Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1)

by Caroline Ashton

  Matthew was not sure he liked the emphasis she placed on the word person. However he thanked her politely and backed himself out of the door as adroitly as he could.

  Returning to the inn, the landlord accosted him at the threshold. ‘You be staying another night? The pair of you?’

  ‘I thought so. But I can’t find my sister at present.’

  The weary-looking girl who had carried water up to him earlier paused at the entrance to the taproom. ‘Do you mean the dark-haired miss who came in with you yesterday?’

  ‘That’s her.’

  ‘I saw her getting on the coach in Main Street.’

  ‘Coach? What coach?’

  ‘I dunno. The one with red doors.’

  ‘Ah, that’ll be the mail to Barton Green,’ the landlord vouchedsafe. ‘Be well on the way by now.’

  Matthew could not stifle a groan. He had lost Amabelle. He knew for certain what he’d previously thought the worst day of his life had just been surpassed. The inevitable interview with his father would be unsupportable. Not to mention one with Sir Richard. He anguished over a plan of action. Any plan. Any action. He could either go to this Barton Green place, where he had never been before and try to find Amabelle, or he could go home and brave the wrath of two fathers. He became aware of landlord and skivvy staring at him. He pulled a breath into his chest.

  ‘Ah . . . yes . . . thank you. She must have shot off to visit our aunt. I expect she’s left a note upstairs.’

  The landlord narrowed his eyes. ‘You’ll be wanting to settle your bill?’

  Memories of his small financial reserves afflicted Matthew. He crossed his fingers behind his back and hoped it was sufficient.

  Minutes later he was driving the Harcourt-Spence’s gig back to Manseley Grange. His speed was not as great as it should have been but Misty was content to amble slowly through the countryside, pausing now and then to chomp at a clump of grass that attracted her attention in various gaps in the hedgerow. Letting the reins droop, Matthew fretted over impending events.

  While Misty and Matthew headed east, Amabelle was being jolted west. It was her first experience of transport designated for public use and she was not at all comfortable about it in any sense of the word. In fact she was decidedly uncomfortable. For a start she was crushed into a corner by a man whose girth almost beggared belief. Added to which, his breath smelt strongly of onions. After ten minutes in one position, he wriggled himself into another which he presumably found more comfortable before pulling a snuff box out of his pocket, extracting a few particles, sniffing them vigorously up his bulbous nose and then sneezing violently into a red handkerchief. Amabelle stared as hard as she could out of the clouded window. She forced herself to conjure happy visions of a future filled with elegant ladies demanding another of Miss Amabelle Harcourt-Spence’s elegant bonnets.

  The man beside her belched. Amabelle winced and caught the eye of the man opposite. He smiled. At least, she thought, he must think he’d smiled but it was the strangest one she’d ever seen. His small, yellow teeth gave him a wolfish appearance. The thin woman beside him dug him in the ribs with her elbow and glared at Amabelle and particularly at the bundle in her lap. Unwelcome tears prickled behind Amabelle’s eyes and the happy visions began to wobble. She turned her face to the window and swallowed.

  After what felt like hours of purgatory but was hardly more than four, the coach pulled into the market place in Barton Green and dragged to a halt. Amabelle clutched her bundle to her chest and jumped out as soon as the step was let down. She hurried away before the fat man could belch or sneeze over her again or the wolfish man smile.

  Several steps down the pavement, she slowed to look about her. Barton Green was quite the largest town she had seen, apart from London and there she had been escorted at all times. Unlike now. The shops lining the market square seemed bright and prosperous. Amabelle’s spirits lifted. There was bound to be someone here who would employ her. She walked past a butcher’s and a greengrocer’s, her hopes high. She averted her face from another inn and hurried on, ignoring some puzzling comments from two young ostlers lounging under the arch. Across the street one half-timbered building with a large, many-paned window beside the door had a table drawn up to the glass. On it Amabelle could see two papier maché heads dressed with heavily-trimmed bonnets. Gloves and mittens were arranged in a fan beside them. At the back, a rose-coloured shawl was draped over a small chair. Amabelle screwed up her courage. This could be the answer to her dreams. She darted in front of a smartly painted barouche carrying two ladies of undoubted fashion and quietly opened the door.

