Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2)

by Caroline Ashton

  Archibald Neave cleared the tension that had afflicted his throat since Miss Orksville’s entrance. ‘I’ve engaged a place for the year in St James’ Square. I hope that’s acceptable.’

  Now Araminta’s mouth did droop open. Never had she heard her father, a man of considerable business acumen whose ships carried cargoes of incredible value back from India and further east, sound so unsure of himself.

  ‘Quite acceptable. When are you taking up residence?’

  ‘Tomorrow week.’

  A nod. ‘Very well. I’ll join you there on Monday the twenty-first. In the meantime . . .’ her glance switched to the burgundy stripes, ‘Miss Neave is to stay out of the public eye. On no account is she to descend to the ground floor unaccompanied.’

  Archibald hurried into speech. ‘To be sure. I’d heard this was a most respectable hotel but what’s going on there is . . . well . . . the drinking and gambling I’ve seen. I’m thinking of removing elsewhere.’

  Miss Orksville shook her head. The steel-grey bun on its top bobbed. ‘No need. The upper floors are perfectly respectable. Many – most hotels are the same.’

  ‘Well, ma’am. If you say so.’

  ‘I do. Now . . . to continue, Araminta may if she wishes, send to the subscription library for some improving books. No novels. At least not until I have seen some progress. She may read some Shakespeare but only from Mr Bowdler’s Family Shakespeare. We do not want her making any unfortunate references to the . . . seamier side of his work, do we?’

  So saying she nodded to the Neaves and marched from the room.

  ‘Well,’ Araminta said once the door had closed.

  ‘Indeed,’ her father added.

  ‘You’re never going to let her stay, are you Pa? Any more than a month of her and I’ll marry the first man who offers. Even if he’s the Duke Nowhere.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Archibald Neave repeated, staring at the closed door. Miss Orksville might look like the worst sort of pointy-faced, bossy female, the kind he particularly disliked, but there had only been two applications and she was very much the better of them. Thumbs grasping his lapels again, he pondered the past few minutes. Perhaps she had been nervous and keen to make an impact. Yes, that was it. She needed the employment and had tried too hard to impress. He lifted her letter again. A connection of Yorkshire’s Duke of Cropton, it said. One uncle was an archbishop. Another had gone to China on an expedition of some sort. China? Now there was something worth consideration. He hurriedly banished the thought of possible business opportunities and continued reading. There was a brief mention of her accomplishments and interests; quite wide-ranging but skimming over anything that might be considered too blue-stocking. Most importantly, she had successfully assisted another family with the same hopes as his own . . . naturally no name could be mentioned. She herself had never married. He wondered why until he remembered the determined cast of her features and directness of manner. Not enchantingly attractive, he decided, even in her youth. Perhaps she had been disappointed. Yes, that must be it.

  His resolve to employ Miss Orksville became firmly established. The tension up the back of his neck eased. Things would be fine, just fine. His girl would soon be everything a Friday-faced aristocratic mother could wish.

  Chapter Two

  At eleven o’clock in the morning of Monday the twenty-first of August, two carriages and a luggage fourgon drew to a halt outside a town house of unsurpassed elegance in St James Square.

  In the house next door, Viscountess Constance Fosbury allowed herself the briefest glance out of her boudoir window. Sophronia Tiverton, her dearest friend, had warned her some undesirable neighbours might arrive and this entourage looked to be them.

  She squinted across at the residence of the Duke and Duchess of Ellonby immediately opposite. The rulers of Lady Fosbury’s childhood had failed to convince her of the rules of comparatives in the English language. Thus she was able to consider Sylvia, the Duchess, another dearest friend. Given there were two unmarried sons under the Ellonby roof, she would pay a call to apprise Sylvia of the danger. Depending, of course, on who, or what, emerged from the carriages.

  While she awaited sight of her new neighbours, a sigh of relief escaped her narrow lips. She thanked Providence her own dear Linton had become affianced to the youngest Walcote girl this Season. It ensured he would make no dreadful mésalliance. How awful it would be, she though, a half smile twitching her lips, if one of dearest Sylvia’s sons was so unhappily ensnared.

