Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2)

Araminta

C
AROLINE
A
SHTON

Copyright © Caroline Ashton 2016

Caroline Ashton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved. If you have purchased the ebook edition of this novel please be aware that it is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and refrain from copying it.

Cover design based on
Composing a Letter
by Vittorio Reggianini

For translation rights and permission queries please contact the author’s agent

[email protected]

About the Author

C
aroline was born in Durham City but has lived in many different parts of the country before finally settling in Norfolk. Aged eleven, she began writing stories for the school magazine and has continued whenever work, marriage and raising three children have allowed. She started writing (almost) full time during a creative writing degree with the Open University. Caroline’s favourite activity, other than writing, is walking with her husband and two cocker spaniels.

Araminta
is the second of
The Regency Belles
series. The first novel,
Rowena
is being published simultaneously.

Caroline’s previous Regency novel
Follow Me
and her contemporary novel
Pulling Up The Weeds
are also available from Amazon

Author’s Note

T
his is a work of fiction set in the Regency period, but it includes mention of certain historical people and events. The actions of those people are entirely from my imagination and I have taken a small degree of licence with the date of the inquiry into the Convention of Cintra.

To my own spirited girl, with love

Chapter One

A
raminta Neave had neither aristocratic birth nor breeding. She did, however, have a father who was indecently rich. That, combined with fiery curls and a temperament to match, made her someone to be reckoned with.

Looking at her sitting pink-faced on the settee in the best private sitting room Grillon’s Hotel in London could offer, her father had to reckon with her now.

‘Oh no, Pa, no.’ Exasperation turned her voice breathless. ‘I don’t want a companion. Or a governess. Or whatever you want to call her.’ Her capable hands formed tight fists in her lap. ‘I’m nearly twenty one. Far too old for anyone like that.’

Frustration drove her off the spindly seat. The abrupt movement whisked a fringed cushion onto the floorboards beside the rug. Hands on hips, she glared at it. Hoisting her skirts, she kicked the cushion across the room. It sailed over the rug and bounced off the escritoire standing between the room’s twin windows.

‘There, now.’ Archibald Neave wagged a fat forefinger at her. ‘That’s just what I mean. No proper young lady would do such a thing.’

‘I don’t want to be a proper young lady.’ Araminta’s cheeks flushed as dark as the wide ruby stripes on her cream gown. She marched to the cushion, snatched it up and hugged it to her chest. Whirling to face her father, she plumped down backwards onto the sill of the nearest window. Her mouth clamped itself into a stubborn line. Silence filled the room until eventually her shoulders drooped and she sighed.

‘I like me as I am, Pa. All the
proper
young ladies I’ve seen are just little mice. All feeble and weak. Every one of them is too scared to squeak a word in case it’s not
proper
.’ Her eyes sparkled in the way that always turned her father anxious. ‘I don’t want to become a girl like that. And besides, I’m too tall and too . . . lively.’

‘But, ’Minta, proper girls marry lords. I want you to marry a lord.’

‘Well I don’t.’ She rose and the cushion dropped to the floor. ‘I want to stay with you, Pa. We’ve always been together. Ever since ma died.’

The word struggled out. Her memory held only the haziest image of her mother. She treasured it in the corner of her heart where the excitement of travelling with her father could never diminish it. She swallowed. The fingers of one hand rubbed at her forehead. With an effort she forced her mind from the memory. ‘I want to go back to India with you. Nobody there minds if I’m not proper.’

She turned away, resting her head against one of the window’s many small panes. Below her, crowds thronged Albemarle Street in the late August sunshine. One particular movement caught her eye. A fine chestnut hunter was skittering through the crush of carriages and people. It was beyond agitated. Its tossing head sprayed the silky mane from side to side and its wild eyes flicked from one distraction to another. A waving hand here. A passing carriage there. A ribbon flying too close from a woman’s bonnet. To Araminta’s experienced eyes its rider would soon lose control. His inability to soothe it would have it charging off at any moment and trampling people to the ground. Some would surely be hurt. Her concern diverted her attention from her father’s plans.

Ensconced in a wing chair, Archibald studied her. He knew her to be a valiant-hearted girl. Fearless and competent. And no-one could deny she was stunning. Taller than average, with hair the colour of glowing beech leaves in autumn, her striking figure attracted notice wherever she went. Although not even he would call her a beauty, once seen she was never forgotten. That her face was not quite perfect and her eyes were not quite blue had never mattered to him. He thought her wide mouth and misty grey eyes far superior to the milksop appearance of many young girls.

As far as he could tell, the opinion was widely shared. Araminta’s unwitting magic worked on everyone she met. Including him. That was surely why he’d indulged her so much since her ma had died. But now their recent visit to Lord Tiverton’s Darnebrook Abbey had convinced him that indulgence had been a mistake.

