Conniston slewed round in his chair. Outside the windows the sky shone a clear, August blue. He looked back at Rowena. ‘Did you, Miss Harcourt-Spence?’ His eyes stared into hers. ‘I fear you have been misled.’
Colour rushed into Rowena’s cheeks. She produced a feeble cough and clutched her napkin to her mouth again.
‘Another crumb?’ he asked.
Rowena gathered the remains of her dignity. Pushing her chair back, she stood up. ‘I think perhaps I should write a letter to Amabelle. She will want to know I arrived safely.’
Every trace of amusement was wiped from Conniston’s face. His brows drew together. ‘Then I beg you will send her my respects.’ He rose and inclined a small bow in her direction.
‘Of course.’ Rowena curtsied.
Conniston turned back to Araminta. ‘Shall we examine Tiverton’s horses as soon as you have breakfasted? See if we can find a placid old maid for you?’
‘Pooh. I don’t want a placid old maid. I prefer something with spirit.’
Rowena clamped her teeth together, determined to say nothing. It was as well a footman standing outside closed the door after her. She feared she would have slammed it.
Several minutes later saw her pacing to and from the window behind her aunt’s chair in the sunny morning room, her composure noticeably absent. Lady Tiverton diverted her attention from instructing a chastened Harriette on the proper topics for conversation she should have chosen the previous evening.
‘Sit down child, do. You quite tire me out.’
Rowena stopped walking and perched on a gilt chair in the bay instead. By sheer coincidence the path Conniston and Miss Neave would take to reach the stables was clearly visible.
‘What ails you?’ Lady Tiverton twisted round. ‘Have you a megrim?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Then you’d better take yourself for a stroll on the terrace. Harriette, go with her. Take your parasol. We don’t want you turning as brown as –’ She bit off her words. ‘As a tree.’
Harriette put down the rather crumpled sampler on which she had been stitching a row of yellow lazy daisies. ‘Yes, Mama. I’ll go and find it now.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, child. Ring for Garton. He’ll send your maid for it. And he’ll find one for Rowena too.’ She stared at her niece. ‘If you lose any more of your complexion you’ll never make a match.’
‘Oh, Mama, Rowena’s complexion is lovely. Far better than mine.’
‘If you had remembered to use that cream old Mrs Davenport made up for you, those annoying freckles would be gone by now.’
Harriette’s flash of spirit waned.
Walking on the terrace with Rowena, she angled her parasol against the sun. ‘I’d never use one of old Ma Davenport’s creams. I’m sure she’s a witch. Sally took one of her love potions once. She was sick for almost a week. Then Lenton went off as a soldier anyway.’
‘What a silly notion,’ Rowena said, wondering what the constituents of a love potion might be.
‘Perhaps you should find one for Amabelle.’
Rowena stopped in her tracks. ‘Why on earth should I do that?’
‘Because she’s being stupid about Lord Conniston.’
‘Who said she was?’
‘Oh, Mama of course.’ She looped her arm through Rowena’s and pulled her forward. ‘She’s hardly spoken of anything else for days. Except Araminta.’ She swung round, face glowing, her earlier dejection banished. ‘Isn’t she just . . . well, she’s almost a nonpareil.’
‘I don’t think you can have female nonpareils.’
‘Well if you could, she’d be one. She’s done so many exciting things.’
They reached the line of pots burgeoning with pink and red flowers at the end of the terrace and turned. Harriette stared dreamily out across the lawns.
‘I would adore to go to India.’ She squeezed Rowena’s arm closer. The parasols collided. ‘I think I will marry a soldier and follow him to exciting places.’ Her brow furrowed for a moment. ‘He’ll have to be an officer of course. Not a trooper like Lenton.’
Rowena transferred Miss Wexley’s worn cream parasol to her opposite hand. ‘Aunt Tiverton would never approve. Neither would your Papa. And anyway, wives do not follow their husbands into war.’
‘Yes they do. Lady Someone went to somewhere with hers. It was in Papa’s gazette. Araminta told me.’
Rowena sighed. ‘When you are a little older you will change your mind.’
Harriette recovered her arm from her cousin’s. ‘I am plenty old enough. I’m a year older than Amabelle and she’s had an offer.’
