Chapter Thirty Three
No sooner had the Neave’s highly-coloured carriage disappeared down the road to Fincham Wortly than Lady D’Arborough’s travelling coach appeared from the northern approach, closely accompanied by Lord Conniston mounted on a frisky bay of undoubted pedigree.
The coach had barely rocked to a halt before Amabelle had its door open. She jumped out before the groom had put a foot to the ground to lower the step. Hurtling into the house, she paid no attention to her bonnet as it slid from her head, pulling the ribbons tight against her neck. ‘Rowena. Rowena. Where are you?’
Receiving no answer she dashed from room to room until she almost collided with an austere personage emerging from the morning room in a stunning pelisse of heavy, royal blue silk trimmed down the front with silver frogging.
‘Aunt Tiverton,’ Amabelle gasped. ‘Oh, ma’am, I beg your pardon.’
The lady stared down at her niece in a manner guaranteed to remind anyone of their true place in society. ‘And so I should think.’ She gave a quite unnecessary twitch to her skirt as if its hem had somehow become soiled. ‘Whatever do you mean by racing around like some ill-bred hoyden?’
Sophronia Tiverton became aware of a slight disturbance at the front door. She raised her eyes from her niece’s flushed face to survey the thin woman, dressed in the height of fashion, who was being ushered into the hall by Laurence Conniston. The feathers on the woman’s bonnet were particularly impressive. Lady Tiverton drew herself up to her not-inconsiderable but still inadequate height.
‘Child, fetch my sables. I feel a chill in the hall.’ She indicated the door behind her and Amabelle disappeared through it to emerge moments later laden with the sables her uncle had found it necessary to bestow on her aunt after some minor peccadillo of his had reached her ears.
Lord Conniston watched as Lady Tiverton arranged the furs were around her shoulders with misleading casualness. He permitted himself a slight smile before he bowed. ‘I believe, ma’am, you know my sister, Lady D’Arborough.’
‘Of course I do, Conniston. Don’t be bizarre. Unless I mistake, we met at the Croyle’s rout in April.’
The two women advanced as if in some preordained but restrictive dance. They greeted each other with the briefest touch of two fingertips.
‘Good day, Lady D’Arborough.’ Sophronia Tiverton was pleased to adopt the role of hostess. ‘Please step into the morning room. I believe my elder niece is about somewhere. No doubt Amabelle . . .’ she turned her basilisk gaze upon the girl, ‘is able to summon someone to attend us. Always assuming the tea caddy has not been emptied for the sake of our earlier visitors.’
‘Yes, aunt.’ With her bonnet still bobbing on her shoulder-blades, Amabelle disappeared through the baize door at the rear of the hall, freed at last from the horrid Lord Conniston and his equally horrid sister.
‘Earlier visitors?’ Lord Conniston’s raised eyebrow indicated mild interest as he followed the two grand females across the threshold.
‘Mr Neave and his daughter.’
‘Neave?’ Conniston stopped short.
‘Indeed.’ A face of unmistakable disapproval was turned to him. ‘The very person you persuaded Tiverton to invite to Darnebrook.’
Lord Conniston knew Sophronia Tiverton well enough to realise she was about to pay him back for that event.
‘You’ll be pleased to learn he was most anxious to lend his support to Rowena at this dreadful time.’
A frown darkened his lordship’s face. The thought of Archibald Neave inveigling himself into Rowena’s company was far from pleasant. Nevertheless he allowed a dispassionate gaze to rest upon his tormentor. ‘I’m sure Miss Harcourt-Spence has all the support she needs from her family.’ He accompanied his words with another bow, a very slight bow, before following Lady Tiverton further into the room.
His sister raised her lorgnette towards Harriette who was hovering by the window. She raked the pale-faced girl from head to toe and back again. ‘And who is this?’
‘My daughter, ma’am. Harriette make your duties to Lady D’Arborough, then you may go and find where your cousins are hiding themselves. And Miss Quigley if she is not laid down with another megrim. You may inform them they are needed here.’
Harriette sketched the briefest of curtsies before hurrying from the icy atmosphere that now filled the room.
