Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (5 page)

Laurence, the eighth Earl of Conniston was here.

Chapter Eight

E
llie cannoned into Rowena’s back as she jumped down. ‘Sorry, miss. I thought you was going inside.’

‘I . . . um . . .’ Rowena bit her lip. She wished most urgently that she was at home. Was safely in her room. Was anywhere but here. Panic rose inside her. She could not possibly enter the inn, a meeting would be certain. Nor could she stay in the coach while the horse was changed. If Conniston appeared he must realise who they were. After all, Patterson was not someone to forget.

Her fingers clenched so tightly it hurt. She looked down. How stupid of her to give way like this. Fury at herself overrode her alarm. She snatched her hands apart and drew a fast breath. The walk. Hadn’t she planned to take a walk? Well, she would. ‘I quite ache from sitting so long, Ellie. We’ll take a stroll about the town.’

Ellie’s eyes widened. ‘Are you sure, miss? The master said we was to stay with Mr Patterson ’cos there’d be strangers.’

‘Nonsense.’ Rowena ignored her father’s caution. Miscreant strangers could not be worse than meeting Lord Conniston in public view. She straightened her spine. ‘I doubt anyone will approach me uninvited.’ The flush on her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes should ensure no-one did. She set off towards the archway at a good pace. Out of its shadow, she turned into the High Street.

Ellie’s feet refused to move. She should follow but the master had said not to leave. Patterson reappeared, a brimming tankard clasped in his fist, chuckling from his conversation with mine host.

Ellie hurried towards him. ‘Mr Patterson. Oh, Mr Patterson, sir. Miss Rowena’s gone off in the town.’

Patterson’s interest switched to her from the fresh horse a groom in Tiverton livery was leading out. ‘What?’

‘Miss Rowena’s gone off in the town,’ Ellie repeated.

‘Demn me. Whatever’s bitten the lass?’ Patterson turned to Thaddeus. ‘Here, lad, get after her. You too, Ellie. Tell her we’ll be fit to leave in five minutes. I don’t want no delaying.’

Thaddeus roused himself from watching a sweet-faced maid struggling to manoeuvre a large wicker linen basket through a door. He jogged towards the street, more than pleased to be stretching the muscles in his legs. Cramp still gripped them after hours of the coachman’s encroaching bulk on the box. ‘Come on, Ellie,’ he called over his shoulder. Blushing at his use of her name, Ellie gathered up her skirts and fled after him.

Rowena had made smart progress past the higgledy-piggledy shops lining the High Street. Their rooflines jumped up and down from building to building. Here a newly-tiled roof, steeply sloping, glowed darkly red in the sunshine. There a sagging thatch, murky and stained, looked untouched since Oliver Cromwell had chased through the town after the first King Charles. People milled around, chatting, waving, pursuing their business. Rowena’s bonnet bobbed away ahead.

‘Please, Lord, don’t let her turn into the market,’ Ellie panted, hurrying after Thaddeus.

The market cross rose proudly, if grubbily, above its surroundings on a square of steps. Rowena took one look at the rubbish and the shaky stalls clustered at its foot and swerved off the High Street. Beyond the nearest building a spire, fretted with lacy cravings and bulbous gargoyles, pierced the sky. A church. She would visit it, could visit it, in perfect safety. Such an action was above criticism. After all, she had taken lunch in a churchyard barely two hours ago. The fact that she had been under Patterson’s gaze at the time conveniently slipped her mind.

She stopped at a narrow alleyway between two buildings. Peering along, she saw it led from the street to a low stone wall round a leafy churchyard. ‘Excellent.’ She turned into the alley. A lychgate with a low, thatched roof above twin wooden gates broke the line of the wall at the end of the path. Rowena flicked the wrought iron band fastening the gates together. She swung one aside and marched into the green, dappled shade.

Her feet crunched along a gravel path leading past crosses and tombs to a carved porch. A painted noticeboard proclaimed the Parish Church of St Peter and St Paul. The dark oak door was shut. Rowena turned the heavy handle and pushed. A long aisle stretched away to the carved tracery of the rood screen. She looked up at the heavy ribs of the roof until she turned dizzy. Hands to her face, she recovered herself and walked across to the Lady Chapel. The peace under the arches of the smaller space steadied her. Her pulse began to beat as normal.

