‘Indeed.’ Lord Tiverton handed his gun to the nearest footman. ‘We’ll go out again tomorrow. There are more birds up beyond five acre wood.’
Lord Conniston removed his hat with a sweep of his hand, an action which tilted his head upwards. His hair was windswept above his reddened face. His glance fell upon Rowena halfway down the stairs. ‘Ah. Good morning, Miss Harcourt-Spence.’ He bowed.
Mr Neave whipped round. If anything his smile widened. ‘Ah. Miss Rowena.’ He pushed gun, cape and hat at the same servant who staggered backwards under the onslaught. Neave advanced towards the stairs. ‘Delighted to see you. Delighted.’
Rowena half-curtsied to him and slipped past to Lord Tiverton. ‘Sir, might I beg a frank of you, please? I must write to Papa and Amabelle.’
Her uncle extended his hand. ‘Of course, my dear. I’ll do it now.’ He took the letter. ‘Neave, wasn’t there something you wanted to ask me?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Come into the library.’
He set off. Archibald Neave looked from him to Rowena. Regret painted his features. ‘Perhaps I might have the pleasure of your company later, Miss Rowena.’ He inclined his fat figure as much as he was able and followed his lordship into the library on the left. Garton closed the door behind him with a decided click.
Ignoring the presence of the one footmen slowly following in Garton’s departing wake, Conniston said, ‘I think you have a conquest there, Miss Harcourt-Spence.’
Rowena drew a sharp breath. ‘I seek no conquests, sir.’
Conniston bowed at the rebuke.
Visions of her would-be brother-in-law bending to Araminta Neave and laughing into her face assailed her, swiftly followed by a mixture of anger and heartache. ‘And if we are to speak of conquests, sir, in the absence of my father I think I must ask you about my sister.’
A frown. ‘Why must you do that? She is well, I hope?’
‘Indeed she is but I am obliged to wonder if Miss Neave has all your attentions now.’
Conniston’s fist clenched at his side. He cast a glance at the footman, took a stride forward and gripped Rowena’s upper arm. ‘This is no place to discuss such matters, ma’am.’ With another fiery glance at the footman, now evincing an interest at a non-existent mark on the nearest gilt picture-frame, he marched Rowena out of the front door.
The reason for the gentlemen’s’ heightened colour was immediately apparent. A brisk wind whipped grey clouds across a darkening sky. It penetrated Rowena’s thin gown. She shivered.
Conniston failed to notice. He hurried her to the far side of the portico. ‘Now, ma’am, speak plainly. What is your meaning?’
She dragged her arm free of his grasp, too cross to rub where his fingers had dug into her skin. ‘Only that Miss Neave has more of your attention than might be expected from a betrothed man.’
Conniston glared. ‘Betrothed, madam? Have you forgotten your sister has yet to accept my offer?’ He leant closer, staring into Rowena’s eyes. Her resolve quailed. ‘Indeed, one might say her determination to refuse me has been obdurate.’
Rowena’s hands sought each other for comfort. She dredged up the remnants of her courage. ‘Am I to take it, sir, that you are reconsidering? Or I may assure Papa that your offer stands?’
‘You may assure Sir Richard of nothing, Miss Harcourt-Spence. This is not a matter for you. It lies between Sir Richard and me and I’ll thank you to adopt an attitude more becoming to a young lady.’
Colour flushed into her cheeks and not from the wind, now gusting fair-to-gale-force proportions. With mounting horror she felt hot tears gather under her eyelids. Her throat constricted. She was appalled with herself for reacting so. And furious with Conniston for his contemptuous reply. Anger replaced disgust. Her chin rose. Arms rigid at her sides, her fingers curled into small fists. ‘My attitude, sir, is of no importance. My sister’s happiness now and in the future is my chief concern.’ Eyes shooting fierce glances at him, she swept an elaborate curtsey. ‘I bid you good morning, Lord Conniston.’
The eight Earl of Conniston watched her departing back as she mounted the steps into the house. He glared after her for several moments. A puzzled frown pleated his forehead.