Rowena did not find the comparison at all favourable. And as for a possible offer for Harriette . . . from whom, she wondered. It would need to be a stout-hearted man to brave Lady Tiverton’s salon.
After breaking his fast to his satisfaction, the eighth Earl of Conniston escorted Araminta to Lord Tiverton’s stables. Long, low buildings made of the same stone as the Abbey itself formed three sides of a large courtyard. A high wall completed the square. Loose boxes and tack rooms occupied two of the buildings. Dormer windows dotted their tiled roofs to light the grooms’ quarters squashed under the eaves. Towering doors split the centre of the third building to let each and every one of Lord Tiverton’s many coaches, gigs and gentlemen’s vehicles to pass unhindered. Horses and coaches entered and left the stables under an arch in the wall. The Tiverton coat of arms, carved in stone, surmounted it.
When Araminta appeared all activity in the yard screeched to a standstill. Two grooms stood transfixed, hands gripping their charges’ reins, quite unheeding of the tossing heads pulling at them. A lad wheeling a barrow full to overflowing with the contents of several horse boxes dropped the handles. The barrow tipped sideways spilling its contents onto the ground. Within seconds, the only remaining movement was a young lad polishing the far side of Conniston’s high-perch phaeton. Conniston’s liveried tiger, a short young boy still in his teens, was keeping a watchful eye on his progress.
The sound of ripe curses emerged from a door to the left. ‘What yer doin’, yer stupid lummock? Jest you clean yon up.’ A portly gentleman emerged tugging his waistcoat down over an ample paunch. He scowled ferociously at the boy gawping by the spilled manure.
The boy switched his gaze from Araminta to the head groom. His mouth hung open. ‘But, Mr Bulcher, sir . . .’ he stammered.
The head groom swung his own eyes to the visitors. His scowl vanished. He knuckled his forehead. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. Ma’am.’
Conniston walked forward. ‘Mr Bulcher, I regret we must trespass on your time. His lordship had given his permission for Miss Neave to ride out on one of his horses.’
Bulcher looked from him to Araminta. ‘The lady, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘A horse, sir?’
‘Yes.’
A hand reached up and disordered the brown hair. ‘Well sir. None of the ladies here ride so I’m not sure –’
Araminta stepped forward. ‘I’m accustomed to ride my father’s horses. I shall have no trouble with any of Lord Tiverton’s.’
Bulcher sniffed. ‘If you say so, miss.’ He turned to the two grooms still hanging onto their mounts’ reins and staring at the vision in gold velvet. ‘There’s Peg, miss.’ He pointed at the older of the two horses. ‘A bit of a star-gazer, or used to be, but quiet enough with it now.’
Araminta frowned. ‘Star-gazer?’
‘Tosses her head, miss.’
She pointed at the other horse. ‘That one will do.’
Bulcher’s mouth fell open. ‘But that’s m’lord’s new galloper.’ He switched his appalled eyes to Lord Conniston. ‘I daren’t, sir.’
‘What do you use for the ladies chaise?’
‘That’ll be Epona, sir.’
‘Will she carry as
well as draw?’
Bulcher’s expression lightened. ‘That she will, sir.’
‘Then saddle her for Miss Neave. And tell Jannings to saddle Saturn for me.’
The lightened expression wilted. ‘We’ve no side-saddle for her.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I ride astride.’
Every man stared at her. Even Conniston blinked. ‘Astride?’
‘Indeed.’ Araminta lifted the sides of her skirts. ‘It divides. See.’
No-one spoke. After a moment, Bulcher recollected himself. He turned to the groom. ‘Get about it then.’
The man dashed off leading his horse into the stables at a smart trot. In the minutes before he returned with Epona, followed by Jannings with Saturn, Araminta occupied herself in recounting the rides available around Jaipur. Bulcher’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. Every few moments he allowed himself to cast a glance at Conniston’s amused face.
Araminta examined Epona. ‘I suppose she will have to do.’ She grabbed the pommel and bent one knee. ‘If you please, Lord C.’