Thaddeus and Ellie arrived panting at the door.

‘What’ll we do?’ Ellie gasped, hesitating on the threshold.

‘I dunno. I suppose we’ll have to tell her it’s time to go.’

‘What if she’s a-praying?’

Thaddeus bit a knuckle. ‘We’ll . . . we’ll tell her Mr Patterson says it’s time to go.’ He stepped inside as far as the first arch. Ellie inched in his wake. They peeped round the carved stone.

‘Doesn’t look like she is,’ Thaddeus whispered. ‘She ain’t on her knees.’

Praying Rowena was not. She stood motionless, staring at the tall, stained glass window.

Thaddeus gave a small cough.

Rowena jumped. She turned. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s time to go, miss,’ he said. Ellie dug her elbow into his ribs. ‘I mean, Mr Patterson says it’s time to go.’

The pace Rowena set back to The Bell bordered on the unladylike. Seeing her haste, Patterson snatched the coach door open. A jump that showed her ankles, and more, and would have scandalised Cousin Thomasina had her inside. Her bonnet brushed against the door frame in her haste. She pushed it into place on her curls. ‘Hurry up, Ellie. I want to be gone.’

Abandoning modesty, Ellie bundled her skirts again and leapt in.

Rowena dragged the door out of Patterson’s hand. It shut with a thud. ‘Hurry, please. Let’s be off.’

Patterson and Thaddeus exchanged looks. ‘Up with you, lad. Missie wants to be gone.’ Patterson heaved himself up. The carriage dipped violently under his shifting weight. Seconds later a crack of his whip had it moving smartly out from the courtyard. Rowena huddled into the corner, her face hidden from the window. Ellie stared, her eyes round and her mouth open.

Darnebrook Abbey could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be called modest. The first sight of its imposing façade topping a graceful incline impressed all visitors travelling along the main approach. The wide, rectangular house sprawled in the sunshine. Four ranks of windows pierced its facade. In its centre, six pillars supported a portico deep enough to permit a coach and four to shelter from any disrespectful rain falling on the Tivertons or their guests. At each side of the house semicircular colonnades with more tall windows linked two half-height wings to the main building. Above it all, small dormers dotted a tiled roof that was edged by a balustrade and a series of stone urns.

Ellie’s mouth formed a silent ‘Oh’ as the coach crested the stone bridge over a stretch of calm water. She looked down to where it widened into a lake. ‘Oh, miss. Oh, miss. It’s . . . it’s . . .’

Her words faded in a long sigh as the coach swung to a halt at the door. A footman, his livery impressively loaded with gold lace, trod down the flight of broad steps from the imposing double doors. Without a word, he opened the carriage door and flipped down the step. Staring into the distance, he held out his arm, chest high. Rowena leant on it until she stood on the gravel.

Ellie picked up her bundle to follow. The footman’s head swivelled. ‘Your abigail may use the servants’ door, ma’am.’

Rowena looked back. ‘Stay with the carriage, Ellie. Patterson will show you where to go.’

Ellie shrank back onto the seat. She clasped her bundle to her chest. Patterson’s voice drifted down from the box. ‘Hop down and shut the door, Thaddeus, lad.’

The footman surveyed Thaddeus’ non-liveried clothes. With a breath drawn through superior nostrils, he shut the door himself. The coach pulled off. Alone inside, Ellie stared at Rowena slowly ascending the steps to the house for as long as she could until the window cut off the sight.

The butler, a tall, portly man far more dignified than any lord Rowena had seen in London, waited at the door. Two maids clad in grey frocks and long white pinafores stood a respectful distance behind him.

The butler bowed. ‘Welcome to Darnebrook Abbey, Miss Harcourt-Spence.’

‘Thank you . . . ?’

‘Garton, miss.’

‘Ah yes, Garton. I remember. Thank you.’

‘Her ladyship is in the salon, ma’am. If you’d be good enough to follow me.’ He turned and paced slowly back into the house without waiting to see if Rowena was following. Head elegantly poised, she trod lightly in his wake. The two maids bobbed curtsies as she passed.