  A small brass bell suspended over her head jangled. She hovered on the polished floorboards, one hand clutching her bundle and the other holding the door open. To her right was a counter of polished wood with a tall bank of drawers behind it and two chairs placed before it. Opposite the counter a padded chair stood in front of a narrow table and large mirror. What space was left it was filled with shelves displaying more bonnets on wooden stands. The topmost shelf held a row of white and green striped boxes.

  A man of middle years dressed in sombre clothes was closing one of the many drawers behind the counter. The clothes and the lines on his face and the grey in his hair reminded her of the tallest pall bearer who had turned out for Mother Shipley’s funeral. Her heart fell into her boots. She had expected – had hoped – to see a woman. She clutched at her bundle with both hands. The door swung shut behind her, causing the shining brass bell to jangle a second time. The man turned.

  ‘Good day, miss. How may I –’ His greeting ended abruptly when his eyes fell on the bundle. His welcoming smile evaporated. ‘What’s your business, my girl?’

  ‘Please . . . if you please, I was wondering if perhaps you were in need of someone to trim your bonnets.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To trim your bonnets.’

  He folded his arms across his black jacket. ‘Now why would I be wanting that? And why would you be wanting to do it?’ He scowled. ‘I think you’d best be off. We don’t want your sort in here.’

  Amabelle clutched her bundle tighter. ‘Oh, but please –’

  The door at the rear of the shop opened. A young woman in a pretty green gown and lace cap entered. She stopped. ‘Who is this?’

  The gloomy man turned. He indicated Amabelle with a jerk of his head. ‘This young miss thinks we’ll want her to trim bonnets for us.’

  The woman inspected Amabelle from the top of her flower-trimmed straw to the pale leather boots that peeped out from under her gown. She took quick notice of the little she could see of the frogs on the pelisse bundled in Amabelle’s arms. She walked forward, concentrating her gaze on Amabelle’s bonnet. She pointed at the roses edging its crown.

  ‘Did you trim that?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. It’s my best one though Mrs Marchment liked my cream one better.’

  The woman walked closer. ‘Let me see your hands.’ She uncurled Amabelle’s right fingers from the bundle. ‘Those hands haven’t been used to hard work, have they? A lady’s maid, were you?’

  ‘Oh, no. I was . . . well . . .’ She recalled the story Matthew had told the innkeeper. ‘My Papa has recently died and I need to find work. My guardian was . . . he was . . . um . . .’ Amabelle swallowed. The rest of the story failed her. She lowered her eyes in confusion but only looked to be modestly grieving.

  ‘I see.’ The woman smiled. ‘Perhaps we may help you. I think I shall give you a trial. Lady Brinkley has ordered a new bonnet. We’ll see if you can trim one to her liking. She favours Austrian pleats and a plume or two.’ She held out her arm. ‘Come with me.’

  The man hurried round the counter. ‘What are you doing, Maria? We can’t –’

  ‘Just wait, please, dear. I’ll be back in a moment.’ Maria continued to usher Amabelle into the back room.

  The man returned to i
nspecting the contents of the many drawers, opening and closing them loudly. Eventually the woman reappeared.

  ‘I’ve settled her down with a dish of tea. She’s fagged out the poor child.’

  ‘Have you lost your senses, Maria? First, we can’t afford to employ anyone at all and second, even if we could, I wouldn’t take some young female who has wandered in off the street clutching all her worldly goods like that.’ He waved a hand towards the rear door.

  Maria smiled. ‘Don’t concern yourself, my dear Mr Filbee. Unless I mistake, she’s a runaway. If we keep her here there might be a reward. You know how useful that would be at present.’

  ‘A runaway? Why on earth do you think that?’

  ‘Her hands. They are as soft as a newborn. And her clothes are of the first order. Nothing poor about them. All made ‘specially for her I’ll be bound. Not hand-me-downs she’s had to alter to fit.’

  The man looked at the woman from under his brows. ‘A runaway? I don’t know that you’re right. If you are, how’re we to find whose she is?’