Conniston placed both hands flat under her shin and tossed her into the saddle, an action discretely observed by every man and boy in the stables. And envied by all. Every one of them would have liked the pleasure of hoisting Miss Neave into the saddled by the bent leg briefly observed when her skirt rippled back. Oblivious to all the attention, Araminta trotted out of the stableyard. Conniston took Saturn’s reins from Jannings and leapt into the saddle. The grooms and stablehands rushed to the arch to watch them depart. Even Bulcher, at least until a snort from the grey in the nearest loose box recalled him to his senses. The underlings scattered under his curt advice.
Conniston led the way towards the wide grassy swathe. ‘Miss Neave,’ he said. ‘You must permit me to say you are the most entertaining young lady of my acquaintance.’
‘Then, Lord C, you must have met very few young ladies.’
‘You are quite mistaken. I have met every one of them that’s been out in the last ten years and I am sure you take the palm.’
Araminta laughed, spurring Epona forwards. Conniston was forced to follow suit to keep up with her.
It was some time before they reappeared at the stables and many minutes thereafter before they managed to seat themselves, unchanged and laughing, at a light nuncheon under Lady Tiverton’s affronted gaze.
Rowena looked at the glowing Miss Neave and frowned.
Chapter Thirteen
‘If you don’t wish to read to me, Rowena, you only have to say.’ Lady Tiverton shifted on the cushions piled on her daybed. She raised a hand against the afternoon sun diffused by the drapes at the window of her boudoir.
‘I’m sorry, aunt.’ Rowena raised the book and began the next paragraph of Robinson Crusoe.
‘Oh never mind.’ Her aunt waved a hand. ‘I tire of that silly story. No gentleman would ever permit himself to be stranded in such an inconvenient fashion.’ She squinted towards the window. ‘Do something about the sun. Too much is injurious to one’s health. Heavens knows, one has only to regard Miss Neave’s countenance to see proof of that.’
Rowena put down the book and walked to the window. She unhooked an embroidered rope and allowed the damask to fall across half of the glass.
‘That’s better.’ A cushion slipped from behind her aunt’s shoulder. ‘Did she really ride out alone with Conniston this morning?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Remarkable.’ She rescued the cushion. ‘The sooner we are relieved of her company the better pleased I shall be. I do not want to see Harriette influenced in that manner.’ The silk cushion declined to stay behind her head. ‘I’ve already told Broxborough to stay with the Inchcombes for the shoot. I shall speak to Tiverton.’
Rowena rescued the cushion. It puzzled her that her aunt always referred to her son by his courtesy title and not his given name. ‘Won’t Cousin Tristan be home at all, ma’am?’
‘No he will not. He’s so stupid about a pretty face that I won’t let him near Miss Neave. Why only last January –’ She pulled herself up short with a considerable shudder. The cushion escaped again. ‘Rowena, place this wretched thing properly for me.’
Rowena settled the offending cushion against the high arm of the daybed. Lady Tiverton lowered her head against it.
‘Thank you. Let’s hope it stays there. Now –’ She gave her head one last wriggle on the pillow. ‘You may go and amuse yourself. Find Harriette. Make sure she is not being tempted into rash behaviour by Miss Neave. I shall close my eyes for a second or two.’ Her eyelids fluttered down then snapped open again. ‘Better still, write to your sister. You said you would and she must be told to be sensible. Conniston was showing far too much interest in the Neave girl. We mustn’t let him slip out of Amabelle’s grasp.’ She twitched the folds of her gown into an arrangement that pleased her. ‘Off you go. Leave me in peace.’
Pleased to do so, Rowena tiptoed out of the room, wondering if Lord Conniston was still in Miss Neave’s company. In her own room she sat on the bed and sucked at the nail on her index finger. There had to be some way to engage Conniston away from Araminta Neave. She set her mind to the task but for the moment, inspiration failed her. If the worst came to the worst, she would tackle Lord Conniston directly. Emboldened by her decision, she went down to see if her uncle would allow her a frank to write to Amabelle.
Lord Tiverton was not in his library. Unfortunately Mr Neave was. Today’s waistcoat quite put yesterday’s in the shade. It crinkled and creaked as he bowed.
‘Miss Rowena. Delighted to see you.’
Rowena curtsied, her hand still on the door. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I was looking for my uncle.’ She backed away, pulling the door closed.