The butler’s stately footsteps echoed around the entrance hall, up to a painted ceiling so high Rowena thought the weather vane on Little Witchingham’s parish church would fit inside with ease. The elaborate Tiverton coat of arms decorated a stone fireplace on the left. Garton paced weightily past a carved and gilded staircase. The serried ranks of Tiverton ancestors suspended up it wore costumes that had not been seen for a century. As for the Greek gods painted on the ceiling in all their glory, they were draped in not much more than pieces of muslin. Rowena averted her eyes.

The vast salon was no less impressive than the hall and staircase. Four tall windows draped with deep blue damask lined one wall. Carved and inlaid tables surmounted by large mirrors stood in the piers between them. Opposite, another Tiverton coat of arms was deeply carved into the stone firepiece that rose to a ceiling sculptured with large concentric ovals of plaster curls and shells. Two spindle-legged sofas covered in green satin stripes faced each other across the hearth. An army of matching chairs were placed around the room beside fragile tables and on either side of a black lacquer specimen cabinet.

Aunt Tiverton was seated on the sofa facing the door. She was even more magnificent than her surroundings. Pale carmine skirts spread gracefully around her feet. Light from the nearest window shimmered across the silken surface. Matching ribbons trimmed the high bodice, the hem and caught the puffed cap of the sleeves into slimmer columns. A cream shawl patterned with twining leaves was draped around her shoulders. The lace on her satin cap trembled as she looked up.

‘Miss Harcourt-Spence, m’lady.’

Rowena stepped around him and curtsied. ‘Good afternoon, Aunt Tiverton.’

Sophronia did not rise. The lady of uncertain years seated opposite her did.

Her aunt extended an arm. ‘Come here, child. Let me look at you.’

Rowena walked towards her, conscious of the critical gaze scanning her from bonnet to boots and back again.

‘Hmm. You’ve grown I think. You should avoid it. You are quite the Amazonian already.’

‘I think I am the same height, ma’am. My skirts are no shorter.’

The gaze dropped to her hem. ‘I dare say not then.’ She indicated her companion. ‘Allow me to present you to Miss Sybil Wexley. You’ll remember she has been gracious enough to lend me her company these many years. Sybil, my niece, Rowena.’

The two curtsied, though Sybil’s was somewhat shallower than Rowena’s.

Lady Tiverton lifted her cheek. ‘You may kiss me, child.’ Rowena obeyed, dropping a light kiss onto the scented skin. ‘Now, I suggest you take yourself to your room, remove your bonnet and spencer and tidy your hair. I dare say you are somewhat dusty from the journey. When you are presentable you may join us for the afternoon tea tray.’

Rowena was suddenly conscious of a tendril of hair escaping from her bonnet. ‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you.’

An imperious hand waved. ‘Off with you then. Garton will show you the way.’

Rowena curtsied again and followed the butler out of the room, thankful that at least she had arrived before Lord Conniston.

Chapter Nine

A
s an unmarried, untitled girl, Rowena’s bedroom was on the second floor in the east wing. With the briefest of orders, Garton instructed one of the hovering maids to lead the way, he being too grand to do it himself. The maid, whose red hair showed a distressing tendency to escape its cap, squeaked something inaudible at him then bobbed a curtsey to Rowena.

‘This way, miss, if you please,’ she whispered.

She started up the first, impressive curve of stairs as if she were trying to keep her feet from touching them. Rowena raised her skirts a fraction and trod up behind her. They reached a gracious landing furnished with a gleaming mahogany chest of drawers stationed between two massive blue and white porcelain urns each the height of a growing child. Lighted candles in the silver candelabrum on top of the drawers cast flickering pools of gold onto the polished wood.

‘Up here, miss,’ the girl said, her voice louder now the butler was far below.

She continued up a second staircase that was much less imposing. At the head of the stairs she stopped so abruptly Rowena collided with her.

‘Oh,’ the girl squeaked, staring along the left-hand corridor.

In front of her Ellie was jiggling from foot to foot beside Rowena’s portmanteau dumped on the floor near a door. The skirt of her apron was twisted into a rope around her agitated hands. A patchwork of pink stains blotched a face streaked with tear-tracks.

