Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (3 page)

Chapter Four

N
ext morning after a comfortable night in his old bedroom and a late breakfast of thickly-sliced ham and pound cake, Edward had Jessie, his father’s oldest, most placid mare, saddled and set off for Southwold Hall. It was not an easy ride. Not because Jessie would have much preferred to stay chomping grass in the sunny top meadow, which she would and was letting him know it, but because he was attempting to balance a wicker basket on the pommel of his saddle. To make it worse, the wicker basket was not empty. And it was moving. The second of Abbie’s pups was making determined attempts to escape from the old jacket tucked round it, and whimpering all the time. The sound was unnerving Jessie so none of the three was happy.

The route to Southwold Hall took Edward through Fincham Wortly, a route that added to his problems. Several of his parents’ friends, in fact most of them, appeared to have decided today was one for promenading along the main street, looking in shop windows or peering over market stalls and hailing whichever of their own friends they chanced upon. Every one of them who set eyes on him called Edward to a halt to exclaim how delighted they were to see him. The gentlemen enquired about life at university and how it must have changed since they were there, or not, as the case may have been. The ladies declared upon how pleased his dear Mama must be to have him home again. And when they saw the puppy’s little head with its brown eyes and wet black nose appear over the edge of the basket yet again, Edward was forced to explain where he was taking it. That, of course, set off a whole new line of comment, with particular mention of Lord Conniston’s excellent estates.

By the time he escaped from the town the puppy was howling and Edward was considerably less happy than before. In the shade of a wide oak he pulled Jessie to a halt. The basket much inhibited his movement but he managed to dismount without tipping the wriggling contents onto the ground. He sat on the grassy bank. The puppy looked up at him. Edward sniffed. He frowned. The puppy put its paws on the basket’s edge. Edward lifted it and the jacket out. The faded woollen cloth was decidedly damp. Muttering more fiercely, Edward sat the puppy on the grass beside him. He anchored the jacket with one foot and tried to rip it in half. When the cloth stubbornly refused to part, he fished in his pocket for his penknife and struggled a slit in the back seam. The cloth parted. He flung the damp half over the hedge. The other half he folded back into the basket ready for the puppy. It had gone. Four feet away along the bank it was perilously close to what looked like a rabbit hole. Edward leapt up, captured it and wrapped it back into its travelling accommodation.

Jessie had taken no interest in him at all, nor in the puppy’s adventures. Seeing an opportunity, she had ambled down the road to investigate a particularly luscious clump of grass poking through the gate to the field. Edward began to regret the decision for his journey. It was several minutes before he was safely remounted, complete with basket and puppy. Quite ignoring the birds chirping in the leafy branches overhead and the black and white cows placidly chewing the cud in the fields while their calves staggered around on spindly legs, he trotted off towards Southwold Hall, intent on arriving before the puppy could ruin the remaining half of the jacket.

He saw the gates of the hall with as much pleasure as greeted his arrival in the morning room

‘Eddie!’ Amabelle dropped her embroidery on the settee and ran towards him. ‘You’re home.’

‘Obviously, lambkin.’

Amabelle dragged at his arm ‘You can’t call me lambkin any more. Not now I’m out.’

‘I’ll try to remember, lambkin.’ Edward bowed to Thomasina sitting among a selection of shawls on the armchair nearest the unmade fire.

‘Miss Quigley. I hope I find you well. You too Rowena.’

‘You do, thank you Edward,’ Rowena said. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you home.’

Thomasina struggled free of a red Norwich shawl. ‘Your dear Mama must be so pleased,’ she twittered, her fingers tangled in the fringe.

For the umpteenth time Edward greeted the remark as if it were the first occasion he had heard it that day. ‘Thank you, ma’am, she is.’

Amabelle was peering at the basket. ‘What have you brought?’

Edward held it out to her. ‘A present. If you’re careful, you may look.’

Amabelle reached out her hand and poked a finger into the remains of the jacket. The jacket wriggled.

‘Eek.’ She snatched her hand away. ‘What is it?’

