Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (18 page)

Chapter Thirty Two

N
ever had Rowena been so pleased to see the sternly impressive features of her aunt and never had the stern features of her aunt been more impressive. Tugging her hand out of Archibald Neave’s moist grasp, she ran across the room and clutched Lady Tiverton’s arm with a sigh of relief.

‘For goodness sake, miss.’ Lady Tiverton flapped a gloved hand at her niece. ‘Don’t maul me in such a fashion.’ She shook herself free. The length of sable slipped from one arm. She extended the other, allowing the furs to drag on the floor. ‘Take these. It’s too hot now but one never knows how it will be when travelling. I don’t care to risk being cold in the carriage.’

While Rowena bundled the several feet of narrow dark fur into her arms and placed it carefully on the straight-backed chair beside the door, Mr Neave advanced to the new arrival, smiles wreathing his rotund face.

‘Lady T. What a pleasure.’

His quarry looked considerably less pleased. ‘Indeed, sir. Might I enquire how you came to be here?’

The answer came from the hall where girlish voices were raised in giggles. Harriette appeared with her arm linked through that of Araminta Neave. ‘Mama, see who is here.’

‘I know who is here, thank you, miss. And I have not yet heard why.’

Araminta dropped a shallow curtsey. ‘Oh, that’s simple, ma’am. Pa has come to offer for Rowena again.’

Harriette’s mouth dropped open. ‘Rowena,’ she gasped.

Her mother’s mouth unclenched from its firm line. Her gaze transferred to Mr Neave. ‘That is quite impossible. The family has already made plans for my niece’s future.’ She surveyed the room and then the hall. ‘And where, might I ask, is Miss Quigley? With visitors in the house she should be here.’

Araminta smiled winningly. ‘Oh, she found the pace of our walk too distressing so I took her back to her room.’

‘Indeed.’ Lady Tiverton returned to her topic. ‘Then it is even more improper for you to be talking to my unchaperoned niece, sir. Not to mention the fact that this is a singularly inappropriate time for such an offer.’

‘Nonsense, Lady T. Miss Rowena is in need of support and some certainty of her future after what might be a sad event.’

Three pairs of feminine eyes goggled at him. The fourth pair smiled.

‘Pa, we’d best leave them in peace to make their greetings. Harriette says there is the sweetest bonnet in the window in . . .’ She turned. ‘Where was it Harry?’

Conscious of her mother’s censure, Harriette coloured. ‘In Fincham Wortly. There’s a turning just off the High Street and past –’

‘It is quite immaterial where it is, Harriette will not be going. She is needed here.’

‘Oh, I’m sure someone will tell us where it is. Pa, we can come back later if you’d like.’

Rowena overcame the sense of unreality that had afflicted her at the open discussion of Mr Neave’s offer, including mention of her father’s possible demise after the trials he was currently enduring above them. ‘Please don’t. I have not . . . and will not . . . change my mind. I am deeply flattered but I cannot accept.’

‘Indeed not. This is no time for my niece to be set about by such a matter even if she were mad enough to consider it.’

The acid tone of her comments eventually managed to pierce Archibald Neave’s self-confidence. ‘I take that very unkindly of you, ma’am. But I say I have no intention of withdrawing my help from such a precious female. It’s a decent offer of a comfortable, secure life where she’d want for naught.’

‘Indeed, and I am properly grateful, sir, but I must continue to decline.’

‘You have your answer Mr Neave. Harriette, escort Miss Neave to her father’s carriage.’ Lady Tiverton inclined her head the barest fraction. ‘I bid you good-day, sir.’

Thus dispatched, Archibald Neave followed his daughter out of the room with a frown creasing his plump forehead.

Rowena sank onto the nearest chair. Her aunt proceeded to the sofa. She arranged herself on it.

‘I have no idea what persuaded that person to offer for you, Rowena, but you should not have encouraged him.’

A gasp escaped her niece. ‘Indeed I have done no such thing, ma’am. Quite the reverse. I have refused him at every turn.’ Rowena’s shoulders drooped. ‘He seems impervious to any negative suggestion.’

‘Indeed.’ The determined gentleman was dismissed with the merest shrug. ‘Now, sit up straight and tell me how my brother does.’

