Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (21 page)

Rowena looked up at him and for a moment he thought he saw regret in her eyes. If there was, he told himself, it was for leaving the home of her childhood. Not for any other reason.

Amabelle watched the carriage leave until she could no longer discern Rowena’s handkerchief waving from the window. She bit her lip to stop it trembling. She was glad she had come to the wedding after all, even though she had declared she would never set foot outside her room again. It had taken Aunt Tiverton very few minutes and fewer acid words to persuade her that she would stop behaving like some badly brought up female in a novel and do her duty by her sister and her family. Grief and guilt threatened to overwhelm her. She managed to contain them until she regained her own room. There she gave way to her emotions and sobbed for all the trouble she had caused.

Chapter Thirty Eight

T
he drive to Ampney Park was conducted almost entirely in silence. Apart from an occasional enquiry as to her comfort Laurence hardly spoke to his bride. His silence did not trouble her. She was buried deep in her own thoughts. After catching his eyes on her hands as they twisted in her lap, she forced herself to keep them still.

The miles rolled past, barely troubling her so comfortable was the travelling chaise. Eventually Conniston leant forward and pointed out of the window on her side of the chaise.

‘If you watch for the break in this line of beeches, you will have your first glimpse of Ampney.’

She turned her head away from the closeness of his cheek to stare in the direction he had indicated. Several more towers of shimmering leaves passed before the promised break. She caught her breath at the distant view. Seen from the east, Ampney Park was almost three times as wide as Southwold Hall. Its central block with four ranks of tall windows rendered the modest height of the home she had just left inconsequential. Two extensive wings of decreasing heights stepped down at each side. It looked as if it had been modelled on a child’s stacked row of toy bricks but there any simplicity ended. The multiplicity of windows, the carved stone, the pillared porch rising past two storeys could not fail to impress. A heavily carved pediment surmounted the porch and was itself topped by a stone figure whose identity she could not guess. It was breath-taking. Rowena felt the first stirrings of apprehension for her ability to manage such a magnificent establishment.

‘You will find Bodellick and Mrs Brinscott to be the most efficient of people. And of course, there is my steward, Vincent Tarraby.’

She heard in Conniston’s comment his uncanny ability to perceive her innermost thoughts. It gave her no comfort. ‘Bodellick and Mrs Brinscott?’

‘My butler and housekeeper. They have been with me for years. Bodellick since well before my father died.’

Since she had promised him honesty, or as much as she could give without causing him to despise her, she said, ‘I am greatly relieved, sir. It is much more expansive than Southwold.’

‘I am sure you will accustom yourself to it in very little time. We do not, of course, occupy all the rooms. No-one could. You will find your apartment in the west wing. It was my mother’s. I asked Mrs Brinscott to have it prepared.’ In the few seconds’ silence that followed, Rowena wondered where his apartment was. ‘Mine is of the same arrangement but in the east wing.’

Rowena stilled her breathing so he might be spared the sound of a sigh of her relief.

The carriage turned off the main road and passed through a pair of high stone pillars supporting magnificent iron gates. The sweep of the drive briefly hid the view of the house behind the trees. They were drawing closer to their shared home. Conniston fidgeted with the brim of his hat. He looked down. He looked up.

‘I hope, ma’am you will enjoy your life here. It must be somewhat restricted for the present because of your bereavement. There will be only the most formal of calls by my acquaintances until the New Year. Then I hope you will be able to partake in local life.’ He smoothed an imagined bump on the surface of his hat. ‘Of course you will wish to take your sister to London for the Season. I assume she will have recovered herself by then. My townhouse will be at your disposal.’

‘You will not be present yourself?’

He cleared his throat with an effort. ‘I thought perhaps you would welcome the opportunity to spend time with her alone.’ More hat smoothing. ‘In fact I intend to visit an intimate of mine once I have seen you and Amabelle comfortably settled.’

His words struck a chill into Rowena’s heart. What did he mean by
an
intimate
? Was he indicating a liaison elsewhere? Her fingers began to tremble in her lap.

‘I think perhaps you have heard of him. I’m almost sure he attended your aunt’s ball last year. Colonel Lavington?’

Rowena applied her mind and soon remembered a disarmingly straightforward officer who had sought her hand for a dance. An upsurge of relief brought a smile to her face. ‘Indeed. He was, as I remember, a charming man.’

A flicker crossed Conniston’s face. ‘His wife is a charming woman. Perhaps she might become one of your new friends.’

