Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1)

by Caroline Ashton

  ‘I’m sure Miss Neave will soon adjust to English ways, sir.’

  ‘No doubt but I want the best for her. And for me.’ Neave stopped walking. He turned to Rowena. ‘You are a handsome woman, Miss Rowena. Elegant. Well-bred. A wonderful companion for any man.’

  Panic gripped Rowena’s throat. ‘Really, Mr Neave. I must ask you to desist. I must beg leave to return to the house.’

  A pudgy hand was raised. ‘Hear me out please, ma’am. You would be a wife any man could be proud of. And a model for any girl to follow without cause for concern.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Miss Rowena, I ask for the honour of your hand in marriage.’

  Rowena’s hands instinctively clung to each other. Never had she expected such a declaration. Never could one be more unwelcome. Words emerged dryly from a constricted throat. ‘I am deeply honoured, Mr Neave. Any woman would be, but you must understand I am needed at home. There is Amabelle to care for. And Papa.’

  The tanned face watching her clouded. ‘But I understood there was a cousin of sorts to take care of him.’

  ‘Cousin Thomasina does live with us but she . . . she is not, I regret to say, capable of running the house.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Indeed I am. I have done so for several years.’

  ‘Then all the more reason to have a household of your own. You deserve it. Your pa will easy be able to find a housekeeper to suit him. I’m sure he has no wish to stop you establishing yourself and finding happiness on your own account.’

  Happiness had not been Rowena’s first reaction to Mr Neave’s offer. ‘Really, sir. I thank you for your most flattering offer but I must decline.’

  ‘Ah. I understand.’ Neave wagged a finger at her. ‘It’s only to be expected from a lady such as you. Too modest to accept outright.’ A slow smile spread across his round face. ‘I’m not your usual sort of suitor, I know. But I won’t give up. I’ll give myself the honour of calling on your pa. I’m sure he will see the benefit and let you go.’

  Rowena barely suppressed a shudder at the thought of her father’s reaction to such a conversation.

  ‘Now, I’ll take you back to Lady T. You talk to her. I’m sure she’ll advise you to accept.’

  Rowena rather thought her aunt would be more likely to have a fit of fury and banish the Neave’s from her house on the spot but she could hardly say so.

  That evening, after the gentlemen had consumed their after-dinner port, they joined the ladies in the salon as usual. Her aunt in another wondrous silk creation sat in her usual place with Miss Wexley upright at the sofa’s far end. The younger ladies were relegated to stools and ottomans around them. Lord Conniston and Mr Neave occupied the sofa opposite her ladyship, ready to endure her conversation and only too aware of their host dozing in a carved armchair set conveniently back from the fireplace. One wooden arm was digging into Lord Tiverton’s ribs as he slumped sideways. Rowena was sure he would have the aches when he woke. She kept her gaze lowered from the two men on the sofa. One had offered for her and one would never do so. One she wished could offer for her, one from whom she was desperately trying to avoid receiving another. Fears and dreams chased themselves into a tangle inside her head.

  ‘Rowena, stop daydreaming.’ Lady Tiverton leant forward and tapped Rowena on the knee with her fan. ‘Play something for us before the card table is set up. Something lively, none of your dismal moony sonatas.’

  Rowena crossed to the pianoforte, painfully aware of Mr Neave watching her intently. His face was quite red but not, she thought, from wine. Her own, she knew, was more flushed than she liked. It had been ever since she had noticed Conniston’s amused half-smile intercepting her own averted gaze from the attentive stare Mr Neave had fixed on her. Consequently her rendition of a brisk passage of Mozart was well below her usual standard.

  ‘Well, Rowena,’ Lady Tiverton said. ‘I think the sun must have affected you. That was far from your best performance.’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I beg your pardon.’ Chastened, Rowena resumed her seat, wishing she could occupy one far removed from her suitor’s admiring smile.

  ‘Never mind.’ Lady Tiverton’s gaze swam round the room. ‘Do you play, Miss Neave?’

  ‘Not at all, your ladyship. Far too many better things to do than waste time practising all day.’

  Lady Tiverton was blessed with a rather long nose. She looked down it. ‘Hmm.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Harriette, entertain us if you please. A short song should suffice.’

