A Poor Relation

by Carola Dunn

  Chris looked at her doubtfully. She seemed to be clean and competent, and she must be stronger than she appeared since she had helped him to carry Bernard, no light weight. Another shout decided him. He shrugged, nodded and strode out.

  “I can’t stay here,” said the coachman indignantly. “‘Tain’t a proper coaching inn. First stage’ll take you to Canterbury.”

  When Chris paid him off he grumbled that he had been hired to London. He found himself facing the icy grey gaze of Major Scott of the Second Dragoons, and he quailed. Touching his forelock, he dropped the money into his pocket and whipped up the horses.

  Chris went back into the inn, hoping that the absent landlord would accept louis d’or. He feared their stay at the Four Feathers might be a long one and his purse was the lighter now by a couple of gold sovereigns.

  The girl was kneeling beside Bernard, her hand inside his shirt. He was still unconscious. She had taken off his cravat, presumably to fashion a new pad, for a blood-soaked cloth lay on the floor nearby. She looked up as Chris entered, and he saw that she had green eyes, worried now.

  “He is bleeding badly, I fear. Was it highwaymen?”

  “It is a war wound.” Belatedly he recognized that her accent was not that of a serving maid. “Thank you for your assistance, ma’am. I can manage now.”

  “I doubt it. According to the cook everyone is gone to see some hoard of Roman coins dug up by a farm hand. You will need help to take off his coat at least.”

  “Is there a doctor in the village?” Chris wasted no time arguing. As he spoke he gently worked Bernard’s unhurt right arm out of the sleeve while she steadied his inert body on the bench.

  “I think not. We always sent to Canterbury for Dr. Benson.”

  “Damn! The coachman went that way and I never thought to send a message.”

  He raised Bernard’s shoulders and the young lady managed to pull the coat out from underneath. Together they eased the injured limb out of the left sleeve.

  “I am going on the stage to London. It will stop in Canterbury. I shall sent the doctor to you.”

  Chris nodded in gratitude, too concerned to speak. Bernard’s shirt was crimson all down the side, the new cloth pad already soaked through. His heart sank as he realized he had left their portmanteaux in the chaise; the rest of their luggage had been sent ahead to London.

  The girl hurried towards the door, picked up a bandbox, and brought it back. Opening it, she took out a linen shift and began to tear it.

  “No!” he said, “you must not.”

  She smiled up at him. “Have you anything else? I daresay we might find something in the inn but whether it would be fit for such a use is another matter. This is clean, I assure you.”

  He flushed. “I do not doubt it, ma’am. For my friend’s sake I accept. I fear it is too late to be of use to you anyway.” He looked ruefully at the ruined garment and smiled at her.

  With one accord they turned to bind Bernard’s wound.

  They had nearly finished this delicate task when the landlord bustled in, full of apologies, followed by his staff. He sent the ostler at a gallop for the doctor, the chambermaid to make up beds for his unexpected guests, the tapster to draw brandy to revive the unfortunate gentleman. In the general confusion, the arrival and departure of the London stage went almost unnoticed, for it did not change horses at this modest hostelry.

  The major did not realize for some minutes that the young lady had departed on the stage. He had not thanked her properly, and he did not know her name, but he was too much occupied with Bernard to spare her more than the briefest thought.

  She, on the other hand, had little else to distract her mind. Squashed between a stout haberdasher and a stouter farmer’s wife, Rowena could not see out of the coach window. She did not want to think about her destination. It was much pleasanter to daydream about the handsome young gentleman she had met at the Four Feathers.

  He must be a soldier, if his companion had been wounded in battle. Perhaps that explained his stern face, that and worry for his friend. In spite of it he was excessively good-looking, with his thick, dark hair and grey eyes, tall and slim yet broad shouldered. He had a commanding air about him—she remembered how she had jumped to obey his first shouted order—but his kindness in caring for the injured man had impressed her more. His strong, sun-browned hands had moved with no less gentle care than her own. And when he smiled at her, briefly, ruefully, it was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.

