Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1)

by Caroline Ashton

  Rowena fought to keep her countenance. Quelling her own fears and hopes, she concentrated on those of the girl. ‘I had rather hoped Thaddeus would like to be my personal groom.’

  Ellie bounced on her toes. ‘Oh, miss. Oh, miss. That’s right wonderful. I’ll tell him right away.’

  The wisp of a smile lifted Rowena’s mouth. ‘Don’t forget to tell the others what I said about them.’

  ‘I won’t, miss. Oh, I won’t.’

  Forgetting to curtsey, Ellie ran out of the room, also forgetting to close the door.

  Rowena had sipped her way through most of the chocolate before she felt able to reappear in the drawing room to submit to more of her aunt’s organising, or Mrs Kently’s blatant inspection of the house contents. Mrs Kently was much given to noting items in a small book she carried for the purpose. Only that morning, Rowena had chanced across her in the linen room counting the sheets as Mrs Cope had shown them to her. Mrs Cope’s expression above the new mistress’s head, bowed as she scribbled more notes, had been clear. Rowena knew how welcome the offer of a place at one of the Earl’s residences would be.

  At last the great day dawned, and it dawned bright with the promise of unhindered sunshine. Mrs Kesgrave had risen before dawn. She was ably assisted – until it came to the matter of sauces – by Mrs Marchment’s cook. Both were grimly determined Miss Rowena’s wedding feast would be more impressive than any other seen in Fincham Wortly.

  Patterson supervised Thaddeus and Gilbert as they polished Misty’s harness until it gleamed. Two maids dragged from duty in the house decorated the open brougham with flowers to his instruction.

  Lady Tiverton had inspected minutely both her lord’s appearance and her daughter’s, and made them sit unmoving in the morning room while Minchin had attended to the arrangement of each pleat and flounce on her own black bombazine gown.

  Lord Tiverton, defying his lady as far as he dared, cast a final glance over the marriage contract, much impressed with its stipulations and clauses. He made careful note of the generosity extended to his niece by her intended. For example, all her property was to remain in her control despite Conniston’s legal right to it. Her mother’s dowry, which Sir Richard had preserved, was also to remain outside his lordship’s reach. He decided similar clauses would be inserted in any contract drawn for Harriette. The only tricky moment had been the matter of gifts to the new Countess of Conniston as and when she presented her lord with an heir. For some reason Conniston had glossed over any concerns he might have had and had agreed instantly to everything Mr Halberton had ventured to suggest.

  In her attic room, Ellie donned her own white gown and let her mother curl her hair before descending to brush Rowena’s until it shone.

  When her aunt was fully satisfied with the appearance of her new lilac gown and the tilt of the bonnet Mrs Marchment had trimmed for her, Amabelle being beyond any thought of assisting, Rowena climbed into the brougham beside her uncle. Patterson tipped his hat. The white ribbons tied round it fluttered. Harriette stepped up and settled herself with their back to him. Lady Tiverton gave Amabelle a decided shove before she entered the brougham. Her last flurry of instructions given, the marchioness disappeared down the drive in the Tiverton coach.

  Patterson flicked the reins and called, ‘Walk on. Misty. Walk on.’

  Rowena’s heart lurched with the first sway of the brougham. The first step on the path to a new future had been taken.

  Conniston had arrived early at the church from the Marchments’ house. Gerald Marchment had felt obliged to offer his services as supporter to his lordship, an office Conniston had accepted. Consequently, Mrs Marchment now sat in the second pew, left-hand side, with Edward and Matthew. Behind her ranged every lady of the town who could convince herself she was duty bound by the memory of poor Sir Richard to see his daughter safely sent off. Several such females had found themselves relegated to the rear pews by the forwardness of the Southwold Hall servants. Behind them crammed every woman from town, village and hamlet who could walk there. Those who could not push their way inside packed the porch and listened through the open door.

  Much was made later of the impropriety and downright rudeness of the Southwold Hall servants. Lady D’Arborough, ensconced with her husband and all four sons in the second pew across the aisle was much inclined to the same view. Mrs Kently, stared at the back of Mrs Marchment’s bonnet mere inches in front, clamped her lips tight and ignored them all.