Rowena was about to thank him for his suggestion when the carriage pulled to a halt inside the portico. The groom leapt down and opened the door. She looked out. A splendid gentleman in dark clothing stood at the head of the flight of steps leading up to the main entrance. Behind the gentleman’s left shoulder stood another, shorter man and a plump lady, also clothed in black. A grey-clad maid stood on each step on the left. Liveried footmen occupied those on the right. Rowena thought there must be almost a dozen of each. She swallowed.

Conniston rose and stepped past her to alight. Once on the ground he raised his hand to help her down. Gathering her courage and her skirts, she placed her hand in his and set her first foot in her new world. Conniston led her up the steps. Maid after maid curtseyed, footman after footman bowed. At the top, the splendid gentleman bowed.

‘Welcome to Ampney Park, Lady Conniston. I am Tarraby, the steward. May I present Bodellick your butler and Mrs Brinscott, your housekeeper?’

The gentleman bowed. The lady curtsied. ‘My lady.’

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen, Mrs Brinscott. Thank you for your welcome. I’m sure I shall be very happy here.’

The trio stood aside to allow the owner and his new wife to enter the magnificent hall. Rowena gasped. The room was an enormous cube, as high as it was wide and long. Pillars lined the walls at head height, supporting narrow a gallery containing white marble statues. The gilded plaster pattern on the ceiling was matched by a similar one of blue and white diamond tiles on the floor. Her footsteps echoed to all four corners. The room was magnificent. It was far from homely and welcoming. A chill in her soul replaced her initial amazement.

Conniston escorted her up the wide flight of stairs. He stopped at the top. ‘You will be fatigued after the exertions of the day and the journey. Mrs Brinscott will show you to your apartment.’ He bowed. ‘I look forward to your company at dinner.’

Mrs Brinscott stepped up. ‘This way, my lady.’ She raised a hand to indicate the wide passage to the left.

Rowena hesitated. Conniston and Mrs Brinscott waited. At last she said, ‘Thank you, my lord. I will see you then.’

Her apartment was light, bright and large. Very large. Her sitting room – Mrs Brinscott called it her boudoir – was cream, gold and green with prettily framed paintings of flowers and fruit on the walls. Soft rugs, patterned in the same shade of green covered the floor. Despite it being the last day of August, a fire burned in the white marble fireplace. A chaise longue stood at beside it, piled with silk cushions. A writing desk was angled beside one of the two tall windows. The damask on its chair matched that of the several others around the room. In the far wall, double doors gave onto her bedroom which in turn gave onto a dressing room that was quite as large as the drawing room at home. She caught herself up. Southwold Hall was not home any more. Home was now the massive, impressive, cold, Ampney Park. Rowena managed to wait until the housekeeper had bowed herself out of the sitting room before the tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

‘Oh, Amabelle,’ she sighed. ‘What have I done?’

She had precious little time to find herself an answer. A scrape at the door presaged the entry of a thin woman of middle years. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun which exposed every scrap of her sharp features to the light.

‘Good afternoon, my lady. I am Mackenzie. I was the late Countess’s personal maid. If it is your wish, I will serve you until your own maid arrives.’

Rowena flicked a finger across a cheekbone, wiping away the last tear. ‘I don’t have a personal maid. There was only Ellie to attend Amabelle and me.’

Mackenzie showed no reaction. ‘Perhaps then, my lady, if the girl is to come here, I might attend you and bring her up to attend your sister.’

Rowena experienced the first feeling of warmth since she had left Southwold Hall. ‘Thank you, Miss Mackenzie. I would appreciate it. And I’m sure Amabelle and Ellie will.’

‘Thank you, my lady. If I might say, it’s just Mackenzie. Not Miss Mackenzie.’

‘Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect.’

A smile added to the warmth Rowena had already detected. ‘No need to mention it, my lady. Now, may I help you to remove your spencer? And perhaps your half boots? You must be tired after your journey and the trials of the last few days. An hour or so to lie down before you must dress for dinner should help to revive you.’

Mackenzie was as good as her word. She guided Rowena to the high, canopied bed in the next room. The late Countess had been a redhead of Scottish extraction and she had known what colours suited her best. Consequently the hangings at the four posts of the bed, the outside of its low pyramidal canopy and the quilted bedcover were all of pale green silk embroidered with sprigs of heather. Gold bullion fringe edged the curtains and the canopy. It all looked very grand.

‘If you would sit down, my lady, I’ll remove your boots.’

Rowena sank into the deep, feather mattress. She held out a foot. No-one had ever removed her boots before. At least, not since childhood.

Mackenzie took them both and, rising from her knees, placed them side by side at the foot of the bed before quietly setting about unpacking the portmanteau that had been placed outside the apartment door.