He’d been delighted by the invitation. The chance to assess the world of the
ton
was almost better than the opportunity to settle a business venture. He’d easily gauged how the land lay for his girl. After all, his financial success had come from his ability to sum people up correctly.

At Darnebrook it had taken him bare seconds to realise his girl’s animated nature did not suit the Marchioness. It might be perfect for travelling abroad but in the Tiverton drawing room it brought aristocratic up-and-down glances and a pursed mouth. Nor had Lord Tiverton escaped his share of sour expressions. His wife clearly thought he should have quit slaughtering the birds on his estate and fixed the matter in London. That would bring no tradesman under her roof, except in the kitchens where they belonged. Worse, his obstinacy had coincided the visit with the Abbey’s famed Summer Ball. An ungracious Lady Tiverton had been obliged to include the Neaves.

The event itself had cheered Archibald and mightily encouraged his ambition. A father’s money had overcome a lack of birth in the Past and he’d happily hand over the dibs for a suitable
parti
. But there was a limit to where he’d see them go. A lordly heir was what he wanted, no second son would do. Araminta’s popularity with the young gentlemen at the ball, despite her ladyship’s increasingly censorious glances, had assured him there’d be no trouble finding an admirer. More likely he’d have hordes of them to keep from the door.

No, it was the mothers who were the problem. If he could have Araminta charm the noble ladies too, the matter would be easily sealed.

‘The boys out there are all second sons,’ he said at last, bringing Araminta back to his plans. ‘And army at that. Nowhere near good enough for you.’

Araminta drifted back to the sofa. She subsided, slouching ungracefully against the padded back. Arms folded, legs out straight and ankles crossed, another sigh drained the fire from her.

‘I don’t want to marry a Lord This or a Duke That, Pa. One day I’ll be happy with someone I like. Just not yet. There’s still so much to see with you.’

Her father heaved his short, roly-poly figure out of the chair. The Cumberland corset laced under his shirt and waistcoat creaked. ‘Now ’Minta, it’s time you were settled. Like you said, you’re nigh on twenty-one. You’ll soon be an old maid.’

Araminta spread her hands. ‘But Pa, I’m all you have now.’

‘That’s not important.’

‘Yes it is.’ The misty grey eyes flashed. ‘It is.’

‘Girl, I won’t live for ever. I want to see you safe. It’ll ease my mind.’

‘Oh, Pa.’ Her striking figure shot upright. ‘You’re not going to die for years. Years and years. There’ll be plenty of time to settle me safely.’ Her words ceased abruptly. She studied him. ‘Pa?’ She swallowed. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there? I mean . . .’ The words dried in her mouth.

‘No, love, no. Don’t fret yourself. There’s nothing wrong.’

Araminta examined his face minutely. He looked at her, eyes wide under his wispy halo of grey hair. A slight smile lifted his plump cheeks. She had never known him lie to her in the past. She hoped beyond everything he was not doing so now. Catching her lip between her teeth she stood up and went to wrap her arms round him, swamping him in a fierce embrace.

‘Promise me, Pa?’ Her voice trembled with emotion.

‘Promise,’ he said into her ruby-stripe-clad shoulder.

Her arms hugged him even tighter. Determination filled her mind. From now on she would watch him closely.

He detached himself with difficulty and patted her arm. ‘Come now, ’Minta. I’ve made up my mind to it. I want you settled. I had hoped Miss Rowena would be your step-mama and find someone for you but she’s wed now so we’ll have to arrange it ourselves. A lady companion will be just the ticket. Someone to take you in hand.’

His daughter’s full mouth turned upwards into a reluctant arch. ‘You make me sound like a horse. They’re taken in hand.’

Archibald Neave spread his coat and hooked his thumbs into the armholes of his canary-yellow waistcoat. ‘Well you are a bit of a spirited filly, aren’t you?’ He ventured a comment from his previous thoughts. ‘Just think how Lady Tiverton stared at you.’

Araminta pounced on his words. ‘That’s it exactly, Pa. Poor Harriette is just what you want me to be. Think how she shrivelled when her mother spoke to her. It’s no wonder she blushed and stammered every time a man addressed her at the ball. I could never be like that. Lady Tiverton’s stares at my gowns or scowls at my dancing didn’t turn me. Such things never would. And the ball was great fun. I danced every dance.’

‘I know you did, girl, but think . . . Miss Rowena wasn’t like Lady Harriette.’

‘Oh, Pa. I’m not like her either.’ Araminta almost laughed. ‘She’s far too elegant and calm for me to copy.’

‘But you and the Earl of Conniston were great pals.’