‘Thank you,’ Rowena said to the maid. ‘I can manage now.’

The girl, her eyes full upon Ellie, half-bobbed curtsey before she hurried along the corridor, casting a final, curious glance over her shoulder at the end.

Ellie could scarcely contain herself until the maid had vanished down the servants’ stairs. ‘Oh, miss,’ she sobbed. ‘Oh, I’m ever so glad you’re here.’

‘What ever is the matter?’

‘Oh, miss. It were awful.’ Tears overflowed down the pink cheeks.

Startled by a fresh bout of noisy sobs, Rowena pushed the bedroom door open. ‘Come in here.’ She laid her arm around Ellie’s heaving shoulders and urged her into the room. The bed stood near the door. Rowena eased Ellie down to sit beside her. ‘Now then, stop crying and tell me what’s made you cry.’

The tearful face turned towards her. ‘It were an accident, miss. Honest.’ She sniffed loudly. The apron suffered more twists and knots. Her voice quavered. ‘I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t mean it.’ She gathered the mangled apron up to cover her face. A violent burst of sobs gushed into it.

Rowena gave the weeping girl a gentle shake. ‘What accident, Ellie? What’s happened?’ She scanned the maid. ‘Are you hurt?

‘Oh no, miss. It’s worse’n that. Much worse.’ She gulped down a sob. ‘I got lost trying to find your room.’

Another tremendous sniff had Rowena wincing. ‘But you’re here now.’ She tilted her head, a small frown printed between her eyebrows. ‘So why does it matter?’

‘But miss, you don’t understand.’ Another sob. ‘I went up the wrong stair and . . . oh, miss.’ Distraught eyes were turned upon Rowena. ‘I ended up in the footmen’s quarters.’

‘Oh.’ Rowena’s fingers tensed on Ellie’s arm. ‘Did anyone see you?’

‘Yes. Thaddeus. He took pity on me. Said he’d find the way down.’

‘Well then, that was fortunate. Thaddeus is a good person.’

An explosive sob burst out of Ellie’s chest. ‘It weren’t him, miss. It were Mrs Emmett.’

‘Who’s Mrs Emmett?’

‘She’s the housekeeper. Oh, miss, she’s awful fierce . . . not at all like Mrs Cope.’

‘Did she see you?’

A nod. Another sob. A wave of them followed. ‘Yes, miss. She said I w-w-weren’t allowed up there. She said if I w-w-were hers I’d be turned off w-without . . . without a character.’ She released her crumpled apron and clutched Rowena’s hand. ‘Oh, what am I to do, miss? There’s only me and ma since pa died. We need my wages desperate bad or ma’ll starve.’ She grabbed the apron skirt threw the end over her head and howled into hands pressed to her shrouded face.

‘Ellie!’ Rowena shook her firmly. ‘Ellie. Listen. It doesn’t matter what Mrs . . . Mrs Whoever says. We employ you, not her. We know what a good girl you are.’ The rate of sobs lessened slightly. ‘You aren’t going to be turned off.’

Ellie rocked forward. The apron slid off her shaking head and flopped over her hands. Two reddened eyes peered over the top. ‘I’m not?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Oh, miss. Oh miss, I’m ever so grateful.’ Elli untangled her hands from the wrecked linen and flung them around Rowena’s neck knocking off her bonnet. It banged against the back of her neck. The tied ribbons pulled against her throat. ‘Oh thank you, miss. Thank you.’

A roll on a gong sounded over her tremulous thanks. A rather large gong. Ellie dragged her arms from Rowena’s neck. ‘Whatever’s that, miss?’

Rowena frowned. ‘It’s the dinner gong.’

‘But it’s not dinner time.’

‘No. Oh!’ Rowena’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, my goodness. I’d quite forgot. They sound it for the tea tray here.’ She jumped up. ‘Hurry. I must tidy myself.’ She tugged furiously at the bonnet’s green ribbons. ‘Take my shawl out of my portmanteau.’

Ellie bounded off the bed towards the door. She dragged the portmanteau inside and swung it onto the bed where it landed with a thump. It rolled into the dip it created in the deep feather mattress almost tumbling her over it. Ellie pulled herself upright and unbuckled the straps.

