Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (4 page)

Chapter Six

T
he next afternoon Ellie lifted Rowena’s newest evening gown out of the clothes press. The pale turquoise silk unfurled over her arms.

‘Oh, miss,’ she said. ‘It’s ever so beautiful.’ She stroked the fabric with a hand roughened by work. Her little fingernail caught in the fan of pleats across the bodice. Breath stopped into her chest. A quick glance round. Rowena had not noticed. With anxious eyes, she laid the gown on the bed and inspected the pleats. No damage. With her breathing returned to normal, she folded the skirt sides to middle. There were no flounces round the hem to squash, only a band of embroidered flower-sprays above a deep tuck. She lifted the hem up to the waist, arranging the back gathers as neatly as she could before folding down the bodice and flipping the garment in half to make a neat square.

Rowena held out a pair of long white gloves. ‘And these, please.’

She looked at the clothes laid on the bedcover. One sprigged cotton round dress with long sleeves puffed at the top with a white fichue to fill the low neck. Another, rather older, in dark blue cotton with tiny white spots. Her woollen spencer, so dark a blue it looked almost black, with two coils of golden braid to fasten the front. Two shifts, two nightgowns and a pair of cream evening slippers embroidered with peacock feathers. Standing on the floor were her best half-boots. She cast a critical eye over them. Their leather surface showed her love of long walks across fields and country lanes no matter how damp the weather. No matter. No–one was interested in her boots. But something was lacking.

‘Perhaps I’ll ask Cousin Thomasina if I might borrow one of her shawls.’

‘I don’t think she’ll miss one. She’s loads more than she needs.’ Ellie clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, miss, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be impertinent.’

Rowena smiled. ‘Never mind, Ellie. You’re right. Miss Quigley does have a lot of them. But don’t let anyone else hear you say so.’

‘Yes, miss. Sorry, miss.’ She picked up a nightgown and rolled it into a bundle before laying it in the bottom of a patterned portmanteau. ‘Are you taking your cream evening gown too, miss?’

Rowena shook her head. ‘No. It’s a little too worn for Aunt Tiverton’s. I was going to sew a ribbon round the neck but . . . the mood left me.’

She shrugged and left the room, unaware Ellie was watching her closely. She shook her head as the door closed. His lordship must be a sad case if he wanted Miss Amabelle instead of Miss Rowena. And now he had made her sad.

Thomasina Quigley was dozing, feet up, on the chaise in the morning room. Her low breathing fluttered one of her cap’s lace ties that had fallen a cross her chin. She stirred and opened her eyes as Rowena entered. ‘Dearest girl,’ she said, struggling to sit up. One elbow trapped the dangling tie, dragging the whole confection sideways across her grey hair. ‘I was just this moment having a little think about your visit to dear Lady Tiverton.’

Rowena smothered a smile, quite undeceived. ‘What a coincidence,’ she said. ‘I was hoping to ask if I might borrow a shawl to take with me.’

Thomasina endeavoured to swing her feet onto the rug and raise her bird-like figure. ‘Of course you may. I hope you know you have only to ask for the least thing. I’m always so happy to oblige.’ Her battle with gravity and the rigours of advancing age won. She stood up. ‘Now, you will want one to carry with that lovely evening gown you had last spring.’ She pushed her lace cap away from the ear it had covered. ‘Now let me think . . .’ She tapped finger to cheek. ‘I’m sure I have one that will match perfectly.’

Rowena could think of at least three.

‘Let’s go to my room and see what we can find.’

Thomasina’s room was at the back corner of the house, overlooking the knot garden. It caught very little sunshine and was consequently rather chilly even on the warmest of days. Three wool blankets were piled on the bed on top of the quilt.

‘You should have a fire lighted in here, Cousin Thomasina. It’s quite cold.’

‘Nonsense, dear. That’s a mere extravagance.’ Several shawls lay over the back of a chair beside the empty fire grate. ‘Ah, there they are.’