‘I don’t know ma’am. Doctor Norton is . . .’ Her voice faltered. ‘Is even now . . .’ She pressed a hand to her quivering mouth, unable to continue.

‘Bear up, Rowena. I’m sure the doctor will do his best.’ The tray with its cold tea attracted her attention. ‘Pray call for a fresh dish. I am parched with thirst after the journey.’

Rowena stood and tugged the long tapestry bell pull dangling by the fireplace. Her cousin crept back into the room, her face pale. Her mother’s gaze swam in her direction.

‘Had you anything to do with that dreadful man’s arrival here?’

Her answer came in the barest whisper. ‘I might have mentioned to Araminta that Uncle Richard was hurt.’

‘I see.’ A long breath was drawn in through disapproving nostrils. ‘Well in future, miss, be sure you keep family business within the family. I’m sure we can manage very well without becoming the subject of gossip among the lower orders.’

The three women, one assured and calm and the others crushed and anxious, sat in silence until the fresh tea tray arrived. Phillips followed a laden Ellie into the room.

Rowena jumped up, hands gripped together. ‘How is he? Is it done?’

‘It is, but it was a sore trial for him.’

‘Did he come to his senses? Did he suffer?’

The butler allowed himself to wipe a hand across his left cheek. His eyes looked tiredly at his audience. ‘Not that I know, Miss Rowena. There were no . . . noises.’

‘Perhaps if we stop demanding answers from someone who was not present . . . you weren’t present, were you?’ The butler shook his head. ‘Then the doctor might have come and inform us how my brother does.’

Phillips bowed. Tiredness showed in every plane of his face. ‘He is in the stableyard at present, Lady Tiverton. Washing the . . . er, washing.’

His inference was not lost on Rowena. She sank onto a chair, this time covering her mouth with both hands.

Even Lady Tiverton blanched. ‘Surely it was not so bad. I think we need reviving.’

Her words prompted Ellie still hovering by the door with the tray hoisted level with her chest to carry it across to the table. Harriette followed her and stood fidgeting while the tray was set down. Without looking up, Ellie bobbed a curtsey to no-one in particular and hurried herself, pink-faced, from the room before even one fresh dish of tea was poured.

‘Harriette,’ her mother commanded. ‘Pour.’

Harriette picked up the pot with a trembling hand. Her eyes sent a silent plea to her cousin over its lid.

Rowena managed a brief smile. ‘Don’t worry. You could never have imagined Mr Neave would take such a dreadful notion into his head as to come pestering me again.’

Her words did not escape her aunt. ‘It is immaterial, what Harriette might have imagined. Or might not. She should not have disclosed our business to outsiders.’ She inclined her head a fraction to the butler. ‘I do not include you in that group. I’m sure you have known the family long enough to escape that classification.’

Phillips bowed, his mouth clamped shut.

‘May I see Papa?’ Rowena asked him.

‘It would be as well to wait a while, Miss Rowena. Mother Haswell and Mrs Cope are . . . putting the room to rights.’ He bowed again and departed for his pantry and a reviving tot of spirits. Or two.

As he left, a series of bumps and mutters drifted in from the hall. Rowena rushed to the door. Thaddeus and Gilbert were manhandling the still-room table down the main staircase, the only ones wide enough to allow its passage. Dark ruby stains spread across its surface. It would never be used to pat butter or form cheese rounds again. Rowena swayed. The world before her eyes turned black. She propped a hand against the doorframe and heaved deep breaths into her lungs. Her vision cleared.

‘Are you well, Miss Rowena?’ Thaddeus downed his end of the table and arrived at her side. ‘Let me help you to a chair.’

‘No need. Thank you. I am quite well. I think I’ll go up to Papa.’ She left the groom standing by the door, looking after her with anxious eyes.

The stairs seemed steeper than usual. And more of them. The climb to her father’s room took longer than she thought. Her steps grew smaller and slower, they dragged along the landing until she paused at his door. Eventually, her hand clenched round the handle. Dreading what she might see, she went inside.

The sash widows were raised a hand’s width. The slightest of warm breezes drifted into the room to stir wisps of smoke from the small fire glowing in the grate. Mrs Cope stood by the bed, her fingers curled in fists gripped the sides of her long apron. A small red stain marked its hem. On the bed, Sir Richard lay under a thin, floral quilt. The bottom half was raised in a mound.

