herself at his desk. Sheets of cream writing paper were in a leather folder. Soft shadows of her father’s fingerprints patterned the green leather cover. Tears rose in her eyes. She smoothed her fingers over the surface then over the angles of the cut-glass, silver-trimmed inkwells. The pen lay on the matching tray.

My dear Lord Conniston . . 
. she began. She stopped. Was that too personal? How about
My Lord Conniston
? No, he was certainly not
her
Lord Conniston. Just
Lord Conniston
perhaps? Never, that was too abrupt, especially considering the insult her family had offered him. Several seconds of chewing the end of the pen decided her. She crumpled up the paper and started afresh.

Dear Lord Conniston,

I regret I must now tell you that Amabelle has fled from Lyngham and Mr Marchment’s younger son and taken the post to Barton Green which I know is in your county
.

She paused, crossed out
know is
and squashed in
believe to be
above it.

I very much regret that news of her situation may become known there which can only add to her disgrace and your discomfort. I must apologise once again on behalf of our family for the insult to your name and position
.

As she wrote the final word a tremendous crack of thunder rattled the window pane. The sky that had shown itself sunny and bright in the morning had darkened to deep grey. She folded the sheet, affixed a wafer then hurried down to the kitchen, calling for Phillips.

The butler disturbed himself from cleaning the silver epergne at one end of the kitchen table. He stood up. The cook gave her well-scrubbed pine a searching glance, looking for dirty marks.

‘Please take this to Mr Patterson and ask him to send one of the grooms to Ampney Park with it.’ She held out the fold of paper. ‘I fear he may be soaked if the rain starts soon but it cannot be helped. It’s vital it reaches his lordship.’

‘Ampney Park, ma’am? I thought his lordship was gone to his sister at Rushton Court.’

Rowena bowed her head to rub three fingertips on her forehead. ‘Was he? I can’t remember.’

‘I thought so, miss. That’s where she lives.’

Rowena rubbed harder, dragging the memory of Lord Conniston’s final words to her the previous evening up through the rigors of the day. ‘No. No. He definitely said Ampney Park.’ She looked up. ‘Tell Mr Patterson Ampney Park, please.’ Phillips left the kitchen. At the door to the passage, Rowena stopped. ‘Has Miss Quigley risen yet?’

‘No, miss,’ Ellie answered. ‘She said she was so flagged by events that she would keep to her room today.’

Rowena experienced a desire that she too could keep to her own room today. Yet a degree of thankfulness remained. She would be spared Cousin Thomasina’s depressing thoughts endlessly recounted to her. ‘Thank you, Ellie. Please don’t disturb her. I will keep Papa company after Mrs Marchment and Matthew have left.’

Taking a deep breath, she nerved herself to hear more of Matthew’s adventure until he left and she could climb the stairs to see if her father was better or worse. She felt completely alone with no-one to share her burdens. No, she told herself, that is odious self pity. Even now Mr Marchment and Edward were riding away, trying to solve the problem. They really were very kind. If only a certain brown-haired, grey-eyed individual was . . . No, no, no. She must not wish for that. The present situation had banished him for ever.