Rowena knew they were. Last Tuesday she had walked into every room Cousin Thomasina ever entered and collected them up. Even so she was sure the dark pink one was missing again. The others varied from thick woven wool to a soft paisley and, lightest of all, a muslin net covered with tambour work.

Rowena picked up long Norwich shawl. Its cream centre was bordered with a woven pattern of dark blue pinecones. ‘This one, please?’

Cousin Thomasina peered at it, eyes squinting. ‘But that’s not the prettiest. Why not take my Paisley? It will be much more admired at Lady Tiverton’s.’

Rowena suppressed a fervent desire not to be admired by anyone, particularly Lord Conniston. ‘I’m sure the Norwich one will be –.’

‘No. I insist.’ Thomasina held out a richly patterned silk shawl. ‘Here. Dear Sir Richard will want you to look your best.’

Rowena sighed. She took the shawl. ‘Thank you, Thomasina. You are very kind.’

‘Nonsense, dear. We all want Amabelle to make a good match, don’t we?’ She smiled at an unsmiling Rowena. ‘And Lord Conniston is an excellent one.’

The young lady in question was sitting on Rowena’s bed when she returned, rolling and unrolling the pair of white gloves. She bounced off the covers, flinging them aside. They flew over the foot of the brass bedstead and landed on the floor.

‘Please, please persuade Papa to let me come with you. It will be such fun. All those tea parties and the balls.’

‘Aunt Tiverton only mentions her ball. She said nothing about anyone else having one.’

‘Oh but there will be. Last year you said that family on the next estate had one. What were they called?’

‘Sir Randolph and Lady Winchester.’

‘That’s it. I remember it especially. You said you danced twice with horrible Conniston.’

Rowena reached down for the gloves. Her voice came faintly. ‘If Papa finds you out of your room you won’t be going anywhere. Least of all to Aunt Tiverton.’

‘But it’s so unfair.’ Amabelle’s mouth formed a decided pout. She gripped the bedstead’s end rail, swung round it and balanced her folded arms on the top. ‘Why does Conniston still want to marry me?’ She leant over it and swung her feet off the rug. ‘Why won’t he go away when I’ve told him no?’

No other explanation sprang to Rowena’s mind than the perfection of her sister’s lovely eyes, heart-shaped face and dark locks. She considered them preferable to her own open features and golden curls. Obviously he thought the same. A poignant reply rose to her lips. She suppressed it. ‘Lord Conniston is a charming man. You should be honoured.’

‘Well I’m not. But I
was
very polite. I thanked him for his offer. I said I was honoured even though I wasn’t. And . . .’ She banged her small clenched fist on the bedstead. ‘And I said I hoped we would still be the fastest of friends even though I don’t like him in the least.’ She grasped the bedstead with both hands and swung backwards. ‘Pleeeeeeease try to persuade Papa for me. I so want to go.’

‘Very well.’ Rowena bent down to rescue her gloves. ‘I’ll try once more. But stop swinging about like a hoyden. And go back to your room before you’re seen.’

Amabelle planted a large kiss on her sister’s cheek. ‘You’re marvellous and I love you.’ She ran to the door. ‘Come up after dinner and tell me what he says.’ She disappeared out of the room. Rowena could hear her skipping along the corridor to her bedroom, singing. She sighed.

Sir Richard made an excellent dinner of a bowlful of Soup à la Flamond, half a game pie, a large helping of hashed venison followed by a gallant attack on a chine of mutton. The only dish he ignored were the long beans in cream. He rounded the meal off with a large helping of ratafie pudding, declaring that dinner had been all of his favourite dishes. He beamed at his daughter and cousin and retired to his study for some port in an excellent frame of mind.

Rowena waited until there was time for a second glass to be poured before she tapped on the door and went in. ‘Papa.’

He glanced round from his wing chair, glass of ruby liquid suspended halfway between side-table and mouth. ‘Come in, girl. Come in. Don’t linger by the door. What do you want?’