Unfamiliar with the house, she crept up the stairs. The landing at the top was empty of human life. There was very little light; just enough to make out that the three dark wood doors to her left were closed, as were four more to the right. The noise of a single, muffled sob reached her. Stepping onto the runner of Persian weave down the centre of the passage, she crept along until she reached the room from where the sob might have come. After listening for more, but hearing none, she turned the handle with great hesitation. The door eased open a crack.
In the quiet room, Rowena had slumped to the floor by her father’s bed. One delicate hand lay motionless upon the quilt, its fingertips barely touching his cheek. Her head had drooped against her raised arm. Her other hand was raised to her mouth. Streaks of tears descended from her closed eyes.
Harriette tiptoed towards her. ‘Rowena,’ she whispered. ‘Rowena, are you faint?’ She cast a quick glance over the bed. She bit her lip. ‘Is he . . . he’s not ..? Oh, dear. Rowena, wake up.’
A pair of grey opened. ‘It’s not what you think. He’s only sleeping.’
‘Oh, thank goodness.’ Harriette ran the rest of the way and knelt in a cloud of pale muslin. She lifted the hand from her cousin’s face and stroked it gently. ‘How . . . how does he?’
‘He hasn’t moved since Doctor Norton cut off his bad leg.’
Harriette squealed, snatching her fingers back. Her face paled. She clasped a hand over her mouth, ran to run to the window, pushed it up and leant out.
Hands on the side of the bed, Rowena hoisted herself to her feet. She crossed to wrap an arm round Harriette’s shaking body. ‘Have you been unwell? Shall I beg your Mama to come up?’
A pale face turned to her. ‘No. Please. She’s talking to Lord Conniston and his sister.’
The soothing arm froze. ‘Lord Conniston? Here? Does that mean ..?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s brought Amabelle with his sister.’
Rowena stood quite still, her eyes closed. ‘Thank God.’ She steadied herself for a second, then ran from the room.
Harriette, left alone with her uncle, motionless and white-faced under his covers, inched round the walls and furniture, keeping as far from the bed as possible until she reached the door. Then she fled.
Amabelle, her face white and her bonnet still dragging at her neck, was running from the servants’ door across the hall when she saw Rowena at the head of the stairs. The sisters hurried forwards. At the bottom of the stairs they clasped each other close.
‘Are you safe? Are you well? How did you live?’ Rowena’s crushing hug turned into a shake of her sister’s slight figure. ‘Why on earth did you do it? Oh, Amabelle, had you no thought for us? For me?’ Rowena held her away, staring into her face. ‘I have anguished every moment you’ve been gone. Dreading what news might come of you.’
A great sob burst from Amabelle’s chest. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’ She flung herself into her sister’s arms. ‘Cook tells me Papa is lost. That he’s had . . . that his leg is . . . gone.’ She choked on the last word.
‘It is. Doctor Norton is just now . . . washing.’
Amabelle subsided to the stair. Her head drooped onto her knees. The bonnet slipped sideways. ‘Oh dear, oh dear. Mrs Cope said he fell coming after me.’
Rowena lowered herself to sit beside her sister. ‘He did. Edward was with him. He brought him home in a wagon.’
A fuselage of fresh sobs filled the hall. Amabelle’s body shook with their force. ‘It’s my fault, isn
’t it? It’s all my fault.’ She looked up, her face flooded with tears. ‘If Papa dies, it will be all my fault.’
Rowena gave her shoulder a small shake. ‘Papa isn’t going to die.’
‘But Mrs Kesgrave says he is. She said it just now in the kitchen when she told Ellie to stop being such a goose snivelling in the corner.’
Rowena dredged up the remnants of her courage. ‘Cook doesn’t know anything about it. Doctor Norton has worked wonders. I’m sure he knows how to save Papa.’
At the top of the stairs, Harriette chewed her thumbnail, a habit her mother deplored. ‘Do you think we should ask Mama? Or Lord Conniston?’
Two faces swivelled towards her. Some of the stress left Rowena’s face.
‘Lord Conniston. Of course. He’ll know about it. He’ll have seen wounded men in India.’