Rowena paced across the floor, still pulling at the bonnet’s ribbons. ‘Oh no.’

Ellie looked up. ‘You’ve knotted them, miss.’ She hurried across the room and picked at the knot with her bitten fingernails. ‘Be still, miss. I can’t do it if you jiggle.’

Rowena clasped her hands together and did her utmost not to jiggle. The knot loosened. Ellie dragged the tails apart. Rowena snatched off the bonnet before Ellie could take it. A comb from her hair caught in it. Several curls drooped onto her shoulders.

‘Oo, miss.’ Ellie yanked the portmanteau open and delved inside it for a hairbrush. ‘Here!’ She waved it triumphantly. ‘Sit down quick, miss. I’ll put up your hair again.’

Still jiggling, Rowena sat on the stool by the narrow dressing table and submitted to Ellie’s ministrations. Pins flew out under Ellie’s hands onto the table. Quick strokes with the brush smoothed the hair into a fall of gold waves. Rowena gathered the pins off the table and held them up one at a time.

‘Please be quick Ellie. I daren’t be late for Aunt Tiverton.’

‘I’m being as quick as I can, miss. Your hair’s that thick it don’t brush easy.’

Satisfied the hair was as tangle-free as she could make it, Ellie twirled it up into a cluster of curls. She stuck the pins firmly into it and stood back, surveying the result. She reached forward and tweaked two tendrils to curl in front of Rowena’s ears. ‘There, miss. You look right pretty now.’

Rowena unfastened her spencer and dragged it off. She grabbed the handle of the small looking glass and peered at her reflection. There was rather too much colour in her cheeks. She was definitely not as composed as usual. ‘Oh dear. Thank you, Ellie. I must hurry.’

‘What about your shawl?’

‘Never mind that. I must go. Aunt hates unpunctuality.’ That was a lesson she had learnt when she was seven. Her cousin Tristan had encouraged her to climb one of the trees overhanging the lake. It was a large tree and she was a small girl. She had fallen into the water and been late appearing in the salon with her governess. Lady Tiverton had made her views scathingly clear. Being late was not something Rowena intended to repeat.

‘You’d better run then, miss,’ Ellie called after her mistress’s disappearing back

Holding her skirts clear of her feet, Rowena skittered down the first flight of stairs, her eyes fixed on her toes in case she tripped. She jumped off the bottom step and cannoned straight into the side of a tall man crossing the landing. Her forehead hit his shoulder. He grunted. She gasped, her balance ruined by her momentum. She grabbed at his body, trying not to fall. An arm clamped round her waist to keep them both upright.

‘Oh! Forgive me, sir,’ she panted. She looked up. ‘Oh.’

The Earl of Conniston’s scarred face loomed over her. Rowena flushed violently. She snatched her hands off his chest. Conniston curved his hands firmly round her upper arms and moved her away, breaking the contact between them. Releasing her, he raised his eyebrows at her flushed face.

‘Miss Harcourt-Spence. What an unexpected pleasure.’

More colour rushed over her neck and cheeks. Her heart thumped in her chest. ‘Oh,’ she said again.

His cool urbanity seemed unruffled but a muscle twitched at the side of his mouth. ‘You are especially eager for a dish of tea perhaps?’

‘Oh . . . I . . .’ She pulled in a breath and held it, forcing herself to stop wittering like a fool, certain he was laughing at her. She released it in a rush of words. ‘How do you do, Lord Conniston.’ She curtsied. ‘I didn’t know you’d arrived.’

Conniston’s eyes sparkled. He bowed. ‘I am sure you do now.’ He extended his right arm. ‘Allow me to escort you to your aunt.’

Rowena placed her fingers lightly near his wrist. Desperate to say nothing that sounded gauche, she kept silent. Head up, she permitted him to lead her down the stairs, all the while trying to ignore the warmth of the muscled arm under her fingertips.

His lordship’s lips quivered. ‘Did you find the roads in good condition for your journey?’

Rowena’s heart sank. She dared not look into his face but she thought there was a disparaging tone in his question. Had he seen her at the inn after all? She swallowed. ‘They were excellent, thank you.’