Rowena took a step forward, hands clasped before her. ‘I wonder, sir, if perhaps it might be . . . if perhaps you might reconsider letting Amabelle come to Aunt Tiverton’s with me.’

The glass descended. ‘Why would I do that, miss? Has she changed her mind about Conniston?’

‘No, but –’

‘Then why should I change mine?’

‘If she were better acquainted with him she would see how good a husband he would be.’

‘I’ve already told her he’ll be an excellent match.’

The glass resumed its journey. After several moments, during which Rowena allowed Sir Richard to enjoy the flavours of the port in silence, he fixed her with a stern eye. ‘What more does she want? Some stupid Lancelot riding up to turn her head?’

‘Not at all, Papa. I just think if she could see more of Lord Conniston it would make her realise how . . . how excellent he is. If you remember I told you she was much surrounded by younger men after her debut.’

Sir Richard stared at her. ‘All pretty fellows and no bottom, I’ll be bound’ he grunted. ‘But that reason won’t stand. There’ll be other fellows at this ball.’ He tipped more port into the glass. ‘Young Broxborough, for a start.’

Tristan, Lord Broxborough was Lord Tiverton’s heir. He only appeared at Darnebrook Abbey for the shooting season and to oblige his mother at Christmas.

‘Amabelle would never want to marry him. He teased her too much in the schoolroom whenever he called. And he pulled her ringlets.’

Sir Richard snorted. ‘Ridiculous sprig. Tiverton needs to take him in hand or there’ll be sorrow, mark my words.’ He shook his head. ‘No. She’s not going. A father’s word should be good enough for any daughter. Fathers always know what’s best. She’s so stupid she’ll get some notion in her head about one of the other sprigs then we’ll never get her wed to Conniston.’ He looked at his glass with deep suspicion and lowered it to the pie-crust table. Perhaps his winebroker’s recommendation of it had little to do with taste and much to do with profit. ‘No. Fathers always know what’s best. You can tell her she’ll be staying here until she sees sense.’ He flapped a hand at his elder daughter. ‘Off you go now. Get to bed. You’ve to make an early start tomorrow if you’re to be at Sophronia’s before dark.’

Rowena’s shoulders drooped. She curtsied. ‘Yes, Papa. Goodnight’

He waved another hand. ‘And while you’re there, you might make an effort to find yourself a husband. But remember . . . keeping up Conniston’s interest is much the most important.’

Rowena ran all the way to her bedroom and only just prevented herself from slamming the door.

Chapter Seven

N
ext morning, after three separate fits of tears from Amabelle, Rowena stood on the steps outside the front door waiting for her father’s travelling coach to be brought round from the stables. She cast an anxious eye at the grey clouds swirling above. Two paces behind her Ellie fidgeted from foot to foot, twisting her hands in the cloth bundle she clasped to her chest and trying not to grin in an unladylike fashion. One hop took her onto the edge of the large portmanteau containing Rowena’s clothes. She overbalanced.

‘Do stand still, Ellie,’ Rowena said. ‘If you’re going to fidget so much perhaps you had better stay home.’

‘Oh no, miss, sorry, miss. Pleeeease let me come. Please. It’s the greatest adventure. I’ve never been further than Mackin’s farm afore now. And that was only ’cos pa wanted me to carry a new lamb home if Mackin’s best ewe got more’n one.’

‘Very well. If you behave as you ought, you might come to London with us next season.’

A grin almost split Ellie’s freckled face. ‘Oh, miss,’ she breathed. ‘That’d be . . . wondrous great.’ The grin transformed into a frown. ‘I’ll try not to catch the rheum again next year.’ Two pairs of fingers hidden in her bundle crossed. She muttered ‘Rabbits and horses’ three times under her breath.

‘It was a shame you were too ill this year. Aunt Tiverton’s maid had to attend Amabelle as well as me.’ Aunt Tiverton had not minded but her maid most definitely had. She was an unsympathetic coiffeuse. The nightly preparation for ringlets had seen strips of fabric knotted so firmly to the roots of each tress it had made Rowena’s eyes prickle. And the force with which they were twisted round the hair and knotted at the end had been hard to bear with fortitude.

