Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1)

by Caroline Ashton

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sir Richard Harcourt-Spence sat at his desk in the morning sun. Shafts of light fell across the porcelain cup of dark brown tea beside the inkwell. The day was starting well. Bright and clear, perfect for a stroll through the woods. Perhaps pot a few pigeon on the way. He sipped his tea. Yes, that was what he would do. Behind him the grandfather clock struck nine in its polished case. The door opened. Phillips walked in balancing a silver platter on one set of fingertips. A thick fold of paper lay on it.

  ‘The post, sir.’ He extended his arm, bringing the platter within Sir Richard’s easy reach. ‘Nothing to pay, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Sir Richard picked it up. Tiverton’s name was scrawled across it underneath Southwold Hall, Fincham Wortly. ‘This must be from Rowena.’

  Phillips hovered.

  ‘Thank you, Phillips.’

  The butler bowed and backed himself out of the room.

  Sir Richard slipped his thumb into the fold and cracked the red wax seal into fragments. One splashed into his tea. The page unfolded. Another smaller sheet closely covered with neat writing fell out. He picked it up and inspected the superscription. Dearest Amabelle. Rowena had written to her sister as well. No doubt it was full of comments on the frills and furbelows the ladies had worn to the ball. That sort of thing entertained Amabelle. Not that she deserved to be entertained. He laid the sheet down and surveyed the one addressed to him. A slow smile spread across his face. He stood up and went to open the study door.

  ‘Mrs Cope,’ he yelled. ‘Mrs Cope, can you come here?’

  After a few seconds the door at the back of the hallway swung inwards and the housekeeper appeared.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ The housekeeper’s eyes fell on the sheet of paper in Sir Richard’s hand. And on the second, lying on the desk.

  ‘Send Ellie for Miss Amabelle, will you?’

  Mrs Cope nodded and vanished back through the door towards the kitchen.

  As the household had broken its fast, Mrs Kesgrave was taking her ease in a Windsor chair drawn up to the grate. She sipped at a large blue-striped pottery cup of tea and regarded Ellie over the rim. Ellie was sitting on the bench at the table, her two elbows on the scrubbed surface and her chin propped on her fists. Now why wouldn’t the girl join the rest of the servants clustered outside the back door for a few moments’ advantage of the sun before the next onslaught of work? Mrs Kesgrave sniffed.

  ‘What did he want?’ she asked.

  ‘Ellie to fetch Miss Amabelle to the study.’

  Hearing her name, Ellie stopped wishing and wishing she could have seen the Tiverton’s ball and sat up. ‘Oo, I wonder why.’

  Mrs Cope frowned at her. ‘It’s not for the likes of you to wonder why, miss. Just you get yourself upstairs and give her the master’s message.’ She watched the girl hurry out of the kitchen. Seating herself opposite the cook she lowered her voice. ‘There’s a letter. I couldn’t see who from, more’s the pity.

  ‘If he’s asking to see Miss Amabelle it has to be from Miss Rowena.’

  ‘Or Lord Conniston.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The housekeeper shook her head. ‘No. No, it didn’t look like a love letter.’

  ‘What’s one of them look like?’

  ‘I don’t know as I could rightly say, never having had one. But there was two sheets. I saw that.’

  ‘Oh dear. I hope nowt’s happened to Miss Rowena. She’d be a sad loss to us.’

  The two women looked at each other. Memories of Thomasina Quigley’s erratic behaviour needed no mention.

  Ellie arrived back, panting. ‘She’s in there. I wonder what he wants.’

  ‘I told you afore,’ Mrs Cope said. ‘Don’t go being so curious. It ain’t becoming. And you know what curiosity did to the cat, don’t you?’

  Ellie lowered her head. ‘Yes’m.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It killed it, mum. Curiosity killed the cat.’ Under her breath she added, Satisfaction cured it.

  ‘That’s right. Now, Miss Rowena’s winter pelisse looked right dusty to me. Off you go and give it a good brushing in the yard.’

  Ellie scampered up the back stairs. Hurrying out of Rowena’s bedroom with the pelisse over her arm she collided with a tearful Amabelle running along the landing to her room.

  ‘Oh, miss. Whatever’s the matter?’

  Amabelle burst into a fresh set of tears. ‘Horrible. He’s horrible.’ Her clenched fists trembled against her cheeks. ‘I won’t. I won’t.’ She ran into her room. The door banged too and fro with the force of her shove at it.