Edward turned the material back gently. The sleeping contents were revealed. It presented an attractive sight. Golden fur, smooth as silk, on its plump little body; long, rounded ears flopped over closed eyes and black nose.

‘Oh,’ Amabelle cooed. ‘It’s a puppy. Look Rowena. It’s a puppy.’

‘One of Abbie’s. She had seven a few weeks ago, Matthew said.’

‘A spaniel then.’ Rowena walked forward and peered into the basket.

The little creature stirred. An eye opened. The thin flick of tail started to bang against the side of the basket.

‘How lovely,’ Amabelle breathed. ‘Is he yours?’

‘I rather thought you might like him. And it’s a her.’

Amabelle’s eyes opened wide. ‘Oh, Eddie. How wonderful.’ She swung round. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’

‘Very,’ Rowena said. ‘But what do you know of raising a puppy?’

‘Oh dear, a puppy, well I’m sure I don’t know . . .’ Thomasina’s voice trailed away.

‘Oh . . . it can’t be too difficult.’ Amabelle pushed the jacket further off the creature. ‘Everyone has dogs.’

‘I can show you,’ Edward said. ‘We’ve had lots of them.’

Amabelle swung back to him. ‘Oh, please. That would be good, wouldn’t it, Rowena?’

Rowena doubts sank under her pleasure that something had finally banished Amabelle’s petulant expression. ‘Thank you, Edward.’

‘That’s decided, then.’ Amabelle clasped her hands together. The puppy gave every appearance of want to climb out of the basket. ‘May I hold her?’

‘I think perhaps we should take her outside,’ Edward said. ‘Dogs need . . . er . . . exercising when they wake up.’

‘Oh dear,’ Thomasina’s hands fluttered. ‘Then it must go out.’

‘Come on then.’ Amabelle grabbed his free hand and dragged him towards the door. ‘We can take it to the knot garden.’

Edward managed a half bow before Amabelle had him pulled sideways out of the room. The basket swung in his hand, the puppy whimpered.

‘Quick,’ Amabelle said.

She dragged him across the hall to the drawing room. Dodging round chairs and small tables, she hurried to the nearest of the tall windows. It opened onto a terrace of golden flagstones edged by a carved balustrade and overlooking a knot garden of clipped box hedges. Beyond it the Hall’s tree-dotted park stretched into the distance.

Three white-painted metal benches ranged along the terrace. Amabelle bumped down onto the first, her muslin skirts ballooning around her. She held out both hands. ‘Give me her, please.’

Edward placed the basket on the ground. He lifted the puppy out. ‘We’d better let her run around for a while.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘I’d thought of Primum as she was the first girl born. Primum puella is Latin for first girl.’

‘Oh, that’s too long for such a little creature.

Edward’s face stiffened. ‘Of course you must call her whatever you please.’

Amabelle belatedly picked up his tone. ‘It’s a very clever name. But you are very clever. Going to university.’ A small frown crumpled her forehead. ‘I’m not clever though and I don’t suppose she is.’ She captured the puppy and held it up to her face. The little creature hazarded a lick at her cheek with its soft pink tongue. ‘I think I’ll call her Primrose. That’s Prim for you and Rose for me.’

Edward grinned. ‘Now that’s
your
clever idea.’

Back on the ground under the concerned eyes of two young people, Primrose reached the edge of the terrace. She pushed her little head between two of the balustrade’s carved pillars. Edward strode over and collected her before curiosity and gravity landed her in the garden three feet below. He put her carefully into her new mistress’s hands and sat down.

‘Oh, she is such a darling. I’ll make her a little bed of my best shawl and she can sleep in my room.’

‘I’d make do with some straw in a box for a while. Just until she’s . . . er . . . a little older.’

The puppy nuzzled Amabelle’s hand. She smoothed a finger over its head and ears. ‘She’s so soft.’ She leant back on the seat, looking down the garden. ‘She will be so happy here.’

Edward scuffed his heel at the paving stone under his foot. ‘I hope she’ll be happy at Ampney Park too.’