  Under her censorious eyes, a footman leapt down from his place by the coachman on the carriage’s box while the wheels were still turning. A second young man jumped from the back step. The pair, both clearly intent on being first to grasp the door handle, almost collided. Knowing the tardiness of her own footmen, Lady Fosbury scowled.

  ‘New,’ she sniffed. ‘Have to be, running around like that. Keen to impress and keep their jobs. Still,’ she leant closer to the window, ‘they’ve no livery.’ She rubbed a finger where her breath had misted the glass. ‘Sophronia must be right.’

  Below, a vision in scarlet emerged from the carriage. Gold braid laced the cuffs and front of a stunning redingote à la Hussar. The creature’s face was hidden by a bonnet of the most elaborate style. Tresses of titan curls drifted about its edges.

  ‘Married,’ Lady Fosbury said to the damask draped at the window. ‘In that colour. Let’s see the husband.’

  He confirmed her opinion. Short, fat and dressed in tailoring she considered unwise for a man of his dimensions, the supposed husband descended onto the pavement. Released from his bulk the coach oscillated violently on its springs.

  The pair surveyed the house before them. Lady Fosbury drew back into the shelter of her boudoir. Or attempted to. The fringe edging the damask drape had tangled itself in the starched lace of her morning cap. It anchored her to the spot. She suppressed an irritated squeak and raised a hand to free herself. Unhappily the movement resembled a wave. It caught the attention of the scarlet-clad woman.

  Araminta Neave waved back. She smiled at her father. ‘Perhaps it won’t be so bad here after all, Pa.’

  ‘I hope not, considering the sovereigns I’m paying in rent.’

  He mounted the three front steps. The large iron key that had been dragging down the left side of his tailcoat appeared in his hand. He approached the lock, key at the ready.

  The black-painted door opened ahead of him. A dark-clad gentleman of dour expression surveyed the arrivals. ‘Mr Neave, sir?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  The man pulled the door wider. ‘I am Nesbit, sir. Lord Perlethorpe’s under-butler. He directed me to stay until you’d taken up residence.’

  ‘That’s mighty kind of him. What’re you to do then?’

  ‘I’m to join him and her ladyship in the country, sir.’

  ‘For shame. That won’t do. We need someone who knows the ropes around here.’

  Nesbit looked over Archibald’s shoulder at the quantity and form of the entourage and silently agreed a shame it was. He could recognise money when he saw it. Unlike the unfortunate Perlethorpe household, this was it.

  ‘Who else is here?’

  ‘No-one, sir. The rest of the staff are gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ Archibald’s progress into the house halted. ‘What do you mean gone?’

  ‘Turned off, sir.’ Nesbit looked anxiously at the new tenant’s scowl.

  ‘Why were they turned off?’

  ‘I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir.’

  ‘Then who’s to look after us? We’ve only brought four and a cook.’

  Nesbit cast another quick glance at the three young men untying trunks from the fourgon under the driver’s critical eye. A shadow of hope filtered into his soul. ‘Perhaps his lordship wouldn’t be averse to me staying on a while, sir. Just to acquaint you – your household – with local suppliers a
nd suchlike.’ A pause. ‘I don’t like to presume, sir, but if you was to scribe him a line or two . . . ’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘I’ll do that directly we’re settled. Now,’ Archibald looked about the hall. ‘You show me and Miss Araminta the rooms then you can tell the rest where to put our things. And themselves.’

  Nesbit bowed. ‘As you wish, sir. If you and the young lady would come this way.’ He crossed the hall, ignoring the flight of elegant stairs rising on the right, and headed towards a pair of panelled doors. He pushed them open. ‘The drawing room,’ he announced.

  Sir and the young lady passed before him into the elegantly proportioned room. A pair of tall windows overlooked the square. Plastered walls supported a corniced ceiling. Opposite the windows, a formal arrangement of gilt furniture upholstered in figured green damask stood on a large carpet patterned with faded floral wreaths before a marble firepiece. Beyond it was a single door. It led to a small rear parlour which almost bordered on the cosy despite elaborate mouldings on walls and ceiling. Walking through that room, the tour regained the hall and entered the dining room. A long mahogany table surrounded by a dozen chairs with shoulder-high carved backs occupied the centre space. Two sideboards, their surfaces devoid of everything but dust, stood along the side wall.