  Harriette blushed from chin to forehead. She walked to the piano and rattled through Who Is Sylvia at a fair pace, singing the words in a voice that was very slightly flat. Her father snored gently throughout her entire performance.

  Rowena sat by her aunt’s knees and wished Mr Neave would stop staring at her and pay attention to someone else. She equally wished that Lord Conniston would remove the amused expression from his face. It only disappeared when he looked at Araminta Neave. Rowena was not quite sure what lay behind the one that replaced it. Fears began to knot her throat.

  She stood up. ‘Will you excuse me please? I think I have a slight headache.’

  Her aunt raised her brows. ‘Really? Well, go if you must. Did you write to Sir Richard as well? To tell him you were safe arrived?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ Colour rushed up her throat remembering the reason for the delay. ‘I’ll do it in the morning.’ She curtsied and hurried out of the room before Conniston and Mr Neave had time to rise and bow.

  Lord Tiverton snored on.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In Rowena’s absence from Southwold Hall, the housekeeper directed her comments to Thomasina Quigley.

  ‘She’ll hev to go, ma’am. There’s no help for it.’

  ‘Oh dear . . . I mean . . . will . . . oh, dear. Are you quite sure, Mrs Cope?’

  ‘I am that, ma’am. Young Dorcas hev been up and down them back stairs I don’t know how many times.’

  The ladies faced each other. Mrs Cope was short, wide and clothed in a striped cotton dress of dark blue. A white fichue filled the neckline. Above a face growing increasingly pink was a fat salt-and-pepper bun. Thomasina matched her in height but only a third in width as far as could be seen under her old fashioned gown and multitude of shawls.

  ‘Well . . . oh dear. I don’t think I can order it. Perhaps we should wait until Miss Rowena is home.’

  ‘It can’t wait, ma’am.’

  ‘Perhaps if you asked Sir Richard . . .’ Thomasina’s voice faded away.

  Mrs Cope balled her fists onto her ample hips. ‘Very well, ma’am. I’ll speak to the master myself.’

  Happily in ignorance of the developing domestic crisis, Sir Richard sat at his ease in his library, scanning the latest copy of his gazette. The pipe he had been smoking lay on its side in a glass dish. Every few seconds the aroma of a particularly spicy tobacco drifted towards him, tempting him from a vivid account of some dastardly device a Frenchie had invented that had earned the approval of that demon Napoleon. A knock on the door interrupted his musings.

  He peered over the top of his reading glasses. ‘Enter.’ The door swung open. ‘Yes, Mrs Cope? Is there something?’

  ‘I hev to talk to you about Primrose, sir.’

  Sir Richard lowered his gazette, scanning through his mind as to which of the maids was Primrose. He failed to place her. ‘Primrose?’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Mrs Cope tilted her head. ‘Primrose, sir. She’ll hev to go, sir.’ She surveyed her employer’s puzzled face. ‘Miss Amabelle’s puppy, sir.’

  Recognition dawned. ‘Ah, yes, the puppy.’ A frown. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It . . . well, it . . .’ Mrs Cope drew a deep breath. ‘It should be in the stables, sir. It’s not . . . behaving itself. While Miss Amabelle has to keep to her room it’s not . . . getting outside.’

  Sir Ri
chard began to appreciate the problem. ‘Ah.’ He stared at the corner of the paper. ‘If she’s made to take it back perhaps she’ll come to her senses all the sooner.’ The gazette was cast aside. He stood up. ‘Tell Miss Amabelle I want to see her, please Mrs Cope.’

  A tearful Amabelle sat in the gig beside Thomasina as it made its way through the sunny countryside. Tears filled her eyes. She clutched Primrose in her arms, promising never to forget her. Ever. Had she been less upset she might have been rather more concerned about Miss Quigley’s control of Misty. Thomasina rarely drove, a fact which reassured not only the inhabitants of Southwold Hall’s stable but also most of those in the surrounding area. She guided the gig shakily round the corner opposite Fincham Wortly’s church and proceeded at a very slow pace along the lane that led to Manseley Grange. It was with no little sigh of relief that she saw its chimneypots rising above the stand of trees ahead.