Rowena swung her feet up and lay back gratefully. Her eyelids drooped. Her breathing steadied. In a few moments she was fast asleep. Mackenzie stopped by the bed, a silver-backed hairbrush in her hands. The new Countess looked tired. Vulnerable and exhausted. Mackenzie had a romantic heart beneath her stern exterior. A young girl, pale faced and golden haired, lying against some flower-strewn, soft green silk was how she had always pictured Elaine of Astolat. Mackenzie sighed. This one would need a gentle hand. And perhaps a shoulder to lean on to mourn her dear parent while she tried to find her feet in a new world. Mackenzie was under no illusion that this was a love match. Gossip about the young Miss Amabelle had permeated the servants’ hall. Although she had not permitted any discussion to include her, she had nevertheless known of it. Mackenzie was a kind-hearted woman. The Countess’s marriage was one of convenience. She promised herself she would do her utmost to smooth her new mistress’s path.

Chapter Thirty Nine

T
he hateful Mrs Kently sat at the head of the dining table in Southwold Hall. In the very seat that Sir Richard had always occupied. Amabelle stared morosely at her plate. She had abandoned all hope of forcing down the least morsel of food. If needs be she would creep down to the kitchen that evening. Mrs Kesgrave would find her something to eat. Something to stifle the pangs that curled in her stomach. Nothing would stifle the pangs of guilt in her head. She sniffed back fresh tears.

‘I declare,’ Mrs Kently said, ‘the drapes in the room your father previously occupied positively reek of tobacco. I think I will remove them and have some new ones made.’

Previously occupied
? Even Cousin Thomasina was alert enough to wince at that.

‘Do just as you please, ma’am,’ Amabelle said, flinging down her fork. ‘I shan’t be here to see it. I’m going to finish packing my sister’s things.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘She’s the Countess of Conniston now.’ She laid heavy emphasis on the title and had the doubtful pleasure of seeing a spasm of chagrined envy cross the Kently woman’s face.

Rather than going upstairs to Rowena’s room, Amabelle hurried through the door at the rear of the hall. In the kitchen, Mrs Cope sat in her stick-backed chair at one side of the range. Mrs Kesgrave had pulled a straight chair up to the other side. Her hands were folded in her lap and her head nodded. Ellie and the skivvy were slumped on the bench beside the long, scrubbed table. Where there was usually a buzz of activity, no-one moved. Not even when Amabelle entered, although Mrs Cope did look round.

‘Does that person want something?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’ She wrapped her hands round her arms. ‘How can she sit there eating and going on about changing Papa’s room?’

Her words stirred Mrs Kesgrave into action. ‘Heathen woman.’ She stared at Amabelle. ‘I don’t suppose you could swallow a bite.’ She stood up and pointed to her vacated chair. ‘You set yourself down, luv. I’ll fix you summat.’

She waddled over to the pantry door. Once off the latch, it swung open so the ample cook had space to enter. Sounds of clattering and carving soon emerged from the inside. Holding a plate of cold chicken in one hand and dish of rose blancmange in the other, Mrs Kesgrave made her stately way to the table.

‘Here, Miss Amabelle. Have a bite of this.’

‘Oo,’ the skivvy sighed, eyeing the moulded pink castle. ‘Blank mange. I never had none of that.’

‘And you ain’t having any now. I didn’t slave away making this for the likes of you to gobble.’

‘Oh let her have some. It’s not as if Papa’s paying for it any more.’ More tears hovered.

The skivvy’s eyes turned from the sniffing Amabelle to the blancmange. She jumped up from the bench and fairly ran to the cutlery drawer. She was back at the table, spoon in hand, before Amabelle had settled herself into the high-backed chair at the head of the table that Cook kept for her own use. Not even Phillips or Mrs Cope dared to sit in that place.

The cook sighed. ‘Just you mind your manners, young Betsy. Put your spoon down and fetch one for Miss Amabelle. One from the silver cupboard, mind, not a kitchen one.’

The skivvy forced herself away from the promised treat and was back in seconds with a spoon and fork in her fist. ‘ ’Ere you are, miss.’

Amabelle took the fork. She managed two slivers of chicken before helping Betsy attack the blancmange.

‘I wonder when we’ll hear from Miss Rowena?’ Mrs Cope said. She tutted. ‘Countess Conniston, I should say. I wonder if she’s there yet?’

‘She ought to be.’ Mrs Kesgrave looked at the remaining smears of blancmange with a certain amount of regret. ‘They weren’t stopping to overnight anywhere. At least not as far as I heard.’ A small frown wrinkled her forehead. ‘I wonder what her new place is like?’

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ Amabelle said. ‘We’re all going there. Rowena promised.’

‘Ah, well . . .’ The cook settled herself back in the fireside chair. ‘That’s as may be. Or maybe not. There’ll be folk a-plenty there already. And you can’t trust the gentry.’