Wheels crunched on gravel. Ellie bounced on her toes. ‘Oo, miss.’

The coach appeared. A rider leading an unsaddled horse followed it. Patterson, Sir Richard’s coachman, pulled to a halt. ‘Whoa, Misty, Misty. Whoa.’ He nudged the groom sitting beside him on the box. ‘Get yerself down, Thaddeus, and put up the baggage. Gilbert, you keep back and mind them horses.’

Gilbert nodded and trotted round to the carriage’s off side. Thaddeus dearly wished he was the one riding. He was a slim young man, barely twenty-two, and was not looking forward to the eight hour journey. Mr Patterson enjoyed his food. Consequently he took up a fair portion of the space on the box. The past few minutes of being squashed against the seat-iron had caused Thaddeus a fair amount of discomfort.

Rowena paused as she walked to the carriage. ‘Put my bag inside, please, Thaddeus. It looks as if it might rain soon.’

‘Yes’m.’ He picked it up and glanced at Ellie. She blushed and discovered the knot in the top of the cloth wrapping her bundle was in need of tightening.

Thaddeus pushed the portmanteau through the open door and, foot on the unfolded step to keep it steady, held out his hand. Rowena took it and climbed into the brougham. The coach’s body swayed gently on its springs. A spark in his eyes, Thaddeus held out his hand again. Ellie’s fingers barely flicked across it before she jumped inside, dropping her bundle in her haste. Thaddeus retrieved it and handed it to her. The blush on her cheeks deepened.

He had bent to fold the step when Thomasina flustered out of the house followed by Mrs Kesgrave.

‘Rowena, dearest, I’ve put up a little nuncheon for you.’ She turned to Mrs Kesgrave and relieved her of a round basket. A blue cloth hid its contents.

‘How very kind of you, cousin.’ Rowena smiled at Mrs Kesgrave. ‘Thank you.’

Thomasina put the basket on Ellie’s knees. Its arrival knocked the bundle to the carriage floor. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Ellie said, toes crammed under the portmanteau, bundle at her ankles and basket on her lap. Some of her excitement lessened. Until she heard Thaddeus climbing onto the box.

The bottom casement of the library window beside the front door screeched up. Sir Richard’s head emerged. ‘All set? Good. Good. ‘ He nodded and started to withdraw. ‘Ah.’ He stopped and leant out further. ‘Patterson, have you got . . . er, everything?’

The pocket of Patterson’s driving coat bulged with the pistol inside it. He patted it. ‘Yes, Sir Richard. Everything.’

‘Right. Well, be off. Be off. You need to make good time.’ He pointed at the rider. ‘Gilbert, make sure you bring Misty back home tonight. I don’t want you loitering round any inns while someone makes off with my horses.’

Gilbert Ayers looked unhappy. ‘Yes, sir. As you say.’

Sir Richard’s head disappeared. The window slammed down with a thud. Thomasina’s handkerchief fluttered.

‘Goodbye. Goodbye.’

Rowena leant forward past Ellie and waved.

Patterson flicked the reins. ‘Walk on, gal. Walk on.’ Misty lowered her head, took the strain and the coach moved off.

Thomasina stood at the door waving her handkerchief until the party had passed through the tall gates and disappeared from sight.

The gates of Southwold Hall were barely ten minutes behind them before a faintly green tinge replaced the delighted expression on Ellie’s face. It was another ten before Rowena stopped staring silently at the side window and noticed.

‘What’s the matter, Ellie?’

‘I don’t know, miss.’ She pressed the back of one set of fingers over her mouth.

‘Are you feeling a little put about?’

Ellie nodded, fingers squashing harder against her mouth.

‘It’s probably the motion of the carriage. Don’t worry. You’ll soon get accustomed to it.’ She pointed at the opposite window. ‘Look outside. It will take your mind off it. Perhaps you’ll see someone you know and can wave at them.’