Amabelle gaze wandered from puppy to friend. ‘Ampney Park? Why Ampney Park?’

‘That’s Conniston’s major estate. You’ll be going there. Once you’re married to him, I

‘Bah.’ Amabelle straightened. Her dark curls tossed against their restraining ribbon. ‘I’m not marrying him. That’s rubbish.’

Edward stared at her. ‘But Mama said –’

A dismissive hand waved. ‘Papa says so too. And Rowena, but I’m not going to. I don’t like him.’

Now Edward’s mouth drooped open. ‘But he’s an Earl.’

‘I wouldn’t care if he were a Duke. Papa can keep me n my room as long as he likes, I’m not marrying him.’

The expression on nineteen-year-old Edward’s face brightened. ‘He can’t keep you in your room for ever. You’re not there today.’

‘That’s because he said I was to do my needlework in the morning room and learn my manners from Cousin Thomasina.’

‘Good heavens.’

‘I know. If everyone insists I’ll run away.’

The nineteen years became heavily sensible in advice to seventeen years. ‘Don’t be a goose. You’d starve. Or worse.’

‘What could be worse than starving?’

‘Well . . .’ He pulled his heel over a small cluster of grass blades that had seeded themselves between two slabs. ‘You don’t need to know.’

‘Anyway, I wouldn’t starve. I have a scheme. I shall be a milliner and trim bonnets.’ She turned an engaging face towards him. ‘And you’d help me, wouldn’t you? You’re my oldest friend.’

Edward bounced up. Primrose yelped and cowered in Amabelle’s arms. ‘I most certainly would not. It’s a stupid idea. And Papa is a Member of Parliament. I’ll take his place eventually. Helping you run away would stop that for certain.’

Tears bloomed into Amabelle’s eyes. ‘I think you’re horrid. And not a true friend. A true friend would help me all he could.’

‘I am your true friend.’ He pointed at Primrose. ‘I brought you her.’

Words caught in Amabelle’s throat. She blinked. She sniffed. She stamped her foot. She turned a shoulder to her oldest friend.

Edward drew a deep breath. He bowed. ‘Please give my respects to Miss Quigley and Rowena.’ He bowed again and walked away leaving Amabelle open-mouthed on the garden seat.

Chapter Five

W
hile Amabelle was snuggling Primrose’s ears and sniffling over Edward’s mean dismissal of her scheme, Thomasina was dozing under several shawls before the morning room fireplace. Small snores reached Rowena sitting at the table. Lying before her were two books. A grey, linen-bound one with a few dark thumbprints on the front cover and a larger, dark brown one.

Rowena nerved herself for the task. She would much rather be sitting in the shade of one of the beech trees and reading poetry than sitting here with the household books. Determined not to sigh, she opened the grey one well past its centre.

On the right-hand page Mrs Kesgrave had written her menus for the following week. Mrs Kesgrave was an excellent cook. Her only drawback was a deep superstition of sauces. To her mind there was a good white parsley sauce for fish, a mint one for lamb and a thick gravy for everything else. Her gammon hams, however, were magnificent and her raised pies and sirloin in onions were renowned countywide.

Rowena had progressed through Sunday’s suggestions to Monday’s nuncheon when the door opened and Phillips, the butler, entered. In his left hand he carried a silver platter. He progressed in measured paces to Thomasina.

‘A letter, ma’am.’

‘Oh, my.’ Thomasina opened her eyes, untangled her mittened hands from her lap and picked up the missive. She held it at arms length, squinting at the superscription.

‘It’s for Miss Rowena,’ Phillips said.

‘Oh, well, dear, you had better open it.’ Thomasina flapped the letter in her hand.

Phillips rescued it and presented it to Rowena.

She slid her finger under the fold. The wafer parted. A large embossed card slid out. Scrolled writing covered the front. ‘It’s from my aunt.’

Thomasina clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, how exciting. What does dear Lady Tiverton say?’

Phillips progressed towards the door rather more slowly than usual.