Amabelle was licking her spoon like the skivvy. She stopped and lowered it. ‘But you
do
trust us, don’t you?’

‘Well of course, miss. You’re family. We know where we are with you.’

‘That’s right,’ Mrs Cope added. ‘We’ve known Miss Rowena since birth.’

‘Then you know she never breaks her word. She’s just like Papa.’ Her voice broke but she forced herself to continue. ‘If she’s said there’ll be places for you, then there will.’ Amabelle dropped her spoon onto the plate, almost hitting the skivvy’s fingers that were wiping over the last spears of blancmange. ‘In fact . . .’ she stood up, ‘if we all pack our things now, we’ll be ready to leave horrible Mrs Kently the second Rowena says.’ She paused, looking round the kitchen. ‘I don’t want to stay here any more.’ Tears bloomed in her eyes. ‘It’s not the same now Papa has gone.’ The tears flooded over her lids. Her lips trembled.

Mrs Cope pushed herself out of her chair. The skivvy watched, open-mouthed as the young mistress sobbed her heart out on the housekeeper’s shoulder.

Some considerable time later, Amabelle plumped herself down on Rowena’s old bed. The mattress was bare. The rose-patterned quilt was rolled, inside out, into a bundle at the foot and the sheets were in the kitchen awaiting inspection by the new mistress. The pile of books balanced in the centre of the bed slipped sideways. There were really only the books and a few clothes left to pack. Most had gone with Rowena yesterday. The rest must be folded into the battered trunk that stood, its lid flung open, beside the little carved table, the one that had always supported Rowena’s brush and comb. Always, until yesterday.

Amabelle roused herself. She collected the books. At the bottom of the pile was one covered in blue leather. Silver points protected the corners and a silver clasp shut the side.
Diary
was stamped on the front in silvered letters. How could Rowena have forgotten to take it with her?

The lock was firmly shut. Amabelle pressed the catch several times but it stayed firmly shut. She put the diary in her lap and stared at it. Would it say anything about Papa? How he was when they’d brought him home?

She bit her lip. She rubbed her finger over the lock. Should she? Perhaps he’d said a few words about her. Would they be kind? Or angry?

With a deep breath, she pulled a pin from her hair. A few pushes and twists and the lock yielded. The diary fell open at a page almost halfway through.

and how well it suits him. Noble. Dignified. But there is a lift in it to match what I think must be a pleasing sense of humour
. Amabelle’s mouth fell open. Rowena had a fancy. She wondered who it was. And why she had never mentioned him.
Grey eyes. Curling brown hair that a girl might envy. There was a slight mark upon his cheek but nothing to detract from his pleasant aspect
. She blinked. The pages turned under her fingers.
I stood up with him for two dances at my come out ball. He is the most graceful of men
. Several more pages flipped over.
He made me laugh so much on our drive today that Aunt Tiverton almost woke
. The neat writing flowed over more pages.
Any woman would be most fortunate to engage his attentions. I would count myself the luckiest of them all if it were to be me
. Amabelle flapped the rest of the pages over, searching for the final entry.

And there is was. August the second of this year. In an untidy hand that scrawled across the page.

Conniston has offered for Amabelle. What can I do? What can I do but watch their happiness? How will I ever bring my heart to support her in her marriage? Where can I find the generosity and love to see her live my dreams?

Amabelle stared at the page until her eyes hurt. Rowena? Rowena loved Conniston? How could that be? It couldn’t be true. Rowena had never mentioned him, save to urge her acceptance of his offer. Not one other word had crossed her lips. Amabelle clutched the diary to her chest. No, it couldn’t be true. She read it again. There could be no doubt. The words could not possibly mean anything else. It had to be true. Amabelle’s heart ached. How much his offer must have cost Rowena. What a price she’d been forced to pay. No wonder she had so firmly believed that marriage to him would bring happiness.

All her own woes and fears dropped from Amabelle. She held her sister’s heart in her hands. Rowena, dearest Rowena, had been prepared to sacrifice her happiness for her own. The knowledge overwhelmed her. Feelings of utter selfishness brought fresh tears to her eyes. Well that would change now. Now she would do whatever she could to ensure that Rowena was the happiest sister in the world. She deserved nothing less. She sniffed and wiped her tears on her the hem of her gown.

A second bout of pokes and twists with the hairpin locked the diary. Hidden in the middle of the other books, no suspicion that its secrets had been breeched would arise. The remaining clothes followed it into the trunk. With the quilt crammed on top, it looked as if it had been packed in haste. Amabelle lowered the lid. Her fingers trembled on the stout leather straps that held it shut. She buckled them tight.