  ‘We’ll listen to the gossip. You’ll be able to hear the taproom chatter and I can listen to the women’s babble. Heaven knows, there’s enough of that. If she is a runaway from a decent family hereabouts, it will be known, you mark my words.’

  The man folded his arms. ‘I don’t know . . . you can’t be sure she’s a runaway. And if she is, what if she says we harmed her? It would bring a whole lot of trouble down on our backs.’

  ‘I’m sure I’m right.’ The woman looped her arm through his. The pair had been wed for less than a year, a fact that had surprised her acquaintances at least a much as his. He was many years her senior and rather set in his ways, but it had taken her very little time to learn how to manage him. And his shop. There had been many improvements since she had become mistress of the establishment. She had, though, found it necessary to pout prettily on several occasions to persuade him to invest the major part of his savings in new stock. Word of the changes had revived interest and custom. A significant increase in their profits followed. That her advice had proved worthwhile persuaded Mr Filbee to accept her opinion of Amabelle’s circumstances.

  ‘Very well, Maria. The girl can stay.’ He raised an admonitory finger. ‘But you put her to work. I’m not paying her keep without it. We’re not a charity and this isn’t the workhouse.’

  ‘No, Mr Filbee, dearest. Of course you aren’t. I’ll see we get value from her.’

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Amabelle stood at the door of the attic room.

  ‘Here you are,’ Maria Filbee said, opening a door that boasted only faint traces of its original paint.

  Amabelle peered past her hostess’s arm. It was only the second time she had been in a room so close to the roof that its ceiling sloped. This one sloped dramatically. Anyone but a child would find it impossible to stand upright in at least half of it.

  ‘When you’ve arranged your things you may come down to the kitchen. It’s almost supper time. I expect we can find you a slice of bread and cheese.’ She saw the dismayed expression on Amabelle’s face and smiled inwardly to herself. Confidence in her estimation of Amabelle’s situation increased. Heading for the stairs, she called over her shoulder, ‘You may tidy up in here if you wish.’

  Amabelle tried to find some cheer in the room. It was dusty but not as bad as the one in the inn at Lyngham. That one had nothing but two rickety beds. Here one narrow bed was tucked against the wall under the most steeply-sloping part of the ceiling. There was no quilt on it, or even a blanket, and the striped mattress looked rather lumpy but at least there’d be no-one to share the room. Fear that a stranger would appear had kept her awake for most of the night at Lyngham.

  There was little else in the cramped space. A three-legged stool was up-ended beside the bed. A small table stood against the tallest wall. A head-high row of pegs was nailed between it and the door. The tiny widow wasn’t caked with grime as the inn’s had been but the limp cloth hanging on it barely covered the glass. The morning light was sure to blaze round it at the first glimmer.

  The door opened. Maria Filbee held out a faded quilt and a pillow in a thin cover. ‘Here. These will do for tonight. It’s not cold but I’ll find you more if the weather turns.’ When Amabelle did not move, she walked past her and, half-stooping, tossed the quilt and pillow onto the bed. ‘There’s a sheet too. A wide one. You’ll have to fold it in half. Tomorrow you may cut it in two and hem it for yourself.’ Her comments were met with silence. Amabelle, clutching her bundle, stared from bed to mistress. ‘Aren’t you going to thank me?’ Maria said.

  The words came out in a whisper. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘Good. Now hurry down. We mustn’t keep my husband waiting.’

  ‘Please, ma’am, what are you called?’

  ‘I am Maria Filbee. You may call me Mrs Filbee. What shall I call you?’

  ‘Ara . . . Amabelle, ma’am.’

  ‘Amabelle who?’

  ‘Um . . . Marchment, ma’am.’

  ‘I see.’ Maria Filbee certainly did. ‘If her name is Marchment,’ she said to her husband minutes later, ‘then I am the Queen of Sheba.’

  Up three flights of stairs, Amabelle unrolled her clothes and hung them on the pegs. She tried to brush the creases out of her green-sprigged muslin dress and wondered why she had brought her cream silk evening gown. It was never going to be needed. She took off her bonnet and hung it up by its ribbons. Making the bed would have to wait. Even if supper was only going to be bread and cheese, she didn’t want to miss it. She had not eaten since a scant meal that had passed for dinner yesterday evening.