  ‘Hmmh,’ growled Archibald.

  Back in the hall, Nesbit preceded the Neaves up the stairs. ‘The salon,’ he said, stopping at the top. A larger room occupied the entire front of the first floor. Across the landing, a wave of his hand indicated doors to the back rooms. ‘My lord and lady’s suites, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘Perhaps the young lady’s maid should show her into her bedchamber?’

  ‘The young lady doesn’t have a maid. Not yet.’ A pudgy hand waved. ‘Get on with it man. I’m here so nothing can be said against it.’

  Nesbit’s face remained blank. His expression hid his thought of a certain head parlourmaid, recently turned off. She would appreciate employment. Not to mention promotion to lady’s maid. And this pair, he thought, wouldn’t know she hadn’t been one ever before. He opened the door to an attractive room at the back of the house. Its cream walls were painted with trails of flowers that matched those woven into the faded drapes at the window.

  ‘This is pretty, Pa.’ Araminta untied the ribbons of her bonnet and cast it onto the bed. It landed on the striped mattress. The quilt folded at the foot showed distinct signs of wear. ‘Where’s the linen, Nesbit?’

  A flush crept up the man’s face. ‘Her ladyship ordered it taken with them, miss.’ He dropped his eyes. ‘Sorry, miss.’

  ‘Well,’ Araminta said, undaunted. ‘We shall have to buy some of our own. We can’t sleep on ticking tonight.’

  Beside her, Archibald Neave scowled. ‘Hmmh. I call that mighty unfriendly of her ladyship.’ His frown swept over Nesbit. ‘Has she taken the pots and pans too?’

  ‘Er . . . not to my knowledge, sir.’ The prospect of a rich and grateful employer hovered before Nesbit. ‘If I might make so bold, sir, my sister – a widowed lady – lives in not far from here. I’m sure she’d be more’n happy to accompany Miss to a warehouse or two if she were set on buying today.’

  ‘That’s mighty kind of you. Take yourself off to ask her.’

  Nesbit took a step backwards out of the room.

  ‘But make us a dish of tea first,’ Archibald called after him.

  Nesbit swallowed. It was many a year since anyone had ordered him to make a dish of tea. He bowed. ‘Of course, sir. I’ll bring it to the drawing room.’

  Araminta divested herself of her scarlet redingote and trooped downstairs behind her father. She stood in the drawing room doorway, hands on hips and regarded the gilt furniture. ‘At least they’ve left us something to sit on, Pa.’

  ‘And so they should. I took it furnished.’ Archibald Neave plumped his large frame into a fragile armchair. Its wooden joints creaked. ‘Hmmh.’ He rubbed at the arm. ‘Bit old though. You’d think they’d have better in a house like this.’ He examined his fingers. ‘Dusty too. Not been done for weeks, I’ll be bound.’

  Muffled thuds and mutterings drifted through the open door. ‘Sounds as if they’re getting our things inside at last.’ He folded his hands across his ample stomach. ‘Have a look, girl. Make sure they go to the right rooms.’

  Araminta took herself into the hall. Two men struggled to manoeuvre the largest of her three trunks across the threshold. The younger one let a corner slip. Despite his heroic attempts to stop it, the trunk slid out of his grasp. One corner scraped the side of his ankle on its way to the tiles. His face turned puce. Strong white teeth gripped his lower lip against a curse in case the young miss should dismiss him out of hand.

  ‘Take care,’ Araminta said, not noticing the damaged ankle. ‘That trunk has my looking glass in it.’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ the stressed young man gasped. ‘Sorry, miss.’

  The next hour passed quickly for Araminta. She stood on the main landing calmly directing laden men to this room or that. When the last small box had been deposited she told them to wait in the hall and returned to the drawing room.

  Her father lay slumped in his chair, head lolled back, eyes closed. Loud snores emanated from his open mouth. Araminta tapped his shoulder. He did not stir. A snore, louder than most, thundered across the delicate room. She tapped again. The merchant snuffled, wriggled his nose and opened his eyes.