Mrs Cope heard Rowena gasp. ‘He’s sleeping, luv,’ she said, forgetting the social niceties. ‘We put a box over his legs . . . leg to shelter it.’ She bit her lip. ‘Please God, he does well.’

Rowena nodded. Her father’s breathing barely stirred the quilt. She could not take her eyes off him.

Mrs Cope pulled an upright chair closer to the bedside. ‘Here, luv. Sit yourself down with him.’

When Rowena did not move, the housekeeper tiptoed out of the room, closing the door gently behind her. Left alone with her father, Rowena stirred herself to walk to the bed. His face was pallid, almost as white as the pillow beneath his head. The lightest of sheens slicked his forehead and cheeks. Dark violet blotches stained his eyesockets. His lips had lost their shape and formed a line barely darker than his skin.

A single tear rolled down Rowena’s cheek. She clasped her hands together, sank to her knees and, with her head bowed onto the prettily patterned quilt, prayed for her father to be spared.

Chapter Thirty Three

N
o sooner had the Neave’s highly-coloured carriage disappeared down the road to Fincham Wortly than Lady D’Arborough’s travelling coach appeared from the northern approach, closely accompanied by Lord Conniston mounted on a frisky bay of undoubted pedigree.

The coach had barely rocked to a halt before Amabelle had its door open. She jumped out before the groom had put a foot to the ground to lower the step. Hurtling into the house, she paid no attention to her bonnet as it slid from her head, pulling the ribbons tight against her neck. ‘Rowena. Rowena. Where are you?’

Receiving no answer she dashed from room to room until she almost collided with an austere personage emerging from the morning room in a stunning pelisse of heavy, royal blue silk trimmed down the front with silver frogging.

‘Aunt Tiverton,’ Amabelle gasped. ‘Oh, ma’am, I beg your pardon.’

The lady stared down at her niece in a manner guaranteed to remind anyone of their true place in society. ‘And so I should think.’ She gave a quite unnecessary twitch to her skirt as if its hem had somehow become soiled. ‘Whatever do you mean by racing around like some ill-bred hoyden?’

Sophronia Tiverton became aware of a slight disturbance at the front door. She raised her eyes from her niece’s flushed face to survey the thin woman, dressed in the height of fashion, who was being ushered into the hall by Laurence Conniston. The feathers on the woman’s bonnet were particularly impressive. Lady Tiverton drew herself up to her not-inconsiderable but still inadequate height.

‘Child, fetch my sables. I feel a chill in the hall.’ She indicated the door behind her and Amabelle disappeared through it to emerge moments later laden with the sables her uncle had found it necessary to bestow on her aunt after some minor peccadillo of his had reached her ears.

Lord Conniston watched as Lady Tiverton arranged the furs were around her shoulders with misleading casualness. He permitted himself a slight smile before he bowed. ‘I believe, ma’am, you know my sister, Lady D’Arborough.’

‘Of course I do, Conniston. Don’t be bizarre. Unless I mistake, we met at the Croyle’s rout in April.’

The two women advanced as if in some preordained but restrictive dance. They greeted each other with the briefest touch of two fingertips.

‘Good day, Lady D’Arborough.’ Sophronia Tiverton was pleased to adopt the role of hostess. ‘Please step into the morning room. I believe my elder niece is about somewhere. No doubt Amabelle . . .’ she turned her basilisk gaze upon the girl, ‘is able to summon someone to attend us. Always assuming the tea caddy has not been emptied for the sake of our earlier visitors.’

‘Yes, aunt.’ With her bonnet still bobbing on her shoulder-blades, Amabelle disappeared through the baize door at the rear of the hall, freed at last from the horrid Lord Conniston and his equally horrid sister.

‘Earlier visitors?’ Lord Conniston’s raised eyebrow indicated mild interest as he followed the two grand females across the threshold.

‘Mr Neave and his daughter.’

‘Neave?’ Conniston stopped short.

‘Indeed.’ A face of unmistakable disapproval was turned to him. ‘The very person you persuaded Tiverton to invite to Darnebrook.’