  Supper was not bread and cheese. It was a thin slice of chicken and two potatoes. Amabelle could have eaten four times as much. Afterwards, she lay flat on her new bed, her head on the pillow which had more lumps than feathers in it, and hugged her grumbling stomach. Tears trickled from her eyes into her ears. This room was so different from her own at Southwold Hall and although Mrs Filbee had been pleasant, it was not like having Rowena to bear her company. As for Mr Filbee, he’d barely spoken a word to her throughout the short meal. Amabelle was sure he had watched her every move, her every bite.

  Distinct feelings of regret crept into her mind. She missed Rowena. News of her flight must have reached her by now. She wondered how she had taken it. Perhaps she was sitting in Amabelle’s room at home, crying. The trickle of tears expanded into a stream. Amabelle pressed her hands over her mouth to stifle her sobs. She really, really wished the hateful Lord Conniston had never set eyes on her. She gulped. The rough blanket scratched her cheeks as she swiped away the salty tears. She would not cry. She would be brave. When she was settled she would write to Rowena and assure her she was safe and well. Yes, that’s what she would do. And she’d tell her of the many successes she’d had fashioning bonnets for Lady Whoeveritwas and all the elegant ladies hereabouts. Perhaps, in a year or two, she might even have her own shop.

  Exhausted, she fell asleep with a stray tear still wet on her cheek.

  Morning arrived very much before she wanted it to. Maria Filbee rapped on her attic door and opened it.

  ‘Amabelle. Get up. It’s past seven of the clock and there’s work to do before the shop opens.’ She paused long enough to see Amabelle open her eyes and raise her head from the small pillow before whisking herself away.

  Amabelle scrambled out of bed, still half asleep and quite forgetting about the low ceiling. She yelped and rubbed her head. For want of a nightgown she had slept in her shift. She looked down at the crumpled lawn. How she could manage to clean it? There was no Ellie to hand it to now. If only she had thought to bring a nightgown with her, or at the very least a hairbrush. The plait down her back was tangled where the ribbon had fallen off during the night.

  She looked around the room. What should she do? Wash her face. She padded barefoot to the little
table. The basin on it held no water. The glaze over the painted blue flowers was so crackled it look as if someone had flung a net over them. When she smoothed a finger across them, it came away covered in dust. Her toe hit something under the table. A jug. She picked it up. Its spout was chipped but more importantly, it too was empty. She stared at it. Perhaps the skivvy who had worked in the scullery last evening would bring her some.

  ‘Amabelle.’ Mrs Filbee’s voice echoed up the stairs. ‘Hurry along do.’

  There was nothing for it; she would have to fetch the water herself. She pulled her gown over her head and pushed her feet into her soft shoes.

  The stairwell was dark. She left her door open to allow the dim light to penetrate the gloom. Each tread creaked under her weight. Clutching the jug to her chest she crept down. At the next landing there was a length of drugget on the floor. The bright colours looked fresh and new. It continued down the final flight of stairs into a hall decorated with two hunting prints of a particularly gory nature. A mirror hung between them. Amabelle caught sight of herself. Oh, why hadn’t she thought to bring a hairbrush? She hurried on through the door at the back of the hall that led into the room where she had eaten supper.

  Inside, Mr Filbee sat in a chair by the stove, reading a newspaper. His wife sat at the table leafing through a journal and sketching bonnets and collars on a paper beside it. Bangs and crashes sounded beyond the room.

  Mrs Filbee looked up. ‘What is it, Amabelle?’

  ‘Please ma’am, I need some water.’

  Mrs Filbee pointed her pencil at the rear door. ‘Go through there and ask Annie for some. Be quick about it.’

  In the scullery a girl of about thirteen was elbow deep in a sink scrubbing at pots. She looked round. A strand of lank hair fell across her face. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

  ‘May I have some water, please?’

  The skivvy pointed wordlessly at the tap that rose awkwardly behind the sink.

  Amabelle walked over and turned it on. Freezing cold water erupted into the jug, splashing her arms and gown. She turned it off as quickly as she could. ‘Thank you,’ she said, trying hard not to cry.