  ‘They’ve finished, Pa.’

  Archibald Neave struggled upright. ‘Ah. Well. All done?’

  Araminta nodded. ‘Yes. The trunks are in our rooms and the footmen and maids are in the kitchen with our cook. The porters are in the hall with the drivers.’

  ‘Right. They’ll be wanting their pay.’ He levered himself out of the armchair and waddled out of the room.

  Minutes later the men trooped out of the front door, rubbing their shoulders or flexing their fingers and clinking coins into their pockets. One young man was limping. The drivers climbed onto their boxes and flicked the reins. Calls of ‘Walk on’ had the horses stepping off. The carriages and fourgon pulled away.

  A scowl followed them from a first floor window next door.

  ‘Exactly what I’d expect,’ Lady Fosbury muttered to no-one. ‘Not even well-bred enough to have them use the lower entranceway.’ She scowled more fiercely until the men had disappeared. Half-turning from the window, she paused. A figure was advancing across the square. A thin, female figure, on foot, entirely unaccompanied by footman or maid. Worse still, the creature carried a large portmanteau. Her ladyship squinted in an unbecoming fashion. She should really stop refusing to consider spectacles. ‘Now what? Are we to be invaded by more inappropriate persons?’

  She leant closer to the glass. Something about the figure looked familiar. Her ladyship squinted harder. Lines crinkled beside her eyes and across her forehead. After a second her head whipped back.

  ‘Good heavens. Wilhelmina Orksville. Whatever is she doing here?’ The horror of an unnoticed calling card afflicted her. A greater horror followed. Wilhelmina Orksville did not approach the Fosbury abode. She went instead to the house next door.

  ‘Good heavens,’ her ladyship repeated. ‘Whatever can it mean?’

  It meant, as Araminta found when Miss Orksville was conducted into the drawing room some moments later, that her trials had begun.

  Rigidly upright on one of the drawing room’s fragile chairs, Miss Orksville looked from father to daughter seated uneasily side-by-side on the sofa opposite. ‘I have devised the strategy for Araminta’s entrance into the ton. Once she has been dressed in a manner more suitable to her situation . . .’ A disapproving glance took in the scarlet and gold patterned gown that matched Araminta’s red pelisse. ‘We will endeavour to create an air of mystery about her. Appearing in public but maintaining our distance should accomplish it. Carriage rides are particularly helpful in achieving that impression.
’ She folded her hands into her lap. ‘It has been my experience that nothing raises interest in a person more than ill-informed speculation and gossip.’ She cast an eye at Archibald. ‘You do have a carriage in London?’

  ‘I bought one the day after we disembarked. It’ll be here this afternoon. They’ve just finished painting it.’ He frowned. ‘Though I’m not sure I want ’Minta – I mean Araminta – to be the focus of gossip.’

  A dismissive hand was waved. ‘That is an unnecessary concern. Comment will only be of her antecedents. Nothing scandalous.’ She pinned him with a look. ‘I take it there is nothing scandalous in her past?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ Araminta’s voice rose in volume.

  The frown deepened. ‘Young ladies should always adopt moderate tones. Shrieking is not considered advantageous.’

  Araminta quelled an urgent desire to demonstrate just what she considered an immoderate shriek. Only by forcibly reminding herself of her affection for her father did she manage it.

  In the following hour, she had to exercise resolute command over her behaviour. The tempting thought that another disadvantageous outburst might result in Miss Orksville’s hasty departure was abandoned only when Mrs Boulton-Cox’s prissy pronouncements came to mind. Her enforced control brought a flush to her cheeks and an ache to her jaw.

  Her father watched the proceedings with such a tight smile pinned to his face that his jaw soon ached too. Miss Orksville’s notions of what constituted proper conduct for a young lady were far and distant from Araminta’s view. His previous optimism faded somewhat. Unless he was very much mistaken there were stormy waters ahead.

  Chapter Three

  Unaware of her new employer’s fears, Miss Orksville cast her eyes over Araminta’s gown again.