‘It’s an invitation for Amabelle and me to attend her country ball.’ She turned the card over. Thin writing, almost illegible, meandered across the back. ‘She asks us to spend the next few days with her at Darnebrook Abbey.’ A frown. ‘Something about Harriette and another girl.’

‘How wonderful. Lord Tiverton’s estates are quite the most elegant in the county. And her summer ball is always a crush.’

Rowena’s frown deepened. ‘I’m not sure Papa will permit us to accept.’

‘Whyever not?’

‘Amabelle. He is determined to keep her to her room.’

‘But surely he must see how advantageous it would be for her to visit dear Lady Tiverton.’ Thomasina twisted one of her cap’s long lace ties around a finger. ‘After all, Lord Conniston is sure to be invited too. Ampney Park is not far from dear Lady Tiverton. Barely ten miles across the county border.’

Rowena swallowed.

‘Oh, yes,’ Thomasina chirruped. ‘We shall tell your dear Papa that. He is certain to see the advantages and change his mind.’

‘Indeed.’ Rowena’s interest in Mrs Kesgrave’s menus withered. She closed book and rose from the table. ‘Excuse me, please, cousin.’

Head high, she glided towards Phillips still hovering by the door. He pulled it wider to allow her to pass. Deep in thought, Rowena ascended the stairs to her room.

Sir Richard enjoyed his dinners. When Rowena joined him and Thomasina in the dining room the long mahogany table bore two silver candelabra and a display of dishes holding a chicken and sage pie, a plate of pork with whole apples, a poached salmon in aspic, a dressed breast of mutton left from yesterday but with fresh gravy, a dish of sliced green beans and another of cold boiled potatoes. In the very centre of the table stood a baked custard Mrs Kesgrave had turned out onto a fluted, gilt-edged plate and decorated with slices of candied pears. Beside it a bread and butter pudding had currents scattered over the top. Three small bowls of flummery and a jug of cream completed what Sir Richard considered a light meal.

Rowena helped herself to a spoon of mutton, a few beans and a sliver of pie. Lady Tiverton’s invitation lay under the napkin on her lap.

Her father surveyed the spread. He rubbed his hands together. ‘Excellent. Excellent, Thomasina, you order the house wonderfully.’ He reached forward, lifting the carving knife and fork from the platter of pork. Four thick slices transferred to his plate to be topped with three spoonfuls of mutton.

Thomasina picked at the pasty round the chicken. ‘Have you decided yet about dear Lady Tiverton’s invitation?’

A forkful of mutton stopped part-way to Sir Richard’s open mouth. ‘Invitation? What invitation?’ He looked from cousin to daughter.

Rowena had intended to wait for him to consume most of his meal before imparting the news. She produced the invitation. ‘Aunt Tiverton has invited Amabelle and me to her summer ball, Papa. And for a few weeks holiday afterwards.’

The fork descended with some force. ‘Amabelle is going nowhere until she comes to her senses.’

‘Oh dear,’ Thomasina fluttered, clutching her napkin to her chest. ‘But consider, dear Sir Richard, his lordship might be there.’

Sir Richard frowned. ‘Well of course he’ll be there. It’s his house.’

‘I think Cousin Thomasina meant Lord Conniston, Papa, not Uncle Tiverton.’

‘In that case Amabelle’s definitely not going. If Conniston hears any more of her nonsense he’ll withdraw his offer.’ He stared at the mutton. It slid off his fork onto the last slice of pork, raising a circle of gravy droplets. His head rose. ‘You’re to go, Rowena. We need his interest keeping up. You can do that. He’s too good a match to lose.’

Words were somewhat reluctant to escape Rowena’s throat. She swallowed. ‘Yes, Papa,’ she managed at last.

Sir Richard failed to notice how his elder daughter’s complexion had paled. ‘Good. That’s settled then. You can tell him Amabelle will agree. I’ll have an end to her nonsense once and for all.’ He angled his fork plate-wards. The errant forkful of mutton soon disappeared into his mouth.

Rowena discovered her appetite for even the smallest morsel of pie had vanished. She sat alternately reducing a soft roll to crumbs and staring at the remains of the pie on her plate.

