Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1)

by Caroline Ashton

  ‘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.

  Chapter Six

  The 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 dinn
er 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.’