Safely upstairs, away from prying eyes. Rowena sat on her bed staring at her bunched hands. She uncurled them and rubbed the crescents where her nails had dung into her palms. The angry tears that had threatened in his presence now stung her eyes. How dare he talk to her like that? How dare he manhandle her? And in front of a servant too. She rubbed her arm where his fingers had gripped. Heaven only knew what the gossip in the servants’ hall would be now. Well, that was the end of any attempt on her part to persuade Amabelle to marry him. He was horrible. A bully. His scarred face was just the outward show of a brutal self. She stood up, pacing the floor from bed to window and back again. An angry hand twitched at the yellow bed-hanging a mere hairsbreadth out of place. Back to the window. A glance outside. No-one in the garden. All hiding from his mighty, bad-tempered lordship if they had a speck of common sense. She sat on the bed again. Brushed an imaginary mote of dust from her skirt. She stood up, paced again. Horrible, horrible man.
Her shoulders drooped. Her arm still tingled from his fierce grip. It was the first – the only – time he had touched her other than the lightest contact in a dance or when handing her into a carriage. No it wasn’t the first time. He had moved her away from him on the stairs when she had cannoned into his side. Then his hand had been courteous. Gentle. Today it was hard, masterful. Forcing her to submit to his will. She rubbed her arm, trying to wipe away his touch and the memory of his flashing eyes staring into hers.
Her eyes prickled again. She sank onto the bed. The bedspread crinkled under her. Damask. Yellow. Very fine. She ran a hand over it. Traced the swirls of pattern with a finger. Amabelle’s rooms would be as fine as this if she married Conniston. Probably even finer. But were fine rooms worth the society of a violent-tempered man? Not for Amabelle. She was a child, unused to hard treatment. Until now, that was. When Papa had banished her to her room she had been shocked into silence. Perhaps Papa and Marguerite had been too soft with her. She had never known the childish sadness Rowena had experienced at a tender age. Her stepmother had always been kind but Rowena had never felt the warmth quite same as that bestowed on Amabelle. Amabelle had learned none of Rowena’s resources to withstand affliction. Even though she was rebelling now it was a mere childish tantrum.
Rowena sighed. Amabelle would certainly find Conniston harsh. Rowena knew she herself could . . . would . . . match his mettle. There might be quick words between them as there had been just now but she knew, absolutely knew, that he would appreciate her. She lifted her hands to cover her face and obliterate an impossible vision. A vision that could never exist. One she had promised herself never to consider again.
The door opened. Ellie walked in. One hand grasped the handle of a water ewer; the other, held flat, supported its base. The moment she saw Rowena she stopped. A splash of water lurched over the ewer’s side as she curtsied. ‘Oh, sorry miss. I didn’t know you were here.’
Rowena snatched her hands down. ‘Never mind. I was just, er . . . thinking about Amabelle.’
Ellie carried the ewer towards the washstand. ‘I’m not surprised, miss. That Miss Neave . . . well, it must be a worry.’ She folded her hands across her apron. ‘I reckon she’s the Miss A the chatter was about, not our Miss Amabelle.’ Rowena’s eyes stretched open. Ellie was well into her stride. ‘One of the footmen said she was a real goer and the Lord only knew what she got up to in them foreign places.’ A frown. ‘Whatever one of them goers is.’ The frown vanished and a certain element of delight took its place. ‘And Minchin said her ladyship wasn’t at all pleased. I heard her telling Mrs Emmett.’
‘Who’s Minchin?’
‘Lady Tiverton’s maid, miss. I found out her name.’
‘And she said –�
� Rowena pulled herself up short. She rose from the bed with less than her customary grace. ‘It’s not at all proper for her ladyship’s maid to comment upon things she’s heard.’ She looked hard at Ellie. ‘I hope you don’t do the same.’
A flush washed over Ellie’s cheeks. ‘Oh, no miss. I mean, why would I? They’re nothing to us.’
‘Good.’ Rowena took a turn about the room; Ellie’s anxious eyes followed her. She stopped at the window. ‘I trust there has been no comment about me.’
Ellie’s flush deepened. The made a great fuss of placing the ewer precisely into the centre of the basin on the wash-stand.
‘Well?’
‘Well, miss, someone did say perhaps . . . well, perhaps that Lord Conniston had made a bit free with you.’ She twisted her hands. ‘Said he pulled you outside.’
