‘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.
Chapter Ten
Ellie folded the second of Rowena’s shifts into the clothes press. All that remained to do was to lay the one evening gown her mistress had brought with her onto the bed. Her fingers moved reverently over the pale turquoise silk, smoothing out the creases. With a sigh she left it and picked up Rowena’s boots still muddied from the excursion across the Grantham churchyard. They would take some cleaning. With another sigh, she opened the bedroom door and looked up and down the corridor. Her next sigh was one of relief; no-one was in sight. She crept out. If Miss Rowena had gone to the right, she decided, then the servants’ stair must be to the left where the red-headed maid had disappeared.
Half way along the corridor, her worst horror materialized. The very last door opened. Encased in black bombazine, the fearsome shape of the housekeeper emerged. Ellie froze. Icicle chills turned her spine rigid. Her fingers petrified on the boots.
Never one noted for her charm of expression on her thin face, Mrs Emmett stared at her. ‘You, girl. What are you doing here? Not looking for the footmen’s quarters again, are you.’
Ellie gulped. She curtsied. ‘No, ma’am,’ she whispered, not daring to raise her eyes above the hem of Mrs Emmett’s dress. ‘Please, ma’am, I’ve been tending Miss Rowena’s clothes.’
‘And?’
‘And I’ve finished.’
Dark brows rose. ‘That is no reason for you to be out here. You should use the back stair.’
Ellie’s confusion deepened. She looked up. ‘But I thought it were over there.’ She waved a boot in the direction of the corridor’s end.
The black bombazine rose and fell over a deep breath drawn loudly in through flaring nostrils. The white frilled chemisette filling the neckline fairly bristled under the housekeeper’s narrow chin. ‘Not from the bedrooms it isn’t.’ The bunch of keys in her hand rattled. ‘Follow me.’
She stalked past Ellie who cowered against the wall, clutching the boots to her chest. A smudge of mud smeared the bodice of her cotton gown. Eyes round and mouth dry, she scurried after the housekeeper.
Quick, rustling strides took Mrs Emmett to Rowena�
��s room. She flung open the door and marched to the far corner of the patterned walls. Her thin fingers grasped an unobtrusive handle let into the painted dado rail. She twisted it. A door, all but indistinguishable in the pattern, swung open.
Ellie stared.
‘Hurry along girl.’ Ellie stepped forward. ‘No.’ Ellie stopped dead still. Mrs Emmett pointed. ‘Shut that door first. We do not leave doors hanging open in this house.’
Tucking the boots into the bend of her arm, Ellie ran to the main door. One boot fell to the ground as she fumbled the handle shut. A heavy sigh emerged behind her. Biting her lip, she bobbed down and grabbed it. Hardly daring to look at the housekeeper’s rigid face, she hurried through the secret door. A short corridor stretched beyond it. It was gloomy and narrow. What little light was not issuing round the housekeeper came from a gap in the left-hand wall.
‘Get along there. Turn and go down the steps at the end. It will take you to the kitchens.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’ Ellie dropped her deepest curtsey and fled. The door snapped shut behind her removing half the available light.
Ellie slowed. She stopped. Her fingers loosened on the muddied leather. A worried frown creased her forehead. If she had to leave this way, then she’d have to return this way too. It dawned on her that now she had left it, she didn’t know which of the doors opened into Rowena’s room. Chewing at her knuckle and spreading more mud on her gown, she turned back.
Painted doors lined the wall: two to the left and one on the right. Ellie rotated again. Her hand, with one boot grasped in it, flipped from side to side spraying flakes of dried mud against the wall. Which side had her door been? The right. She turned round. Now it must be one of the doors on the left. Her lip had more chewing than was good for it. It turned deep pink in Ellie’s pale face.
She stood still, thinking. It couldn’t be the nearest door; she was certain sure she’d walked further than that. Or almost certain. She tiptoed back to the second. With an ear pressed to the wood she held her breath.
Nothing. No sound. Not a single one, just silence. Perhaps Mrs Emmett was not in there inspecting how she had put away Miss Rowena’s things. Her fingers trembled as she turned the handle expecting every second to hear Mrs Emmett’s accusing tones. The door creaked open an inch. No-one shouted. Nor spoke. Her trembling hand pushed it further. Eyes blinking rapidly, she peeped round the corner. On the bed lay a turquoise gown. Breath escaped in a gasp. Her eyes misted with relief.
Retreating into the corridor, she shut the door and pulled a ribbon from under her cap. The boots dropped to the floor. In a moment the ribbon was tied round the handle. With a pleased sigh she resumed her journey, boots dangling from her hands.
The feint light in the corridor came from a small window set at the end the long passages the housekeeper had indicated. The window was so high there was no temptation for anyone to linger and view whatever scene they gave onto. Only the sky was visible. Ellie hurried to the flight of stairs. A wall of noise echoed up them as if a hundred people were all talking at once. Drawing on the last of her courage, Ellie started the downward journey.
The stairs ended in a wide, flagstoned passageway. On one side twin glazed doors opened onto a grey courtyard. The noise that had sounded so fiercesome at the top of the stairs had now lessened to normal servants’ chatter from a room far ahead. Worry replaced Ellie’s relief at avoiding Mrs Emmett. Should she go to what was clearly the servants’ hall? Was that where she should clean Rowena’s boots? A much worse worry struck her. She had forgotten to bring a brush and polish. She bit her lip, thinking hard. Thaddeus. Thaddeus might have brushes. He’d help her. He’d be in the stables. Ellie dragged the outside door open and escaped Darnebrook Abbey’s terrifying interior.
Sweating under the sun beaming down on the stableyard, Thaddeus was grooming a horse under Mr Patterson’s eye. The coachman sat on two bulging sacks of oats by the door to the long tack room, puffing at his pipe. His rheumy eyes drooped. They flicked open when Ellie arrived clutching the boots.