‘You surprise me, ma’am. I felt sure they had disconcerted you.’

No adequate response rose to her lips. She kept her counsel, if not her countenance, while they descended the remainder of the wide stairs and entered the salon.

The Marchioness was seated in her usual position on the sofa facing the door. The faded Miss Wexley sat beside her. A low table holding a large silver tray burdened with silver and porcelain had been placed squarely before Lady Tiverton. She held a large bulbous silver teapot in one hand and a tea strainer in the other. She lowered both among the dishes.

‘There you are, Rowena. We had quite despaired of you joining us.’

Rowena swallowed and curtsied. ‘I beg your pardon, aunt.’

‘No matter. Perhaps next time you will manage to be on time. Not that your cousin and her . . . friend have managed it either.’ She recovered the teapot. ‘A dish of tea, Laurence?’

Lord Conniston bowed. ‘A veritable treat, Lady Tiverton.’

The Marchioness’s eyes flickered. ‘I hope you are not intending to be disagreeable, Laurence, even though this nonsense with my niece is enough to try the patience of any saint you care to mention.’

Conniston looked at Rowena, eyebrows rising. Rowena’s flushed face reddened even further.

The teapot waggled in Rowena’s direction. ‘Not her. Amabelle.’

‘Ah.’ Conniston bowed. ‘Banish the thought, my lady.’ He glanced at Rowena. ‘I am sure Miss Harcourt-Spence will assure me all is in hand.’

Rowena began to think she could not blush any deeper. Her voice emerged as a thin whisper of its usual self. ‘I am sure my sister will soon realise how honoured she has been, sir.’

Her aunt growled in her throat. ‘I trust so, the silly chit.’ She strained tea into two dishes. ‘Now, seat yourselves and tell me all of your news. How goes your father, Rowena?’

‘He is well, thank you, ma’am.’ Rowena perched on the edge of the spindly sofa opposite her aunt but as far in the corner from Lord Conniston as she could manage. He lounged at the other end, legs outstretched and ankles crossed.

‘And his cousin? What is her name again? Remind me.’ The teapot clattered onto its matching stand. ‘Hand the tea round, Sybil.’

‘Thomasina Quigley, aunt. She is well too.’ Rowena stretched forward to accept the dish of tea her aunt’s companion held out to her. Her hand trembled. She only just managed to run a finger up the side of the cup to prevent a drop of dark liquid escaping, possibly onto the pale rug below. A small snort sounded at the other end of the sofa.

‘Tea, Laurence,’ Lady Tiverton announced.

Thus summoned, Conniston uncrossed his ankles. In one elegant movement, he rose to relieve Miss Sybil Wexley of the second tea dish with a slight bow.

‘Now,’ Lady Tiverton continued. ‘As for dinner tonight –’

Rowena’s heart thumped. Please, she thought, let Lord Conniston be seated beside Aunt Tiverton and not me.

Her aunt lifted her tea and took a minute sip. ‘As you’re to be brother and sister-in-law as soon as may be I’ve told Garton to seat you together.’ She lowered the tea dish. ‘You can take the time to become better acquainted.’ A frown. ‘Rowena? You are positively slouching.’

Rowena blinked and sat up straighter. ‘I beg your pardon, aunt.’

The figure at the end of the sofa stirred. ‘Perhaps Miss Harcourt-Spence is fatigued from her journey, ma’am.’

Another Tiverton frown. ‘Really?’ A pair of small eyes raked Rowena’s face. ‘Girls have no stamina these days. I’m sure we were never allowed to slouch on sofas no matter how fatigued we were.’ A sniff. ‘You had better take yourself off for a rest, miss.’ She wafted a hand in the general direction of the door. ‘Be sure you are not late for dinner. I’ll send Minchin to make certain you are awake in time to dress before she attends me.’

Rowena stood up. She placed the half-empty tea dish on the tray. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ She curtsied. ‘Miss Wexley. My lord.’

Conniston regarded her with amused eyes. ‘I hope you soon find yourself recovered, Miss Harcourt-Spence. I look forward to our conversation this evening.’

Words failed Rowena. The Earl bowed, his eyes shining.