Rowena spun round. ‘Lord Conniston was not at all free with me. He . . . he helped me when I nearly tripped.’ Ellie’s expression was not one of conviction. Rowena cogitated rapidly. ‘I felt the need for some fresh air.’ She nodded. ‘If you should hear any more such impertinences you may repeat that.’ Another nod. ‘Yes. Say that. And that we are almost sister and brother-in-law.’
‘Yes, miss. If you say so.’
‘I do,’ Rowena said with considerably more conviction than she felt. She walked with stately steps to the dressing table and sat on the stool, back as straight as a broom handle. She picked up her hairbrush. ‘Now, off you go.’ Ellie dashed for the door. ‘Wait.’ The hairbrush twisted in two agitated hands. ‘What do you find to do with yourself when you’re not listening to gossip?’
Ellie drew herself up to her full height, which was not great. ‘I hope I may say I don’t gossip, miss.’
Rowena sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Ellie. This has been a trying day. Of course you don’t.’
‘Miss . . .’ Ellie took a step forward. ‘Do you think Thaddeus is a good lad?’
‘I’m sure he is. Patterson would have turned him off otherwise.’ She swung round on the stool. ‘Is something amiss?’
‘No . . . I mean, well . . .’
Rowena’s head angle slightly. ‘Is something bothering you?’
Ellie examined the rug beside the bed. Then the yellow hangings draped at the bedhead.
‘Ellie?’
‘Well, miss, you see . . . he’s being a bit . . . interested.’
Rowena stood up. ‘Oh. Is he upsetting you?’
‘Oh, no miss. Nothing like that.’ She took a step to the bed and rubbed one of the cream tassels fringing the hangings between her finger and thumb. Her head bent, averting her face. ‘It’s just that I think he likes me,’ she said in a low voice.
‘I see.’ A pause. ‘Has he said anything about the future? Offered for you perhaps?’
The tassel swung free. She faced Rowena, her hands clutched under her chin. ‘Oh, no, miss. And if he did I wouldn’t . . . well, I mean, I couldn’t. I’d have to leave service, wouldn’t I, if I was wed?’ Her mouth trembled. She hid it with the flat of her hand. Her head drooped and the rug benefitted from tearful examination.
‘Oh I don’t think you should worry about that, Ellie. I’d be most sad to lose you.’
Ellie looked up, her face bright. ‘Honest, miss? But I thought it was custom for maids to leave.’
‘It is but I don’t see why. You could stay on until . . . until there was a child. Even then you could still take in washing. I’m sure we could find a way.’ The troubled eyes cleared. ‘Always assuming Thaddeus didn’t mind you staying on in the house.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t, miss. A groom’s wage ain’t great.’
Rowena laughed. ‘You’ve checked it out, have you?’
A blush covered Ellie’s cheeks. ‘Well, I thought I should, miss.’
‘Good. At least you are keeping your senses in order.’ Unlike me, she thought. ‘Very well. Off you go. I must wait upon my aunt.’
With a smile that almost split her face, Ellie ran out of the door, pulling it to behind her. The latch failed to fasten. Rowena sighed. She closed the door properly. Leaning her back against it, she twirled the brush in her hands. If only her life, her problems, were as easily solved as Ellie’s.
Chapter Sixteen
Darnebrook Abbey’s balls were held in the magnificent eastern wing. The present Lord Tiverton’s grandfather had enjoyed dancing so much he had ordered it built especially for the purpose. A curved colonnaded walk, its arches filled by full-height windows, connected it to the main building. Guests passed through an anteroom with the retiring room to the side where ladies could hand their cloaks to a line of hovering maids. The ballroom itself was renowned the length and breadth of the county. A stunning vision of luxurious elegance, its gold and cream walls ascended to a ceiling painted with more of the pastoral scenes of frolicking Greek goddesses that the ninth Marquess had so admired. Two glittering chandeliers, each the size of a child’s cot, shone light over the gilded plaster panels that adorned the walls. Matching gold trails framed the tall windows. On the opposite wall a line of creamy marble pillars supported a balcony for the orchestra. A row of spindly sofas stood beneath it for the convenience of the dowagers and any girl unlucky enough to find herself without a partner. At the far end, across the highly-polished wooden floor, double doors opened into the supper room.