  ‘Almost there,’ she announced.

  The tears in Amabelle’s eyes overflowed. She clutched Primrose even tighter. The puppy squeaked. ‘It’s most unfair of Papa. I love Primrose and she loves me.’

  Thomasina reined Misty to a halt beside the large lavender hedge along the sweep of gravel leading up to the Marchments’ door. She wiped two fingers flat across her brow and swallowed. ‘Perhaps Lord Conniston would let you keep him. He might not mind as much as Mrs Cope.’

  The tears were blinked away. ‘I told you, I’m not going to marry Lord Conniston. I don’t like him. He’s old. And he’s ugly.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Thomasina said. She allowed the reins to drop onto Misty’s back. The horse started forward. ‘Oh dear, no,’ she squeaked. ‘Quick Amabelle, jump down before she has us overturned onto the ground. I declare she’s a most unmanageable mare.’

  Amabelle gather her skirts in one hand and, holding tight to Primrose, jumped. Thomasina heaved on the reins. Misty, taking exception to having her mouth dragged by the bit, scrabbled her feet on the gravel prior to departing. Amabelle grabbed the bridle. ‘Shush Misty, shush. Steady girl,’ she whispered.

  Misty cooperated though she seemed unsure about the squirming Primrose. She stood patiently, buffing her muzzle against Amabelle’s hand until Thomasina had alighted.

  Miss Quigley fanned herself with her hand. ‘Oh, dear. Thank goodness for that. I made sure we would all be killed.’

  The front door of the Grange opened before Amabelle could reply. Matthew hurried out.

  ‘I thought I heard someone.’ He walked to Misty’s head. ‘Let me take her.’ He grabbed the bridle. Misty whiffled softly. ‘Good, day, ma’am.’ He managed a half-bow to Thomasina. ‘Please go in to Mama. She is in the morning room still. Something about better light for silks.’ He looked at Amabelle’s arms. ‘Hello. That’s one of Abbie’s pups. The one Edward gave you.’ He smiled and flicked the puppy’s ear. ‘Come for a visit?’

  A sob escaped Amabelle. ‘Papa says I’ve to return her. Mrs Cope complained about . . . well, about . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘Oh dear me,’ Thomasina said. ‘Mrs Cope thought . . . that is she said . . . oh dear. She said perhaps a puppy wasn’t the best of companions for a girl confined to her room all the time.’

  ‘Ah,’ Matthew said. ‘Well . . .’ His face brightened. ‘Perhaps Lord Conniston’s housekeeper won’t mind.’

  One of Amabelle’s boots stamped in the gravel. ‘I’m not going to marry Lord Conniston. Why won’t anyone believe me?’ Clutching Primrose she ran into the house.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Thomasina said.

  Ten minutes later Amabelle was sitting with Matthew on the bench beside the wall facing the stables while Miss Quigley was being revive with whiffs of hartshorn in Mrs Marchment’s morning room. Across the yard, the Marchments’ newest groom unhitched Misty and led her to the stone trough. The mare dipped her nose into the water and drank. Eventually she lifted her head. Drops of water sparkled as they dripped back into the trough from the moist muzzle. Misty shook her head and permitted herself to be led into to a loose box to give her undivided attention to a net of fresh hay.

  ‘What’s wrong with marrying Conniston? You’d be a countess and all that.’

  ‘He’s horrid. Old and ugly.’

  ‘Is he? I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Well that’s because you’re too young.’

  Matthew bristled. ‘I’m not. I’m sixteen. Only seven months younger than you.’

  Amabelle pleated some of the sprigged muslin of her skirt between her fingers. ‘I don’t want to be a countess. If they say I really, really must be, I have made a plan to escape.’

  ‘Escape? Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘You must know everyone says I trim bonnets quite prettily.’ Matthew’s expression clearly showed her fame had escaped him but he manfully forbore to say so. ‘Well, I’ve decided I shall go and be a milliner.’

  Matthew did not know much of millinery. At least not the feminine sort. He had however heard a few rumours about milliners. ‘Isn’t that the wrong way round? I thought milliner-women who had a chance of catching an Earl snatched at it like . . . well, like anything.’