After his second helping of mutton, rounded off with a wedge of pie, her father noticed. ‘What ails you girl? You’ve hardly eaten a bite.’

‘Nothing, Papa. I’m not very hungry, that’s all.’

He peered at her pale face. ‘You’re not sickening are you?’ He peered closer. ‘You’d better take yourself off to you bed. We don’t want you missing out on Sophronia’s invitation.’

Rowena rose gratefully from the table. Thomasina started to push back her own chair. ‘I’ll come and find you a spoon of castor oil.’

‘No.’ Rowena spoke rather more sharply than she had intended. She dredged up a smile. ‘No. Thank you, Cousin Thomasina. I’ll be fine if I can just lie down.’

She curtsied to her father and slipped out of the room before Thomasina suggested another remedy. There was none to relieve the ailment Rowena endured.

Safe in her bedroom, she eased off her kid slippers and lay down on the bed. Rest would not come. She stood up again and walked to the window. She walked to the door. She stared at the empty grate in the fireplace. She sat at her dressing table. She stood up again, walked back to the window and looked out. The sun was fading into twilight. It would not be long before the moon bathed its cold light over the lawns, the broad trees and the lake. She opened the clothes press and lifted out her boots and woollen spencer. The boots’ laces fastened tight round her ankles; the spencer covered her bare arms and bodice of her embroidered muslin gown. She fastened its corded frogs across her chest before slipping out of her room.

The back stairs creaked as she crept down them. In the kitchen Mrs Kesgrave and Ellie started up from the long, scrubbed table. The skivvy stopped rinsing pans in the scullery and craned her neck to peer round the door.

‘Miss Rowena?’ Mrs Kesgrave said. ‘Have you need of summat?’

‘No, nothing, thank you.’ Colour rose to her cheeks. ‘I just felt like a short stroll in the fresh air.’

Mrs Kesgrave and Ellie stared at each other. The cook recovered first. ‘As you wish, Miss Rowena. Just say if there’s aught you’d fancy.’

Cook, maid and skivvy watched the slender figure disappear through the outside door.

‘I wonder why Miss Rowena’s come this way,’ the skivvy said.

The cook’s face assumed a stern expression that any dowager would be pleased to display. ‘It’s not for the likes of you to wonder about the gentry. Just you get yoursen back to them pans. I want them clean enough to see your face in.’ She sniffed. ‘Not that’d be any sort of treat for them.’

The late evening air struck cool against Rowena’s flushed skin. She walked across the wide kitchen yard and round the corner of the house towards the walled garden. The tall, wooden gate in its western wall was unlocked. It creaked as she pushed it open. The curved top scraped against the uneven arch in the brickwork above. The noises alarmed a bird somewhere in the shadows. It flapped skywards, warning its fellows.

Rowena stepped through the archway. Night was falling fast. On the wall beside the gate the leaves and branches of espalier fruit trees faded into dark, menacing shapes. In front of her, the wide, protected square with its endless rows of vegetables disappeared into the gloom. Two straight gravel paths cut the garden into quarters. Apple trees that had been pruned and trained into knee-high hedges coiled along their edges like monstrous, dark snakes. A raised stone pool with a small statue of a boy rising from the centre marked where the paths crossed. Water dribbled into the pool from the cornucopia he held.

Four benches faced the pool at the beds’ truncated corners. Rowena sat on one and watched the water splash round the statue’s feet. In moments, the final glimpse of the sun’s warmth slid behind the high walls, leaving the garden to the moon. The air cooled rapidly. She wrapped her arms around her. Moonlight spread sparkles across the pool’s surface. Cold white sparkles. Rowena’s heart steadily turned as cold as they. It ached. She pressed her lips together. She would not cry. She would not. She would go to Darnebrook Abbey. She would behave exquisitely. She would smile, dance, sing if asked and be charming to everyone. And she would do her utmost to maintain Laurence Conniston’s interest in her sister.

Rowena Eugenie Harcourt-Spence sat alone in the walled garden, her face hidden in her hands and her feet turning colder and colder on the ground, and sobbed.