Lord Conniston knew Sophronia Tiverton well enough to realise she was about to pay him back for that event.

‘You’ll be pleased to learn he was most anxious to lend his support to Rowena at this dreadful time.’

A frown darkened his lordship’s face. The thought of Archibald Neave inveigling himself into Rowena’s company was far from pleasant. Nevertheless he allowed a dispassionate gaze to rest upon his tormentor. ‘I’m sure Miss Harcourt-Spence has all the support she needs from her family.’ He accompanied his words with another bow, a very slight bow, before following Lady Tiverton further into the room.

His sister raised her lorgnette towards Harriette who was hovering by the window. She raked the pale-faced girl from head to toe and back again. ‘And who is this?’

‘My daughter, ma’am. Harriette make your duties to Lady D’Arborough, then you may go and find where your cousins are hiding themselves. And Miss Quigley if she is not laid down with another megrim. You may inform them they are needed here.’

Harriette sketched the briefest of curtsies before hurrying from the icy atmosphere that now filled the room.

Unfamiliar with the house, she crept up the stairs. The landing at the top was empty of human life. There was very little light; just enough to make out that the three dark wood doors to her left were closed, as were four more to the right. The noise of a single, muffled sob reached her. Stepping onto the runner of Persian weave down the centre of the passage, she crept along until she reached the room from where the sob might have come. After listening for more, but hearing none, she turned the handle with great hesitation. The door eased open a crack.

In the quiet room, Rowena had slumped to the floor by her father’s bed. One delicate hand lay motionless upon the quilt, its fingertips barely touching his cheek. Her head had drooped against her raised arm. Her other hand was raised to her mouth. Streaks of tears descended from her closed eyes.

Harriette tiptoed towards her. ‘Rowena,’ she whispered. ‘Rowena, are you faint?’ She cast a quick glance over the bed. She bit her lip. ‘Is he . . . he’s not ..? Oh, dear. Rowena, wake up.’

A pair of grey opened. ‘It’s not what you think. He’s only sleeping.’

‘Oh, thank goodness.’ Harriette ran the rest of the way and knelt in a cloud of pale muslin. She lifted the hand from her cousin’s face and stroked it gently. ‘How . . . how does he?’

‘He hasn’t moved since Doctor Norton cut off his bad leg.’

Harriette squealed, snatching her fingers back. Her face paled. She clasped a hand over her mouth, ran to run to the window, pushed it up and leant out.

Hands on the side of the bed, Rowena hoisted herself to her feet. She crossed to wrap an arm round Harriette’s shaking body. ‘Have you been unwell? Shall I beg your Mama to come up?’

A pale face turned to her. ‘No. Please. She’s talking to Lord Conniston and his sister.’

The soothing arm froze. ‘Lord Conniston? Here? Does that mean ..?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s brought Amabelle with his sister.’

Rowena stood quite still, her eyes closed. ‘Thank God.’ She steadied herself for a second, then ran from the room.

Harriette, left alone with her uncle, motionless and white-faced under his covers, inched round the walls and furniture, keeping as far from the bed as possible until she reached the door. Then she fled.

Amabelle, her face white and her bonnet still dragging at her neck, was running from the servants’ door across the hall when she saw Rowena at the head of the stairs. The sisters hurried forwards. At the bottom of the stairs they clasped each other close.

‘Are you safe? Are you well? How did you live?’ Rowena’s crushing hug turned into a shake of her sister’s slight figure. ‘Why on earth did you do it? Oh, Amabelle, had you no thought for us? For me?’ Rowena held her away, staring into her face. ‘I have anguished every moment you’ve been gone. Dreading what news might come of you.’

A great sob burst from Amabelle’s chest. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’ She flung herself into her sister’s arms. ‘Cook tells me Papa is lost. That he’s had . . . that his leg is . . . gone.’ She choked on the last word.

‘It is. Doctor Norton is just now . . . washing.’

Amabelle subsided to the stair. Her head drooped onto her knees. The bonnet slipped sideways. ‘Oh dear, oh dear. Mrs Cope said he fell coming after me.’

Rowena lowered herself to sit beside her sister. ‘He did. Edward was with him. He brought him home in a wagon.’