‘What are you doing out here, gal?’
‘Oh, Mr Patterson, sir. It’s awful. I’ve Miss Rowena’s boots to clean and I’ve nothing to clean them with. No brushes nor polish.’ She held out the offending items.
Patterson smiled. ‘Ah well, only to be expected I suppose. Things being what they are.’
‘What things, Mr Patterson?’ Thaddeus stopped brushing the horse’s nearside flank.
The coachman’s head wagged. ‘Never you mind. You get yer head down and attend to yon animal.’ He heaved himself off the sacks and waded into the tack room.
Thaddeus waited until the coachman had disappeared before sending a wide grin at Ellie. ‘You’re looking right pretty today.’
Ellie cast her eyes down. Her cheeks reddened. The heel of one boot was subjected to a furious rubbing with a thumb. She stared at the ground until the coachman emerged.
‘Here you are, gal.’ He held out a brush which had half of its bristles missing and a round tin, opened to reveal glistening beeswax. ‘Use these.’ He pointed at the mounting block by the wall. ‘Do it over there. And put some elbow into it. You’ll get a good shine that way.’ He settled himself on the sacks again to watch.
Ellie put so much elbow into it her arms ached and several strands of hair escaped her cap but by the end the brown boots glowed. She held them out for Patterson’s inspection.
‘Aye. They’ll do.’ Ellie smiled broadly. ‘Get yerself back indoors now.’
Ellie’s smile sank.
‘What’s the matter, gal?’
‘It’s the house. I mean the Abbey. It’s that big, Mr Patterson, and Mrs Emmett is that fierce . . .’ Her voice trailed away.
Patterson levered himself up again. ‘Well now, I could do with an ale from the kitchen and a bit of bait. What say we go in together?’
‘Oh, Mr Patterson, sir. Thank you.’
‘Can I come too?’ Thaddeus grinned. ‘I wouldn’t mind an ale.’
‘No you cannot, lad. You keep on with that horse while I get my bait tin filled.’ He waded into the stables out of sight.
‘Who’s this Mrs Emmett you don’t like?’
‘She’s the housekeeper. She’s a fiercesome body.’
Thaddeus swaggered forward. ‘Just you point her out to me and if she’s onto you I’ll give her what for.’
Ellie’s eyes opened wide above flushing cheeks. ‘Oh, no you wouldn’t. She’s far worse than Mrs Cope. You’d never dare cheek her back.’
Thaddeus sidled closer. ‘I’d brave anyone for you.’
Ellie looked down at her shoes, sideways at the tack room door and back at her shoes. ‘You’re not to say such things. It ain’t proper. You’ll get us turned off if anyone hears you.’
Some of the bravado left Thaddeus’s shoulders. ‘Don’t you like me, Ellie?’
‘I like you just fine.’ She looked up as far as his collar. She snatched her gaze away and added, ‘I mean I like you as much as I like everyone else.’
‘Apart from this Mrs Emmett.’
‘Yes . . . well,’ Ellie said, still a fetching shade of pink. She saw Patterson emerge into the sunlight, a tin box clasped in one enormous hand. ‘Bye,’ she said. ‘I’ve to get back. I’ve Miss Rowena to dress for dinner.’
Rowena sat on the stool holding the hand mirror in her lap. She felt her old self again. There was a lot to be said for a furious bout of bad temper to banish the doldrums. She had spent several minutes lecturing herself on the necessity of concentrating on her father’s order. Of ensuring Lord Conniston maintained his interest in Amabelle. Of forcing every other consideration from her mind. If she accomplished that, everything would be fine. Her sister would be safely married, then she could devote herself to running Southwold Hall and caring for Papa and Cousin Thomasina. That’s what she would do and everything would be fine. J
ust fine.
She lifted the mirror. Yes, her face was serene just like her thoughts. The merest hint of resurgent dreams drifted into her mind. She squashed it firmly down. Only the trace of sadness in her grey eyes remained to betray her.
Ellie arrived and set about brushing Rowena’s hair, tying the curls into a cluster on top of her head.
‘Are you finding your way around, Ellie?’
‘Yes, miss, thank you. I am now.’
‘Now? Was something else wrong before?’
Ellie explained at length about Mrs Emmett, the secret door, the ribbon and the brushes. She omitted to mention Thaddeus.
Rowena laughed. ‘Well I’m glad you thought of asking Mr Patterson. He knows what to do. He’s been with us since I could barely walk.’ She thought for a moment while Ellie’s nimble fingers twisted two ringlets in front of her ears. ‘If there’s anything else you need to know, ask me. Or if I’m not nearby, Aunt Tiverton’s maid. I’m sure she’ll help you.’
Ellie had seen Lady Tiverton’s maid. She did not know her name, nor would she dare to ask. She decided she would not enquire anything of Lady Tiverton’s maid. If anyone could make Mrs Emmett look friendly and obliging, it was Lady Tiverton’s gaunt maid. Side by side they would resemble vultures. Ellie shuddered.
‘Thank you, miss,’ she said. ‘I’ll remember.’
She captured an escaping tendril at Rowena’s nape and pinned up. ‘I don’t know how this house works, miss. It’s not like ours. They gossip so much. They’re even talking about his lordship and Miss Amabelle.’
Rowena’s head snapped round, pulling the tendril free of Ellie’s hand. ‘How have they heard of that? Lord Conniston hadn’t offered for her the last time she was here.’
‘I don’t know, miss. They just go on about him and Miss A.’
Rowena frowned. ‘Miss A? Hmm, well don’t you go gossiping about us.’
‘No, miss. I’d never do that.’ She re-pinned the hair. ‘There, miss. It’s done.’
Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) Page 7