  ‘But I’m not anyone. I’m me and I’d rather be a milliner than marry him.’

  The practicalities of the plan filtered into Matthew’s mind. He folded his arms across his crumpled jacket. ‘You couldn’t be one in Fincham Wortly. Your Papa would be scandalised and he’d come and drag you home as soon as maybe.’

  Amabelle frowned. ‘Oh . . . I suppose he would.’ She bit her lip. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  Matthew leant his head back against the wall. ‘You haven’t thought of much at all from what I can see.’ He unfolded his arms to shove his hands into his pockets. ‘Where would you live? You’d have to buy food and stuff. How would you do that? You never do it here. Your cook does. Or else she has the trades knocking on the back door with their offers.’ He ducked his head to look at her bowed face. ‘You haven’t any money either, have you?’

  ‘I’ve a little pin money saved. I haven’t been able to buy anything since Papa made me keep to my room.’

  Across the yard the groom peered into Misty’s loose box. He waggled the bolt on the bottom half of the door firmly to make sure he had rammed it home. Misty turned away from dragging a strand of hay from the net with her yellow teeth and nodded her head over the door. Her contented whiffle reached Amabelle’s ears.

  ‘I could ask Rowena to lend me some.’

  A snort of laughter burst out of Matthew. ‘Don’t be a stupid goose. She won’t give you any, not if you don’t tell her why you want it. And if you do, she’ll stop you going for sure and tell your pa. Then he’d lock you in your room for ever.’

  Silence hung around them.

  Matthew extended his legs and crossed his ankles.

  Amabelle bit a thumbnail.

  She folded her arms.

  The silence extended while she bit her lip.

  Matthew’s eyes began to droop in the sun. He had made Edward sit up until well into the early hours regaling him with account after account of life at Cambridge.

  ‘I know!’ Amabelle’s delighted yelp snapped him out of his doze. ‘I could go to Lyngham. They don’t know me there and it has at least three hatshops.’

  ‘What? Lyngham? How do you know that?’

  ‘I went there with Rowena once. When she was buying things for her Season and couldn’t find what she wanted here.’

  Matthew considered. ‘How would you get there?’

  Silence, then, ‘I’ll take Misty and the gig.’

  A harsh laugh welcomed that part of the plan. ‘Even I know you couldn’t do that. It’s theft and you’d be deported.’ He laughed again. ‘That really would be a new life for you.’

  ‘I could leave her at an inn. With a note. And write to Papa to say where she was.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ M
atthew announced. ‘Marry Conniston and you can have as many puppies as you want.’

  Back in her room, Amabelle dismissed Matthew’s warnings. She would go to Lyngham. She would take all her bonnets with her. When the hat-shop owners saw how pretty they were, every one of them would be bidding for her services. Four bonnets hung on pegs beside the clothes press. Three were new that year for her debut. The other was the old straw she had worn for years. The violets she had fastened to it now drooped. Their petals were frayed and faded. Perhaps she would not take that one after all.

  She opened the china box on her dressing table. A few coins lay inside. Silver, not gold. They might not last her for long. She was not sure. How much did bread cost? Bread was not bought at Southwold Hall. Mrs Kesgrave made it fresh every morning. Perhaps, if she asked nicely, cook might show her how to do it. She sighed. Primrose’s empty bed lay in the corner. A tear slipped down Amabelle’s cheek. Life had not turned out at all how she had expected when she had chosen the new bonnets.

  Chapter Fifteen

  From the commotion that bounced up to her room from the main door, Rowena realised the gentlemen had returned from the morning’s shoot. She hurriedly folded her letter and ran downstairs with it.

  Lord Tiverton was leading his male guests across the hall. Each gentleman carried a gun broken over his arm. Voices were raised, discussing the highly satisfactory number of birds they had eliminated from the Tiverton acres.

  Garton watched them, the merest hint of approval on his face. A bevy of liveried footmen lined the wall behind him. At the slightest twitch of his left eyebrow, they sprang forward to relieve the master, Lord Conniston and Mr Neave of their guns, coats, hats and anything else that would be likely to inconvenience them.

  ‘A most successful morning, Lord T.’ A smile covered Mr Neave’s face which was glowing red after his exertions.