A fuselage of fresh sobs filled the hall. Amabelle’s body shook with their force. ‘It’s my fault, isn’t it? It’s all my fault.’ She looked up, her face flooded with tears. ‘If Papa dies, it will be all my fault.’

Rowena gave her shoulder a small shake. ‘Papa isn’t going to die.’

‘But Mrs Kesgrave says he is. She said it just now in the kitchen when she told Ellie to stop being such a goose snivelling in the corner.’

Rowena dredged up the remnants of her courage. ‘Cook doesn’t know anything about it. Doctor Norton has worked wonders. I’m sure he knows how to save Papa.’

At the top of the stairs, Harriette chewed her thumbnail, a habit her mother deplored. ‘Do you think we should ask Mama? Or Lord Conniston?’

Two faces swivelled towards her. Some of the stress left Rowena’s face.

‘Lord Conniston. Of course. He’ll know about it. He’ll have seen wounded men in India.’

Amabelle leapt up. ‘I won’t ask him. I won’t. Not after the way he humiliated me. Dragging me out of the shop.’ She picked up her skirts and ran up the stairs, two at a time, pushing Harriette aside at the top. Her bedroom door banged shut.

‘Shop? What shop?’ Rowena said.

Harriette could not answer. She looked along the passage with concern. ‘I hope uncle doesn’t die. I fear she will never stop crying if he does.’

Rowena wiped her hand across her eyes, drying her own small sum of tears. Slightly pink, she stood up. ‘I had better greet Lord Conniston and his sister. Then I must make sure Mrs Cope prepares rooms for them. I wonder if Mrs Kesgrave has enough dinner for us all.’

She straightened the cuff of one long sleeve before walking across the hall with dragging feet. Harriette hurried down the stairs after her.

The atmosphere in the morning room was frosty, with Lady Tiverton obviously in command. ‘Ah, here you are at last, Rowena. Let me make you known to Lady D’Arborough.’

Rowena curtsied. ‘You must allow me to thank you, ma’am, for aiding us. It was most generous of you.’

Lady D’Arborough employed her lorgnette for the second time since her arrival. She noticed that this victim did not cower. To the contrary, the girl’s chin lifted a fraction and she could have sworn the shoulders straightened. She did however appear to be somewhat puffy and pink around the eyes.

‘Not at all,’ she said in depressing tones. ‘Laurence begged so prettily I could not refuse.’

From his habitual position by the corner of a fireplace in any room he inhabited, Lord Conniston had no struggle keeping his lips from displaying the slightest of quirks it normally would.

Rowena’s chin lifted a fraction higher. ‘I . . . we can never repay our debt to you, my lord. You have been most kind in returning my sister to us and safety.’

Lord Conniston greeted her gratitude brusquely. ‘Rubbish.’ The four women around him were united for a moment in surprise. ‘It was the least I could do. I should have recognised her animosity to my offer from the first.’

‘Not animosity, my lord. Stupidity, perhaps. Lack of appreciation, I think. She was too . . .’ Her voice faded. This was no time to criticise her father. ‘I think it is all down to her young age,’ she finished.

One of her aunt’s snorts intruded into the exchange. ‘Absolute stupidity on both sides, I’d say. You, sir, and my brother should have known the child was too immature to contract any sort of an arrangement in her first Season.’

‘I fear you judge my brother too harshly, ma’am.’ The lorgnette was again employed. Sophronia Tiverton was unused to being surveyed in such a fashion. Her nostrils flared.

Rowena hurried into speech. ‘Has tea been ordered? I’m sure you must be in need of some refreshment after your journey, Lady D’Arborough.’

‘I believe the girl was sent to summon some but it has yet to appear.’

‘You must forgive us, ma’am. We are not at all as ordered as usual today.’

Situated by the fire place, his lordship could see the line of Rowena’s jaw tighten and her eyes moisten. With a sigh he assumed the role of diplomat. ‘Perhaps we might remember that Sir Richard is lying above us. No doubt his surgeon will be here soon to tell us how he does.’

The thought that they might be required to hear an account of a gruesome procedure silenced the two Grandes Dames. Consequently Mrs Cope ushered a laden Ellie into a room shrouded in deathly silence.