Amabelle leapt up. ‘I won’t ask him. I won’t. Not after the way he humiliated me. Dragging me out of the shop.’ She picked up her skirts and ran up the stairs, two at a time, pushing Harriette aside at the top. Her bedroom door banged shut.
‘Shop? What shop?’ Rowena said.
Harriette could not answer. She looked along the passage with concern. ‘I hope uncle doesn’t die. I fear she will never stop crying if he does.’
Rowena wiped her hand across her eyes, drying her own small sum of tears. Slightly pink, she stood up. ‘I had better greet Lord Conniston and his sister. Then I must make sure Mrs Cope prepares rooms for them. I wonder if Mrs Kesgrave has enough dinner for us all.’
She straightened the cuff of one long sleeve before walking across the hall with dragging feet. Harriette hurried down the stairs after her.
The atmosphere in the morning room was frosty, with Lady Tiverton obviously in command. ‘Ah, here you are at last, Rowena. Let me make you known to Lady D’Arborough.’
Rowena curtsied. ‘You must allow me to thank you, ma’am, for aiding us. It was most generous of you.’
Lady D’Arborough employed her lorgnette for the second time since her arrival. She noticed that this victim did not cower. To the contrary, the girl’s chin lifted a fraction and she could have sworn the shoulders straightened. She did however appear to be somewhat puffy and pink around the eyes.
‘Not at all,’ she said in depressing tones. ‘Laurence begged so prettily I could not refuse.’
From his habitual position by the corner of a fireplace in any room he inhabited, Lord Conniston had no struggle keeping his lips from displaying the slightest of quirks it normally would.
Rowena’s chin lifted a fraction higher. ‘I . . . we can never repay our debt to you, my lord. You have been most kind in returning my sister to us and safety.’
Lord Conniston greeted her gratitude brusquely. ‘Rubbish.’ The four women around him were united for a moment in surprise. ‘It was the least I could do. I should have recognised her animosity to my offer from the first.’
‘Not animosity, my lord. Stupidity, perhaps. Lack of appreciation, I think. She was too . . .’ Her voice faded. This was no time to criticise her father. ‘I think it is all down to her young age,’ she finished.
One of her aunt’s snorts intruded into the exchange. ‘Absolute stupidity on both sides, I’d say. You, sir, and my brother should have known the child was too immature to contract any sort of an arrangement in her first Season.’
‘I fear you judge my brother too harshly, ma’am.’ The lorgnette was again employed. Sophronia Tiverton was unused to being surveyed in such a fashion. Her nostrils flared.
Rowena hurried into speech. ‘Has tea been ordered? I’m sure you must be in need of some refreshment after your journey, Lady D’Arborough.’
‘I believe the girl was sent to summon some but it has yet to appear.’
‘You must forgive us, ma’am. We are not at all as ordered as usual today.’
Situated by the fire place, his lordship could see the line of Rowena’s jaw tighten and her eyes moisten. With a sigh he assumed the role of diplomat. ‘Perhaps we might remember that Sir Richard is lying above us. No doubt his surgeon will be here soon to tell us how he does.’
The thought that they might be required to hear an account of a gruesome procedure silenced the two Grandes Dames. Consequently Mrs Cope ushered a laden Ellie into a room shrouded in deathly silence.
Chapter Thirty Four
Christopher Norton stuck his hands back under the water gushing from the stableyard pump. He sluiced more of it over his arms and head until every trace of blood had dripped into the trough. He eased his aching back upright. Trails of water ran down between the grey hairs his bare chest.
Patterson stopped working the pump handle up and down. The water died to a dribble. The ripples subsided. Only the strings of the farrier’s apron lying across the far end of the trough disturbed the surface.
‘Here you be, sir.’ Patterson held out one of Mrs Cope’s second-best towels. ‘If’n you take this I’ll bring you a drop of the best. You’ll be needing it now.’
‘Thank you, Patterson. You’re not far wrong.’ Doctor Norton rubbed the towel over his hair until it stood round his head like a greying halo. ‘It’s many a year since I had one of those to do.’
‘Aye, sir, it will be. It’s many a year since you was following the lads in them heathen lands.’