  Patterson drew the brougham to a halt behind Lord Conniston’s travelling chaise at the church’s lychgate. Thaddeus helped Rowena and Lord Tiverton down and forced a way for them through the throng in the porch. Rowena smiled at him and waited for him to hurry down the aisle and squash onto the pew next to Ellie. Then she placed her hand on Lord Tiverton’s arm and let him lead her inside.

  Patterson tossed the reins to the nearest of the lads crowding round the gate with what seemed to be the county’s entire population of children. ‘Guard these. A penny if you do and I’ll be after you if you don’t.’

  The lad caught the reins and knuckled his forehead. Mr Patterson was well known to them all. No-one would dare to take a liberty with him. With a final scan of the waiting faces, he waded up the path and into the church just in time to hear the Reverend Jeffray Warterton pronounce the words ‘Dearly beloved . . .’

  The ceremony seemed to fly by. Conniston delivered his responses in a firm voice that Rowena’s did not match. He smiled at her when the vicar placed her trembling hand in his so he might slide a new gold band along her third finger. He held it tightly while Mr Warterton wrapped his stole around their joined hands and solemnly exhorted ‘Those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder.’

  Quite undaunted by any consideration of mourning Tod Patterson waved his hat and yelled, ‘Good luck, Miss Rowena.’

  Cheers broke out around him. He hurried from the church to his position on the brougham. Lord Conniston escorted his bride down the aisle, out of the door and into the carriage. Standing beside a seated Rowena, he dug his hand into a bulging purse and flung a fistful of silver coins into the air. The children at the gate tumbled onto the ground scrabbling for the largess. Chortling at the mêlée, Patterson tossed a sixpence to the lad who had held Misty’s reins then flicked them.

  ‘Walk on, Misty. Walk on.’

  Eyes wild, the mare picked her way past the scrabbling children and cheering villagers and carried her married mistress back to her former home.

  A long line of trestle tables had been set up in the sun where the lawn was most level above the lake. White sheets covered them and a line of flowers decorated the centre. Glasses and cutlery gleamed and were surreptitiously counted by Mrs Kently. Bride and groom took their places in the centre of one side with Lord and Lady Tiverton on either hand.

  ‘I hope, Laurence, you will treat my niece with proper consideration.’

  ‘It will be my most earnest endeavour, ma’am.’

  ‘Excellent. She is a good and dutiful girl. She deserves the best of treatment.’

  ‘She will receive nothing less at my hand, ma’am.’

  The Marchioness of Tiverton lowered her voice. ‘I’m told you’re leaving for Ampney Park as soon as may be.’

  ‘Indeed. I think Rowena would prefer to see as little as possible of Mrs Kently tallying her home and rearranging the rooms.’

  The marchioness’s plumed bonnet nodded. ‘Very wise.’ She tapped his hand with her fan. ‘Very considerate.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. I try to be.’ Conniston turned to Rowena. ‘Tell me when you wish to leave and I will have the horses put to. We’ll leave immediately if you wish.’

  Rowena lay down her fork, the slivers of chicken on her plate untasted. ‘I feel we must do proper justice to the efforts of Mrs Cope and her helpers. They have worked so hard.’ Her words faltered.

  ‘You have found little to
your fancy, I think.’

  A small shake of the head. ‘No. It isn’t that. It’s . . .’

  His hand covered hers. ‘I understand. The change has been so sudden it must be difficult to encompass.’ His voice lowered even more. ‘Please remember my assurance.’

  Rowena looked up at him and for a moment he thought he saw regret in her eyes. If there was, he told himself, it was for leaving the home of her childhood. Not for any other reason.

  Amabelle watched the carriage leave until she could no longer discern Rowena’s handkerchief waving from the window. She bit her lip to stop it trembling. She was glad she had come to the wedding after all, even though she had declared she would never set foot outside her room again. It had taken Aunt Tiverton very few minutes and fewer acid words to persuade her that she would stop behaving like some badly brought up female in a novel and do her duty by her sister and her family. Grief and guilt threatened to overwhelm her. She managed to contain them until she regained her own room. There she gave way to her emotions and sobbed for all the trouble she had caused.