  Ellie bit her lip. Should she go in to Miss Amabelle? She looked right upset. There was no telling what she would do. Or should she brush the pelisse? The cat’s life was put at risk. She tiptoed through the open door. Amabelle was pacing across the room and back again.

  ‘Is there anything you need, miss?’

  The set-about young woman stopped in her tracks. ‘I need lots of things. What I don’t need is Lord Conniston for a husband.’ She folded her arms high across her bodice and stamped her foot.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Ellie hovered by the door, twisting one cuff of the pelisse.

  Amabelle marched the width of the room and back again. She stopped. Her index finger tapped against her little white teeth. ‘Ellie?’

  ‘Yes, miss?’

  ‘Um . . . Papa said I might drive over to the Manseley Grange. I’ve . . . um, some old clothes and things to take for . . . er, those people Mrs Marchment sends things to.’

  ‘What people’s that, miss?’

  ‘Er . . .’ A frown. ‘I don’t remember. They just need things.’ She waved an airy hand. ‘Go down and tell Thaddeus to put Misty to the gig.’

  ‘Oh, miss. You’re never going on your own.’

  ‘Certainly not . . . you’re coming with me.’

  Ellie’s eyes widened. No-one in the house would ever forget Amabelle’s first attempt at driving the gig. It had very nearly been her last attempt at anything.

  ‘Don’t stand there staring. Go tell Thaddeus.’

  Ellie clutched the pelisse and dragged unwillingly out of the room.

  ‘And tell him not to bring it to the door,’ Amabelle called after her. ‘I’ll come down to the stables.’

  The back stairs at Southwold Hall were steep and narrow. Not caring that the pelisse dragged over each step behind her, Ellie ran down them as if the hounds of hell were after her. She burst into the kitchen.

  The housekeeper looked up from her second cup of tea. ‘Ellie, girl. Whatever ails you?’

  ‘Oo, Mrs Cope, mum.’ She bit her lip; she dropped the pelisse onto the table and fidgeted from foot to foot. ‘Miss Amabelle says she’s to take the gig to the Marchment’s.’

  The housekeeper raised her eyebrows at the cook.

  ‘Well, there’s a surprise,’ Mrs Kesgrave announced. ‘Perhaps the girl’s accepted his lordship at last.’

  Mrs Cope eyed the fidgeting maid. ‘Why are you hopping like a scatty hen? It’d be good news.’

  ‘Oo, Mrs Cope, mum, she says I’m to go with her.’

  The two older women looked at Ellie.

  ‘Well . . . ,’ began Mrs Kesgrave.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mrs Cope. She rallied her forces. ‘Well, that’s not so bad. She’ll hev learnt her lesson by now.’

  Mrs Kesgrave gave herself to thought. ‘How long did it take Tod Patterson to get that wheel fixed after the last time?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I think the smith had it for nigh on a week.’

  Ellie’s face grew paler.

  ‘Well,’ the housekeeper asked. ‘What are you waiting for, girl? Get yourself down to the stables.’

  ‘Oh,’ Ellie wailed. ‘Oh, yes’m.’

  She hurried out of the kitchen, through the maids and skivvies chattering in the yard and round
to the stables. Blank or puzzled faces met her request.

  Will Dunnaby, head groom, looked her up and down. ‘Yer making it up. That miss don’t drive.’ He snorted a laugh. ‘Or can’t, truth to tell.’

  ‘That’s what she said. She said she would drive to Manseley Grange and Thaddeus is to put Misty to the gig.’

  ‘Seems odd to me,’ Thaddeus said. ‘D’you think we should wait ’til Mr Patterson’s back and ask him?’

  ‘Don’t go asking me,’ Dunnaby said. ‘You’re the one as was told to do it. It’s nowt to do with me.’ He turned and walked away.

  Thaddeus and Ellie stared at each other. ‘I suppose I’d best get to it then,’ he said.

  He had barely fastened the last of Misty’s traces when Amabelle arrived in the yard clutching a roll of material tied with two pieces of ribbon knotted together. She pushed it under the seat as far as she could.

  Ellie stared. ‘Isn’t that your best spencer, miss?’

  ‘Oh, well . . . yes, it is. I tore it. Yesterday. On a nail.’ She gathered up her skirts ready to climb into the gig. ‘Get in, Ellie. I don’t want to keep Mrs Marchment waiting.’