Memories of the Doctor’s time in the army before age had conquered him clouded his face for a moment.
‘Do ye think the master’ll make it, sir?’
Norton cast a quick look around the yard at Thaddeus and Gilbert watching anxiously from the loose boxes.
‘Between you and me, Patterson?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Then I think not. He’s lost copious amounts of blood and he’s barely had more than a few sips of water in the past three days. Mother Haswell did fine to get that much down him.’
Patterson wagged his head. ‘I know that well enough. I held the master up for her and he choked on every drip. T’would have been better if he’d woken.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion. Now it will be a mercy if he doesn’t.’
The jowelled features of Patterson’s face drooped. ‘It’ll be a sad day if he goes, sir.’ He took the towel the Doctor held out to him. ‘There’s the dear lassies to fret about.’ His voice faded.
‘I’m sure whoever takes on Southwold Hall will want you and the others to stay.’
A large sniff indicated the coachman’s scepticism. ‘Aye, well, we shall see. I weren’t that taken with yon Northerner fellow. Nor with his missus. Sharp-faced creature she was.’ He heaved his bulk upright. ‘Thaddeus tells me the young lass has been brought home safe.’
‘That’s good news. Miss Rowena will have one fewer trial to bear.’ He held out the towel. ‘I’d better get back to the house. They’ll be wanting to know how Sir Richard does, though the good Lord knows how I’ll manage to tell them.’ The clean shirt his lady wife had prepared was folded into the worn carpetbag slumped on the ground by his feet. He pulled it over his head and wrapped the stock round his throat.
‘Can I fetch your coat and waistcoat for you, sir?’
‘No, thank you. I need to take one more look at him before braving the ladies.’ He paused.
‘As you wish, sir.’ Patterson cleared his throat. ‘If I may make so bold, sir, may I have the honour of shaking your hand?’
Christopher Norton’s eyebrows rose slightly. He forced them back down. ‘Of course you may, Mr Patterson. You’ve been with your master many a year.’
The two men joined hands. They looked each other in the eye and there was no misunderstanding between them.
Back in the house, Doctor Norton trod slowly up the stairs. Mother Haswell greeted his arrival with a shake of her head from her position at the bedside.
‘He’s not doing well, your honour.’
Norton crossed to her.
He laid his hand on Sir Richard’s forehead. The skin was dry to the touch and crinkled like a crumpled paper. Dark shadows printed the skin under his eyes. The lips were cracked. Barely parted, his shallow breath wheezed through them in uneven waves.
‘Time for the young misses, do you think?’ Mother Haswell said.
A long breath raised and lowered the Doctor’s chest. He nodded slowly before pulling on his waistcoat and coat. Tugging the waistcoat’s hem firmly down, he opened the door and trod heavily down the stairs.
The atmosphere in the morning room still bordered on the frigid. Five heads turned at his entrance.
‘Lady Tiverton.’ The Doctor bowed. ‘My lord. Ma’am.’ He bowed to the unknown virago staring at him. ‘I think it best if Sir Richard’s daughters come to their father now.’
Rowena gasped, flattening her hands over her mouth. She ran from the room. Her steps could be heard hurrying up the stairs.
‘And Miss Amabelle?’ Doctor Norton looked around.
‘My niece has decided to be indisposed. I will bring her.’
Lady Tiverton rose in a magnificent billow of blue silk. ‘Harriette, you will take my place as hostess for our visitors. We may be some time.’
Harriette’s already pale face blanched even further. ‘Yes, Mama,’ she croaked. She cast an anguished eye at Lord Conniston.
‘It might be as well,’ he said. ‘If you rang for further supply of tea. And ask the housekeeper to ascertain if there is a drop or two of brandy available to restore your cousins if need be.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’ Harriette backed towards the door. ‘I’ll go and ask now.’
Lady D’Arborough stretched her eyebrows into a fine arch. ‘Why on earth didn’t the girl ring the bell?’ She shook her head. The plume on her bonnet waved. ‘Strange creature to be sure.’
Conniston resumed lounging against the overmantle. ‘I think perhaps you terrified her, Evaline.’
Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) Page 24