Ellie looked less than reassured but she leant forward and stared out. At the outskirts of Fincham Wortly, excitement returned and discomfort vanished. By the time they had reached the main street she had her forehead pressed against the window, trying to catch sight of every face. Suddenly her back straightened.

‘Look, miss. Look. There’s Bryonie Seaton. Her from Mrs Marchment’s.’ She waved madly.

Rowena glanced at Ellie’s wiggling fingers. She sat back, pleased Ellie’s disquiet had been banished. She wished her own was not mounting.

The more they left the familiar sights behind the more Ellie’s interest grew. Every manor standing in its grounds, every group of houses huddled at a shallow river ford and every village they passed had her peering out of the window and squeaking at the novelty of it all.

As the fifteen mile mark approached, Patterson reined Misty in. He called through the window. ‘Would you like to rest a bit while we change the horse, miss?’

‘Yes, please, Mr Patterson,’ Rowena replied.

‘Right you are, then. Witchingham village is only a mile or so ahead. We’ll stop there.’

Within minutes, an outlying cottage came in sight. It was not a pretty one. Small and low, its walls that had once been white were now stained with lichen and hemmed with a burgeoning swathe of nettles. The tiny windows under a thatch that was stained with great patches of green mould showed dull and grey. A small wall of jumbled stones surrounded. Quite a few had fallen down. Half a mile further on, more cottages appeared, all better tended with unbroken walls guarding neat vegetable patches.

Patterson trotted Misty past the broad village green with a sweep of a pond at its centre. A church with a tall spire stood at the farthest edge. He drew to a halt beside the lychgate. ‘Get yerself off, Thaddeus, and help Miss Harcourt-Spence down.’

Rowena looked about her as she emerged. Families of ducks were dipping and splashing on the pond, spraying arcs of shining water into the air. To the right stood a moss-covered stone cross. Sparrows hopped around on its triple row of steps, searching for insects. In contrast to the bright scene before her, deep shadows spread from the churchyard trees.

Rowena stopped admiring the village and walked a few paces back and forth to stretch her legs. ‘I think we will take our lunch here, Patterson.’

‘Right you are then, miss.’ He climbed down from the box. Patting Misty’s nose on the way past, he propped himself against the churchyard wall. ‘Get to it,’ he told the grooms. ‘We’ll have our bite when you’ve finished.’

Thaddeus and Ayers, who mightily disliked his given name of Gilbert, unhitched Misty and replaced her with Bailey. The mare tossed her head, eyed a patch of particularly green grass and pulled Ayers towards it.

Patterson laughed. ‘Let her eat, lad. She’s earned it.’ He waddled to the coach, reached up and lifted down a square basket from under his seat. The blue striped cloth covering the contents slipped sideways. The aroma of pork pie blossomed into the still air. Patterson sniffed deeply. ‘The missus makes a grand pie if I say so myself.’

Rowena chuckled. ‘She does indeed. Enjoy it, Mr Patterson.’ She walked towards the church’s lychgate. ‘Ellie, bring our basket, please. We’ll eat in here.’ Passing through the shadow of the thatched gate, she trod across the grass tussocks to a raised tomb between two darkly forbidding yew trees.

Ellie clutched the basket’s handle with both hands, eyes widening. ‘Oh, miss. If you sit on a grave its ghost’ll haunt you all your born days.’

‘There’s no such thing as ghosts. It’s just a silly superstition.’ Rowena settled herself on the lichened stone. ‘You sit on the grass if you’d rather.’

The maid looked around the graveyard. More yews towered gloomily skywards between the graves. Black birds cawed and screeched from one of them. Ellie shivered. Giving the basket to Rowena, she perched on the kerb surrounding the neighbouring grave. This one had no tomb, only a stone cross. She clasped her arms round her knees and mouthed soundless words. She cast anxious eyes towards Rowena. No ghostly figure swelled from the tomb. She looked away from the carved names and crossed her fingers. If you read a body’s name then the ghost was certain sure to appear.