  Thaddeus boosted Ellie up beside her. ‘Would you rather I drove, miss? The roads are right tricky now they’re so dry.’

  ‘No thank you, Thaddeus. I can manage.’ She picked up the reins and flicked them, on Misty’s back.

  Startled out of her daydream, the mare leapt forward. Ellie smothered a shriek and clutched at the rail beside her.

  ‘Walk on,’ Amabelle said.

  The last Thaddeus saw of them was Ellie’s fearful face as the gig rounded the corner out of sight.

  In the Marchment stables, Matthew flicked one of Abbie’s soft ears. ‘Well, old gal. That’s the last of your pups weaned. I expect you’ll be wanting a good rest now.’

  The dog’s tail thumped on the straw bedding in the unused loose box. She licked his hand and nudged at his pocket.

  He laughed. ‘Alright, you know there’s something for you in there.’ He pulled out a thick strip of roasted ham rind. Abbie’s mouth fastened round it. She pulled it out of his fingers, trapped it with hers paws and set about gnawing one end with her back teeth. After three bites, she stopped and lifted her head. Wheels crunched into the stableyard.

  ‘Now who’s that?’ Levering himself off the straw, Matthew walked outside and gasped.

  Amabelle was practically standing in the gig, fists dragging the reins up to her chin. Misty’s head was twisted round until it almost faced her. Her hooves skittered on the cobbles. Gripping the back of the seat with both hands, Ellie stared through streams of tears.

  ‘Good God, ’Bella. Have a care.’ Matthew ran forward and reached for the bridle. The mare slowed to a standstill. She snorted hot breath into his face, her eyes wide and wild. He stroked her muzzle, muttering soothing nonsense.

  Amabelle subsided onto the seat, panting. ‘Get down, Ellie, and go inside. I want to talk to Mr Matthew.’

  ‘Wait,’ Matthew commanded. ‘Wait ’til Misty’s calmer. She’ll rear if you bother her any more.’ His voice lowered. More soft nonsense drifted into the mare’s ears. Her eyelids lowered. Her muzzle nudged his cheek. ‘OK, Ellie. You can get down now.’

  Ellie was only too pleased to obey. Skirts bundled in one hand, she jumped down. Teardrops dripped off her cheeks all the way to the house.

  When she was out of sight, Amabelle lent down to Matthew. ‘You’ve to take me to Lyngham,’ she hissed.

  ‘What?’

  I have to go to Lyngham. If you don’t want to see me shackled to . . . to a monster and a life of misery and . . . and misuse, you’ll to take me to Lyngham right now.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. He won’t misuse you.’

  ‘Yes he will. He’s horrid.’ She threw the reins at him and climbed down. She grabbed his arm. ‘You’ve just have to take me. Please.’ She shook his arm. ‘You must. If you don’t I’ll drive myself.’

  ‘But you can’t drive. You had the gig in Farmer Gordon’s wall the last time you tried. Broke the wheel.’

  ‘I can drive. I drove here, didn’t I?’ She grabbed the reins from Matthew’s hand. Bunching up her skirts, she braced a determined foot against the gig’s footboard. Two seconds later she was back standing in the gig. ‘Watch me.’ The reins flicked on Misty’s rump. The horse staggered backwards, whinnying loudly.

  ‘Good God, no.’ Matthew ran round the other side and jumped in. ‘Give them to me.’ He dragged the reins out of her hand. Relieved of the pressure on her mouth, Misty settled. ‘Now then,’ Matthew said. ‘Why on earth are you so set on going to Lyngham?’

  ‘Because Rowena says horrid Conniston is set on marrying me.’

  ‘Rowena? Is she home? I thought Mama said she’d be there for weeks.’

  ‘No she isn’t. She wrote to Papa. Conniston’s not interested in this Araminta. He’s determined to marry me.’

  ‘Araminta? Who’s Araminta?’ Matthew had the distinct feeling the situation was escaping from him.

  A sob broke from Amabelle. ‘I don’t know. I just know I won’t marry him. I’ll be a milliner first.’

  Matthew had coped with Amabelle’s tantrums when they were children but this was very different.

  ‘Look, you’re not really going to drive to Lyngham, are you? Why don’t you go in and talk to ma? She knows all about this sort of thing.’