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  The drive to Ampney Park was conducted almost entirely in silence. Apart from an occasional enquiry as to her comfort Laurence hardly spoke to his bride. His silence did not trouble her. She was buried deep in her own thoughts. After catching his eyes on her hands as they twisted in her lap, she forced herself to keep them still.

  The miles rolled past, barely troubling her so comfortable was the travelling chaise. Eventually Conniston leant forward and pointed out of the window on her side of the chaise.

  ‘If you watch for the break in this line of beeches, you will have your first glimpse of Ampney.’

  She turned her head away from the closeness of his cheek to stare in the direction he had indicated. Several more towers of shimmering leaves passed before the promised break. She caught her breath at the distant view. Seen from the east, Ampney Park was almost three times as wide as Southwold Hall. Its central block with four ranks of tall windows rendered the modest height of the home she had just left inconsequential. Two extensive wings of decreasing heights stepped down at each side. It looked as if it had been modelled on a child’s stacked row of toy bricks but there any simplicity ended. The multiplicity of windows, the carved stone, the pillared porch rising past two storeys could not fail to impress. A heavily carved pediment surmounted the porch and was itself topped by a stone figure whose identity she could not guess. It was breath-taking. Rowena felt the first stirrings of apprehension for her ability to manage such a magnificent establishment.

  ‘You will find Bodellick and Mrs Brinscott to be the most efficient of people. And of course, there is my steward, Vincent Tarraby.’

  She heard in Conniston’s comment his uncanny ability to perceive her innermost thoughts. It gave her no comfort. ‘Bodellick and Mrs Brinscott?’

  ‘My butler and housekeeper. They have been with me for years. Bodellick since well before my father died.’

  Since she had promised him honesty, or as much as she could give without causing him to despise her, she said, ‘I am greatly relieved, sir. It is much more expansive than Southwold.’

  ‘I am sure you will accustom yourself to it in very little time. We do not, of course, occupy all the rooms. No-one could. You will find your apartment in the west wing. It was my mother’s. I asked Mrs Brinscott to have it prepared.’ In the few seconds’ silence that followed, Rowena wondered where his apartment was. ‘Mine is of the same arrangement but in the east wing.’

  Rowena stilled her breathing so he might be spared the sound of a sigh of her relief.

  The carriage turned off the main road and passed through a pair of high stone pillars supporting magnificent iron gates. The sweep of the drive briefly hid the view of the house behind the trees. They were drawing closer to their shared home. Conniston fidgeted with the brim of his hat. He looked down. He looked up.

  ‘I hope, ma’am you will enjoy your life here. It must be somewhat restricted for the present because of your bereavement. There will be only the most formal of calls by my acquaintances until the New Year. Then I hope you will be able to partake in local life.’ He smoothed an imagined bump on the surface of his hat. ‘Of course you will wish to take your sister to London for the Season. I assume she will have recovered herself by then. My townhouse will be at your disposal.’

  ‘You will not be present yourself?’

  He cleared his throat with an effort. ‘I thought perhaps you would welcome the opportunity to spend time with her alone.’ More hat smoothing. ‘In fact I intend to visit an intimate of mine once I have seen you and Amabelle comfortably settled.’

  His words struck a chill into Rowena’s heart. What did he mean by an intimate? Was he indicating a liaison elsewhere? Her fingers began to tremble in her lap.

  ‘I think perhaps you have heard of him. I’m almost sure he attended your aunt’s ball last year. Colonel Lavington?’

  Rowena applied her mind and soon remembered a disarmingly straightforward officer who had sought her hand for a dance. An upsurge of relief brought a smile to her face. ‘Indeed. He was, as I remember, a charming man.’

  A flicker crossed Conniston’s face. ‘His wife is a charming woman. Perhaps she might become one of your new friends.’

  Rowena was about to thank him for his suggestion when the carriage pulled to a halt inside the portico. The groom leapt down and opened the door. She looked out. A splendid gentleman in dark clothing stood at the head of the flight of steps leading up to the main entrance. Behind the gentleman’s left shoulder stood another, shorter man and a plump lady, also clothed in black. A grey-clad maid stood on each step on the left. Liveried footmen occupied those on the right. Rowena thought there must be almost a dozen of each. She swallowed.