‘Don’t you be running away now. I’m in need of company and yours would be delightful.’
‘I’m sorry but I really must write to my sister.’
‘Then I shall accompany you on your search.’ Archibald Neave held out his arm. Rowena had no option but to take it. ‘I suggest we go via the terrace. I want to see how Araminta’s getting along with Lord Conniston. They went that way a few moments ago’ Rowena stumbled. ‘Dear lady, take care.’ Neave’s clammy hand covered hers. He led her down the steps and out to the cream paving stones of the terrace. ‘Lean on me. It’s a long time since I have had such a delightful English rose to care for.’
A small shudder ran up Rowena’s back. Pretending to smooth the lace on a cuff she managed to detach herself from his arm. ‘I believe you met Lord Conniston in India.’
‘Yes, yes. Grand fellow. Well thought of in the army. Or so I’ve heard.’
‘Were you near the battle?’
Neave’s eyebrows rose. ‘Surely you know nothing of that?’
‘I glimpsed a little in Papa’s gazette.’
‘I wasn’t nearby but I moved most of the army’s supplies for it. Or rather, for the whole campaign. In my ships and so on.’
‘Ships?’ Rowena blinked. Concern at Conniston’s delighted conversation with his daughter had driven all memory of his boastful conversation at dinner from her mind. ‘How ever many do you have?’
‘Four at the moment. You remember, I told you last even. Conniston travelled home on one of them. That’s how I came to know him. I was coming back to fetch Araminta after her London visit. He was returning home to his estates of course. To recover.’ He shook his balding head. ‘Though why she could not have had her dresses and such made in India I dare say I’ll never understand.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Rowena lied. A considerable degree of relief crept into her voice. At least Lord Conniston had not been immured on a ship with the dashing Miss Neave for a voyage of several weeks. She quite missed wondering why a young woman would hazard such a journey for the sake of a few gowns. Although now she thought of it, it would be exciting to see foreign countries. The farthest s
he had been was London. She smothered a sigh.
They had progressed to the end of the terrace. ‘Lord Tiverton doesn’t seem to be here. Perhaps we should look for him inside.’
‘Oh, no. Let’s stroll along the avenue. I’ve heard there’s a magnificent view of the lake from the end.’
‘Oh, but –’ Rowena distanced herself by examining a particularly fine display of box trees clipped into four-foot high spirals in the row of pots. ‘My letter . . .’
‘No, I insist. Plenty of time to sit down and write when the sun has gone. It’s far too pleasant to be indoors in such fine weather.’
Rowena thought of her aunt’s strictures on sun and freckles. ‘But –’
Archibald Neave ploughed on regardless. ‘I’m sure the sights in India would delight you. Magnificent palaces. Stupendous fortifications. A truly wondrous place . . . apart from the beggars, of course.’
He launched into a description of a palace he had been invited to, declaring it quite put anything he had seen in England into the shade. Rowena allowed herself to be led from the terrace towards the long avenue of lime trees. The trees were old and tall. Their canopies had long ago joined high overhead to form a cathedral of green leaves supported by tree-trunk pillars. As sunny as the day was, the gloom struck chill struck through her light cotton gown. She did her very best not to shiver. Goodness knows what Mr Neave would do if she shivered. As it was he was walking much closer than propriety demanded.
‘I’m glad of this opportunity to talk to you, Miss Rowena.’ He looped his thumbs under the lapels of his jacket. ‘I’m a plain man, miss. No fuss or shenanigans about me. I believe in speaking as I find. I wouldn’t have done so well in business otherwise. These lords with titles . . .’ He waved a hand at the nearest of the Tiverton acres. ‘They’re fine and dandy but most of them are strapped for the readies. I’m not.’
Rowena looked at him, puzzled as to why he suddenly felt the need to explain his situation to her.
‘I am comfortably settled. More than comfortably, truth to tell. You’ve met my girl. You must have seen she needs a firm hand to guide her. She’s a tearaway and no mistake.’ He held up a hand at Rowena’s insipid protest. ‘Oh, I know she is. You’ve only to catch a glimpse of Lady T’s glances at her to realise it. There’s no need to flummox me.’
Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) Page 9