  ‘I can’t. Everyone’s against me. Even Rowena. Even you.’ Her lips wavered. ‘I thought you were my friend.’

  ‘I am, I am,’ Matthew said, rather wishing he was not.

  ‘Well then?’

  Matthew calculated. If he went to his mother now, Amabelle might drive off.

  A heavy sigh from the distressed girl interrupted his thoughts. ‘You can stay here if you’d rather.’

  Matthew’s shoulders slumped. As he saw it, there were two possibilities. Either he drove Amabelle to Lyngham and then told her Papa where to find her, or he let her drive there and probably kill herself on the way. And Misty.

  The shoulders squared. He made his choice. ‘I suppose I’d better take you then.’

  He gave the reins a gentle whisk. Misty tossed her head. ‘Walk on, girl. Walk on.’

  Recognising a competent hand at last, Misty obliged.

  Chapter Twenty

  In the Marchment’s kitchen Ellie sat on the housekeeper’s chair sobbing into her apron with the cook and Bryonie Seaton, the maid, hovering round her.

  ‘Now then, Ellie, lass. Calm yerself and tell us what’s ailing you.’ Mrs Yomkins patted her shoulder.

  Ellie sobbed and leaned towards her. Her shoulder connected with the cook’s bony hip. For a cook, Mrs Yomkins was less well-padded than most of her kind. In fact she was the skinniest cook in the county, something which caused significant comment well outside the Marchment household. She was nonetheless a kind-hearted woman.

  ‘Come on, dearie. Take a deep breath and tell us what’s up.’

  Ellie sniffed. ‘It’s Miss Amabelle. She’s gone to Lyngham. On her own.’

  ‘Oo er,’ said Bryonie. ‘I thought she weren’t allowed out.’

  ‘I don’t think she is. She still hasn’t taken his lordship.’ Another sniff. ‘At least she hadn’t this morning.’

  The cook straightened up from patting Ellie’s shoulder. ‘She oughtn’t to be doing that. Not on her own.’ A frown. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes . . . well . . . almost.’ Ellie said between sniffs. ‘She was talking to Master Matthew.’

  ‘Bryonie, get yerself down the stables and ask Master Matthew if she’s really gone to Lyngham. He’s after playing with that whelped bitch of his.’

  Thrilled to be charged with such a delicate and interesting mission the maid dashed out of the kitchen, skirts flying. Less than two minutes later she arrived back in the doorway, gaspin
g dramatically, cap awry.

  ‘Oo, Mrs Yomkins, he’s not there. Arthur says he saw him driving Miss Amabelle out of the yard.’

  Fresh floods of tears burst from Ellie.

  Mrs Yomkins rose to the occasion. ‘I’ll tell the missus. It ain’t right them running off like that. People’ll talk.’ She stared at Bryonie. ‘Make sure you’re not one of them, miss, or I’ll see to it you’re looking for another place by the morning. And no character to take with you.’

  Every hint of excitement drained from Bryonie’s face. ‘Yes’m,’ she said to the cook’s departing back. She subsided onto a stool by the table. ‘And no character,’ she whispered.

  Ellie snivelled into her apron.

  It took Mrs Marchment several seconds to understand what her cook was telling her. ‘Gone to Lyngham? With Amabelle?’ She put down the latest copy of The Ladies Journal. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes’m. She told Ellie that she were set on going and Arthur says he saw Master Matthew driving their gig out of the yard.’

  ‘Dear me.’ Mrs Marchment studied the cover of her magazine for several more seconds. She drew a deep breath. ‘Well, thank you Mrs Yomkins. Leave it with me.’ She paused. ‘I’m sure I’ve no need to tell you that this must go no further.’

  The cook nodded. ‘Of course not, mum.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable reason for Miss Amabelle to have gone off.’

  ‘Of course, mum. Bound to be.’

  The two women looked at each other. Mrs Marchment looked away. ‘Thank you then.’

  The cook backed herself out of the room.

  Gerald Marchment was ensconced in his study with his agent, Ernest Chisholm, a short, stooped man who was much more knowledgeable than he appeared.

  Both men looked up when Mrs Marchment entered. ‘Mr Marchment, I need to speak to you. Now.’

  Her husband blinked. He was never interrupted when closeted with his agent. However he nodded to the man. ‘Thank you, Chisholm.’

  The agent bowed to no-one in particular and edged out of the room.