  Conniston rose and stepped past her to alight. Once on the ground he raised his hand to help her down. Gathering her courage and her skirts, she placed her hand in his and set her first foot in her new world. Conniston led her up the steps. Maid after maid curtseyed, footman after footman bowed. At the top, the splendid gentleman bowed.

  ‘Welcome to Ampney Park, Lady Conniston. I am Tarraby, the steward. May I present Bodellick your butler and Mrs Brinscott, your housekeeper?’

  The gentleman bowed. The lady curtsied. ‘My lady.’

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen, Mrs Brinscott. Thank you for your welcome. I’m sure I shall be very happy here.’

  The trio stood aside to allow the owner and his new wife to enter the magnificent hall. Rowena gasped. The room was an enormous cube, as high as it was wide and long. Pillars lined the walls at head height, supporting narrow a gallery containing white marble statues. The gilded plaster pattern on the ceiling was matched by a similar one of blue and white diamond tiles on the floor. Her footsteps echoed to all four corners. The room was magnificent. It was far from homely and welcoming. A chill in her soul replaced her initial amazement.

  Conniston escorted her up the wide flight of stairs. He stopped at the top. ‘You will be fatigued after the exertions of the day and the journey. Mrs Brinscott will show you to your apartment.’ He bowed. ‘I look forward to your company at dinner.’

  Mrs Brinscott stepped up. ‘This way, my lady.’ She raised a hand to indicate the wide passage to the left.

  Rowena hesitated. Conniston and Mrs Brinscott waited. At last she said, ‘Thank you, my lord. I will see you then.’

  Her apartment was light, bright and large. Very large. Her sitting room – Mrs Brinscott called it her boudoir – was cream, gold and green with prettily framed paintings of flowers and fruit on the walls. Soft rugs, patterned in the same shade of green covered the floor. Despite it being the last day of August, a fire burned in the white marble fireplace. A chaise longue stood at beside it, piled with silk cushions. A writing desk was angled beside one of the two tall windows. The damask on its chair matched that of the sev
eral others around the room. In the far wall, double doors gave onto her bedroom which in turn gave onto a dressing room that was quite as large as the drawing room at home. She caught herself up. Southwold Hall was not home any more. Home was now the massive, impressive, cold, Ampney Park. Rowena managed to wait until the housekeeper had bowed herself out of the sitting room before the tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, Amabelle,’ she sighed. ‘What have I done?’

  She had precious little time to find herself an answer. A scrape at the door presaged the entry of a thin woman of middle years. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun which exposed every scrap of her sharp features to the light.

  ‘Good afternoon, my lady. I am Mackenzie. I was the late Countess’s personal maid. If it is your wish, I will serve you until your own maid arrives.’

  Rowena flicked a finger across a cheekbone, wiping away the last tear. ‘I don’t have a personal maid. There was only Ellie to attend Amabelle and me.’

  Mackenzie showed no reaction. ‘Perhaps then, my lady, if the girl is to come here, I might attend you and bring her up to attend your sister.’

  Rowena experienced the first feeling of warmth since she had left Southwold Hall. ‘Thank you, Miss Mackenzie. I would appreciate it. And I’m sure Amabelle and Ellie will.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady. If I might say, it’s just Mackenzie. Not Miss Mackenzie.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect.’

  A smile added to the warmth Rowena had already detected. ‘No need to mention it, my lady. Now, may I help you to remove your spencer? And perhaps your half boots? You must be tired after your journey and the trials of the last few days. An hour or so to lie down before you must dress for dinner should help to revive you.’

  Mackenzie was as good as her word. She guided Rowena to the high, canopied bed in the next room. The late Countess had been a redhead of Scottish extraction and she had known what colours suited her best. Consequently the hangings at the four posts of the bed, the outside of its low pyramidal canopy and the quilted bedcover were all of pale green silk embroidered with sprigs of heather. Gold bullion fringe edged the curtains and the canopy. It all looked very grand.