  Rowena shook her head at her own fancy, and resolved to put the attractive stranger out of her mind. She would never see him again. She had not even learned his name, or that of his friend. A mere three weeks ago she had resolved to face reality without flinching; here was a perfect opportunity to practise.

  He was in his late twenties, she guessed, and his friend perhaps a year or two younger, though it was hard to judge an unconscious man. She wondered whether he had sold out of the army. He had not been wearing uniform, just a rather poorly cut brown coat and fawn inexpressibles.

  She caught herself thinking of him again and deliberately started a conversation with the fat farmer’s wife beside her.

  Used to daily dealings with Chillenden’s tenants, Rowena had no difficulty entering into the woman’s concerns. The time passed pleasantly enough in chat about crops and chickens and children, until Mrs. Peabody struggled out of the coach in Rochester.

  “Best of luck, dearie,” she panted, her plump red face reappearing at the door a moment later.

  Her place was taken by a thin, taciturn clerk, and Rowena dozed for much of the rest of the way into London. When she roused, as the coach lumbered across Blackfriars Bridge, she was annoyed to realize that she had dreamed of riding round Chillenden with the dark-haired soldier.

  The yard of the White Bear Inn, in Piccadilly, was a bewildering confusion of coaches, horses and shouting people. Rowena found a boy to carry her trunk down the street to the Bull and Mouth, home of the Worcester stage, and she retired exhausted to her chamber with a bowl of soup.

  It was still dark next morning when she was called. She swallowed a hurried breakfast of bread and butter and tea before boarding the stage, which pulled out of the busy yard at precisely five o’clock. She had a seat by the window this time, and she enjoyed watching the scenery, all new to her. Nonetheless she was growing very weary by the time they reached Broadway, shortly before seven in the evening. It was difficult to avoid feeling apprehensive about the approach of her new life.

  A change of horses was waiting, and the coach stopped scarcely long enough to set down Rowena and her trunk at the White Hart before it rumbled on its way up the hill.

  The White Hart was an impressive, gabled building of Cotswold stone, its facade set back between two projecting wings. The ostler had disappeared, no one was about and Rowena suddenly felt very lost and alone. Bracing her shoulders she marched inside.

  The landlady hurried forward to greet her, then swept a scornful glance over her plain, travel-worn, grey dress.

  “Yes?” she enquired.

  Rowena’s chin rose. “Be so good as to inform me whether a carriage from Grove Park is waiting,” she said haughtily. “My aunt, Lady Grove, was to send someone to meet me here.”

  The woman thawed a little but shook her head. “No, miss, nobody here from Grove Park, though the stage were late as usual. ‘Spect you’d like a cup o’ tea while you wait?”

  Rowena thought of the shrinking number of coins in her purse. But she was nearly at the end of her journey, she did need refreshment and surely even so grand a place could not charge more than a penny or two for a cup of tea. She went into the coffee room, taking a seat by the window where she would see the moment her aunt’s carriage arrived.

  By the time the clock struck eight, dismay had become a cold certainty that she had been forgotten.

  * * * *

  It was dark when Rowena trudged up the steps of her aunt’s house and tugged on the bell-pull. The door swu
ng open and a large, stolid footman stared down at her.

  “Servants’ entrance is round to the right,” he directed with a disdainful sniff, as if he doubted that she was fit to appear even there.

  Rowena was too tired and dispirited for a display of pride.

  “I am Lady Grove’s niece,” she said quietly. “Please tell her ladyship that I have arrived.”

  He looked sceptical but opened the door far enough for her to enter. “Wait ‘ere,” he said firmly, then added as insurance lest she was more important than she appeared: “If you please, miss.”

  She set down her bandbox and sank into a straight chair with a tapestry seat, regardless of her dusty condition. Taking off her sadly crushed bonnet, she leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes until she heard footsteps.

  The footman returned with the butler, a small, stout personage with supercilious eyebrows and eyes as sharp as gimlets.

  “Miss Caxton?”

  Rowena nodded, glad that at least someone had heard of her.

  “Her ladyship was not expecting you tonight, miss, but I shall inform her of your arrival.”

  “Thank you. I should like to wash before I see my aunt.”