Lady Tiverton stood in the centre of the ballroom, a vision in a Pomona green morning dress of pleated and tucked French silk. A short train had settled around her feet. Garton hovered behind her left shoulder. Hands clasped, he bent his greater height to catch her slightest comment as she executed a slow circle, her critical eye checking every detail of the preparations.
She stopped and pointed at the pier table between the nearest pair of windows. A massive floral display in an exquisite vase soared almost to the candle sconces. She frowned. Garton’s breath stopped in his throat.
‘Those flowers,’ she said. ‘They really will not do. The lilies in the centre are positively truncated.’
Garton bowed. ‘I’ll inform the head gardener, m’lady.’
The inspection circle continued back to the first vase of flowers without further comment. ‘It will do. Now, make sure the windows are clear. The estate workers will want to see our dances.’
Garton bowed again. If he knew anything about it, the women on the estate might come and stare but the men would rather be downing a mug of ale in tap room of The Tiverton Arms.
Rowena slipped through the huddle of workers hovering by the open door. She crossed to her aunt. ‘Good day, Aunt Tiverton.’ She bobbed a curtsey.
‘Ah, Rowena. Well met. Tell me what you think of the flowers.’
Rowena looked up and down the length of the ballroom at the incredible number of flowers. Had this amount been taken from Southwold Hall’s gardens there would not have been a single bloom remaining.
‘Perhaps,’ she began. ‘Perhaps if the red ones were replaced by something paler?’
‘Ah!’ Lady Tiverton snapped her fan at the nearest vase. ‘You have it. It’s the red . . . what are they, Garton?’
Garton looked at the offending peonies. ‘I believe they are called foxgloves, m’lady.’
‘Well have them removed. We’ll have pink roses instead.’
Garton bowed. ‘Very good, m’lady.’ He had no idea if there were any such roses in the gardens. If not, the head gardener would be quite set about.
‘Now, come with me, Rowena. You can tell me what you think of Harriette’s gown.’ She led the way out of the ballroom. The hovering workers flattened themselves against the wall. Lady Tiverton failed to notice. The youngest of them, a gardener’s boy, stared at her, his eyes enormous, his cap clutched, two-handed, at his chest. He had never seen her ladyship so close before. He cringed when her train brushed the toe of his boots. He did not breathe again until she had disappeared from his stunned sight.
Garton address the head gardener at the boy’s side. ‘Get them red things out. Her ladyship wants pink roses.’
‘We ain’t got none left,’ the gardener said. ‘Them’s all in the grand eating room. Her la’ship said she wanted them in there.’
‘Well get some from somewhere else. She’ll be sending you off otherwise.’ Garton marched away.
The head gardener looked at his boy.
The boy looked at his boss, otherwise known as his eldest uncle. ‘Couldn’t we swap ’em?’
The gardener sniffed. ‘We’ll have to. I ain’t getting turned off for no bunch of flowers.’
Lady Tiverton and Rowena found Harriette and the young guest amusing themselves in the morning room. Harriette had abandoned her embroidery and was hanging over Araminta’s shoulder, gaping at her attempts to paint the view outside. Araminta had dragged two chairs to the window. A box of paints balanced on one with a gilt-banded china cup beside it filled with stained water. Seated on the other, she stroked a brush-load of paint across a page of a sketch book. The result so far could not by any means be described as pastel. The gently-coloured lawns and trees outside the window had been transformed into a flamboyant vision of sandy grass and russet leaves dappled with violet shadows.
‘Harriette, close your mouth at once,’ her mother instructed. ‘You’ll catch flies.’
Lady Harriette Foulkes jumped back, her mouth snapping shut. She opened it immediately. ‘Sorry, Mama.’
‘Indeed. Now, has your maid prepared your gown for this evening?’
‘I . . . I think so, Mama.’
The fan gestured towards the door. ‘Then we –’
‘Oh let’s go and see it.’ Araminta waved her paintbrush in the general direction of the door. Purple paint sprayed a line of drips across her cornflower gown. She discarded the brush into the cup. It tumbled out, onto the floor. More purple paint swiped across the damask on the chair.
Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) Page 11