Calmly settled, Rowena unwrapped bread, ham and fruit. She passed Ellie some bread and a slice of ham before serving herself. Above her, swifts swooped around the church eaves. Five sparrows, bolder than the rest, deserted the shelter of the yew tree near the gate and hopped onto the grass beside her. She pulled a chunk of bread from her slice and crumbled it onto the grass towards them. Their little antics as they fluttered and pounced brought a sweet smile to her face. The morning was pleasant, her responsibilities minimal. For a few days the household duties that had descended onto her shoulders would be lifted. She could look forward to the indulgence of a charmed life. Waited on and provided for. The next instant, all happiness drained from her mind. Her eyes clouded. Only one thing spoiled the welcome change. Lord Conniston.

Were it not for him the visit would be perfect. Her appetite waned. Leaving Ellie to tidy the remains of their scrap lunch into the basket, she walked to the coach and climbed in. The maid’s quick fingers rammed the cloth back into the basket. She snatched it up and fled from the tombs, casting anxious glances over her shoulder before she leapt into the safety of the carriage.

Seeing his charges ready to leave, Patterson mounted the box. He lowered himself onto the seat, squashing Thaddeus into the corner. He pointed his whip at Ayers. ‘You get yersel’ straight home, Gilbert, lad, and no loitering.’ A large linked chain crossed his waistcoat. He pulled at it and heavy watch flopped out of the neighbouring pocket. Ayers watched him catch it on the flat of his hand.

‘I’ve noted the clock,’ Patterson announced. ‘Be sure I’ll ask the master what the time was when you got home.’

Ayers swung himself into his saddle, Misty’s reins tight in his hand, his mouth grim but a plan forming behind his eyes.

‘And don’t you race them horses neither. Misty’s done a decent day’s work. I don’t want her tried ’n’ tired ’cos you’re thinking to get off gallivanting.’

The light died out of Gilbert’s eyes. ‘Yes, Mr Patterson,’ he said. His mouth turned down and he trotted off at a respectful pace.

The coachman slotted his watch back into his pocket. He bent down. ‘You sit comfortable now, Miss Rowena,’ he called. ‘We’ll soon have you peaceful at her ladyship’s.’ He flipped the reins. ‘Walk on, Bailey.’ The brougham lurched and they were off.

Rowena clasped her hands in her lap. Now they had started off again, the end of the journey was imminent. Anxiety knotted inside her. She tried not to think that there would soon be no peace for her at all. Only a man she admired above all others. The man she must persuade to keep his offer to her sister. It would be akin to walking barefoot on knives. The more she tried not to think of it, the more she pictured his nonchalant elegance, his amused mouth and his grey, grey eyes. Her heart raced. Her fingers laced and unlaced themselves. Her teeth repeatedly caught then released her bottom lip.

‘Are you well, miss?’ Ellie said.

Rowena struggled to compose her features. ‘I am very well, thank you. Very well indeed. Completely fine.’

Ellie shot sidelong glances at her. Her mistress’s serene expression soon vanished. The anxious look replaced it.

The miles trotted past. Rowena tried to calm herself. There would be plenty of time to do so. Yes, there would. Lord Tiverton was sending one of his own horses to the Bell Inn at Clare. The change would give her added time. Perhaps she would take a short walk around the town. Proper exercise after the hours in the coach. That was what she would do. She would reach Darnebrook poised, happy and fully prepared to greet Lord Conniston as his future sister-in-law. Not someone in the least disturbed by the dreams that had once delighted her.

By the time the stone front of the Bell came into view she had convinced herself she could meet him with complete equanimity.

The coach passed under the archway into a long courtyard lined with stables. Rowena alighted. Her hand froze on the door. Her composure shattered instantly. A brilliant yellow phaeton stood at the far end, on its sides a magnificent coat of arms. A griffin and a bear supported a shield quartered in blue, black and green. Above it, a boar snarled on the helmet. Below, a motto scrolled on a fluted ribbon.
Timeant me pre ceteris
. Fear me more than anything else. She knew the motto well.