  “I shall inquire as to whether Mrs. Dart has had a room made up yet, miss.” He bent very slightly at the waist in a travesty of a bow and went off.

  Though polite, the butler’s attitude had most definitely been condescending. Rowena wondered if it was due to her bedraggled appearance, or if this was what she had to expect in future as a poor relation. Her aunt’s demeanour towards her would doubtless be reflected in the servants’ behaviour. Since Lady Grove had forgotten the date of her arrival, the butler had deduced that her position in the household was to be insignificant.

  She had resolved to bear with patience any slights the family might heap upon her, but she had not foreseen the possible insolence of their servants. It would be a constant struggle to keep her temper under such treatment.

  These unhappy thoughts were interrupted by a loud voice.

  “Rowena, my dear child, you are a day early!”

  A buxom lady was descending the stair in a rustle of purple satin, both hands held out in welcome. Much heartened by this greeting, however inaccurate, Rowena rose and curtsied.

  “Aunt Hermione,” she murmured, and went to embrace her aunt.

  She was held off at arms’ length.

  “Lud, girl, you are filthy! Never say that you walked from Broadway? Silly creature, you should have hired a gig or stayed the night at the White Hart. We did not expect you before tomorrow, for you wrote that you meant to leave home yesterday, and Millicent was persuaded that you would spend a day shopping in London. Millicent has had two Seasons in town, you know, and is convinced that the only proper modistes are to be found in London. She despises the shops in Broadway, and even in Cheltenham, and indeed her beauty deserves something better. She had suitors by the score, I promise you, but none were quite good enough for the dear girl. Millicent is too sensitive and discriminating to accept the first eligible offer. But we must not stand here chattering, my dear, when Millicent is waiting eagerly to greet you. And Anne and Sir Henry, too, of course!”

  “I am very tired and dirty, Aunt, as you observed. I should prefer to wait until tomorrow to meet Sir Henry and my cousins.”

  “Nonsense, child. Millicent will never forgive me if I do not make you known to her tonight.”

  Lady Grove started up the stairs, with Rowena following perforce. Before they reached the top, a tall, thin girl appeared on the landing. She was wearing the simple white muslin gown of a schoolroom miss, and her dark hair was pulled severely back from her pale face. Rowena thought her quite plain. Surely this was not the beautiful Millicent.

  “Cousin Rowena?” Her unexceptional looks were forgotten when she spoke, for her voice was low, melodious, with a bell-like clarity of tone. “I am Anne. How happy I am to meet you!”

  “So you have torn yourself from your book, Anne,” said her ladyship. “I fear Anne is quite the bluestocking,” she added to Rowena. “She will never have her sister’s success. Ah, there is Mrs. Dart. I will see whether your bedchamber is prepared. Mrs. Dart! Mrs. Dart!” She sailed away down a corridor.

  Rowena smiled sympathetically at her younger cousin.

  “Do you like to read?” the girl asked eagerly, ignoring her mother’s criticism.

  “I read the classics with Papa. Otherwise I have had little time for anything but agricultural journals. I daresay Cousin Millicent does not share your love of books?”

  “No, she never reads anything but Ackermann’s and the Ladies’ Magazine. Mama says I am no companion for her, which is why she is so pleased that you are come to live with us.”

  “I hope Millicent is also pleased?”

  “She is afraid that you might be a rival. She will be delighted that you are... Oh, I beg your pardon, cousin! Mama is forever scolding my wretched tongue. I am sure that when you have recovered from your journey and put on an elegant gown you will look quite differently.”

  Rowena was piqued, for though she did not count herself a beauty she was generally considered to be passably pretty. However, she was hardly at her best, and Anne looked at her so anxiously that she could not resent her comment.

  She forced her lips into a faint smile of reassurance. It was more and more difficult to behave with complaisance when all she wanted was to find her chamber, prepared or not, and sink into bed.

  Lady Grove reappeared. They followed her into a drawing room decorated in the Chinese fashion, with an overabundance of imitation bamboo and red lacquer. The only comfortable chair in the room was set before the empty fireplace, and in it slumbered a tall, thin gentleman. His resemblance to Anne made it plain that this was her father, Sir Henry Grove.

  In front of the window on the far side of the room, framed by curtains of scarlet Chinese silk embroidered with dragons and mandarins, stood a pianoforte. At it sat a young lady of startling loveliness. Her ringlets were the colour of new-minted guineas, gleaming in the candlelight. Eyes as blue as the midday sky, beneath delicately arched brows; a straight little nose; lips like a rosebud, with a charming suggestion of a pout; all these were set in a perfectly oval face with a complexion of flawless alabaster.

  Rowena had to agree: Millicent was a beauty.

  Her cousin did not rise to greet her but continued to play while her mother looked on with fond admiration. Rowena was ready to excuse herself and retire forthwith, when the sonata ended with a flourish.

  Millicent turned from her music with an elaborate show of surprise. “Dearest Mama, I did not realize you had returned. Is this my cousin?” The calculating look in her blue eyes was instantly replaced by dismissal as she took in Rowena’s dishevelled appearance. “How do you do, cousin,” she said carelessly, still remaining seated. “Do you play the pianoforte?”

  “No,” said Rowena baldly, then with an effort added, “I shall be delighted to listen to you tomorrow. At present I am too tired to appreciate your talent.”

  Millicent sniffed, turned back to the keyboard and began another piece.

  “The gentlemen are in raptures over her playing,” whispered Lady Grove. “Come and meet Sir Henry now.”

  “Papa is asleep,” objected Anne, “and Cousin Rowena not far from it.”

  Her words were ignored as her mother shook her father’s shoulder. “Sir Henry, here is my niece arrived early. You recollect I told you she was coining to live at Grove Park.”

  The baronet blinked in drowsy bewilderment as Rowena curtsied.

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” he murmured, and his head nodded again.

  Anne took Rowena’s hand and tugged her towards the door.

  “I shall take Rowena to her room now,” she announced firmly, and they made their escape before her ladyship could protest.

  Rowena was asleep before Anne left her chamber. If a certain soldier haunted her dreams, she was unaware of it.

  CHAPTER THREE<
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  Her first morning at Grove Park, Rowena was awakened by a maid who set a cup of tea on the table by her bed and flung back the window curtains to admit a flood of sunlight.

  “T’carrier brung your trunk from the White Hart already, miss,” the girl told her. “Miss Minton said as I’m to hang up your things.”

  “Miss Minton?”

  “Miss Millicent’s abigail. What’ll you wear, miss?”

  “I’m not sure. I should like a bath first, if you please.” Rowena had been too tired the night before to do more than wash her face and hands.

  “Doubt there’s time, miss.” The maid shook her head. “Miss Millicent wants to walk down to t’village and Miss Anne won’t go wi’ her so she sent to wake you. Miss Millicent gets that impatient, it don’t do to keep her waiting.”

  Rowena opened her mouth to say that her cousin could certainly wait while she bathed, when the impropriety of discussing the matter with a servant struck her. For the moment she would comply with Millicent’s expectations. At least the maid, though friendly, was properly respectful.

  The footman carried in her trunk and she donned the least crushed of her dresses, a pale grey muslin. She had never been much concerned with clothes, but she was longing to escape her half-mourning and wear colours again.

  She found Millicent in the breakfast room.

  “So here you are at last, Rowena. I have been waiting this age.”

  “Good morning, cousin. It looks like a beautiful day for a walk. I shall be with you shortly.”

  Despite Millicent’s obvious impatience, Rowena sat down to a hearty meal of toast, eggs and ham, for she had scarcely eaten in two days. She must demonstrate that though willing to oblige she was not to be bullied. She consumed every bite before putting on her bonnet and declaring herself ready to go.

  The house, an unpretentious manor built of the local stone, was situated in a shallow valley on the edge of the Cotswolds, facing west across the Vale of Evesham. As the girls walked across the park, Rowena saw that it was surrounded on three sides by rolling hills covered with grass cropped short by countless sheep. They left the park and followed a winding lane downhill between hawthorn hedges riotous with sweet-scented honeysuckle.