Araminta smiled. Now he had been a man she’d liked. Someone who had let her ride neck-or-nothing across the Tiverton fields and not flinched at her divided skirt and man’s saddle. She knew, without regret, that she would never make a countess, not even for someone like him. Far too stuffy a life. She sighed again. And yet her father wanted a lord for her.

‘And,’ Archibald continued, ‘He married Miss Rowena. If you would be a little . . . quieter, like her, you could marry someone like him. All you have to do is listen to some advice and it’ll be fine.’

The expression on his face, half hopeful, half anxious, defeated her. ‘All right, Pa.’ She slouched down onto the settee again. ‘If that’s what you want, I’ll try. I’ll have a companion.’

A beaming smile puffed up Archibald’s cheeks again and almost buried his eyes. ‘That’s my girl. I knew you’d agree. It’s not like you to court the vapours.’ He walked, or rather, waddled across the room to a small piecrust table. He was a short and most definitely a wide person. He picked up a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve found a couple of candidates. They’re both calling on us this afternoon so we can look them over.’

‘Oh, Pa. You might have waited until I’d agreed.’

His pale eyes sparkled. ‘Get along with you. I knew you would. You’re a sensible thing. Most of the time, anyway.’ He pulled at the gold chain looped across his waistcoat. A fat watch slipped out of the pocket onto his fat palm. He flipped open the cover. ‘Five to three. The first one’s due here at quarter past.’

‘Who’s she?’

Archibald Neave squinted at the letter. ‘The Honourable Mrs Boulton-Cox.’ He moved the paper further away to arm’s length. ‘Of Carlton Green, wherever that is.’

‘Boulton-Cox? Ugh. I hope she’s not as stuffy as her name.’

She hoped in vain. After a quarter hour of the Honourable Mrs Boulton-Cox’s thin-voiced comments on behaviour appropriate for young ladies, Araminta and her father were in unspoken agreement. Their shared glances said Mrs Boulton-Cox would not do at all.

Archibald Neave bowed her out of the room with assurances that he would be writing to her within the day, one way or the other.

‘Pa,’ Araminta said as soon as the door had closed. ‘You’re never going to make me have her, are you? She’d drive me to distraction in a minute.’

‘No I’m not. I couldn’t stand that prissy speech for longer than ten breaths together.’ He grumped deep in his throat. His plump chest rose and fell, placing considerable strain upon his tailoring.

‘Who’s the other one?’

The second paper was scrutinised. ‘A Miss Wilhelmina Orksville. An ancient Yorkshire family, she says. References from . . .’ he held the paper at arm’s length again, ‘the Archbishop of York and a Sir Stanley Yearsley (Bart), whoever he might be.’ He read further. ‘According to her letter her family’s been there since Norman times.’

‘You mean she’s French?’ A smile lit Araminta’s grey eyes. Visions of an elegant little Frenchwoman clad in the latest fashions filled her mind. Her favourite past-time when not riding was studying the fashion plates in every copy of
The Ladies Journal
she could lay hands on. She had all her gowns made up in the same designs. ‘That’s far and away better than Mrs Boulton-Cox.’

‘Wilhelmina doesn’t sound French. More German if anything.’

‘Pooh. She’ll be French. I know it.’

Five minutes later, Araminta’s vision lay shattered on the floor. Wilhelmina Orksville would never convince anyone that she was either French or fashionable. Entering the room after a sharp rap on the door, she strode across it with man-sized strides. Her gown of dull grey print whipped about her thin ankles. Far from being short and curvaceously petite, she was tall and distressingly skinny. She shook Archibald Neave’s hand vigorously, staring down at him from her superior height.

‘You’ll be the father then.’ She cast a look at him from head to toe and back again. ‘Hmm,’ was all she said.

Archibald experienced the first ever inkling of doubt about his tailoring. Perhaps the canary-yellow waistcoat had been a mistake after all. He eased his neck inside the linen stock that was propping up his cascade of chins. Before he could reply, Miss Orksville had turned her gaze upon his daughter.

‘Hmm,’ she repeated, eyeing the ruby and cream stripes. ‘That gown will never do. Not if you’re wanting her to marry well.’ She spun back to Archibald. ‘You are wanting her to marry well, I take it? I assume that’s the reason for needing someone like me.’

‘Er . . .’

The basilisk stare swung back to Araminta. ‘Come here girl. Let me see your curtsey.’

Araminta’s mouth opened. Her father hurried to suppress what he knew would be the unsuitable retort hovering on her lips.

‘ ’Minta, oblige Miss Orksville please.’

‘ ’Minta?’ The thin grey eyebrows on Miss Orksville’s face rose. ‘ ’Minta? What sort of a name is that, pray? It will be given properly from now on, thank you.’

The Neaves, father and daughter, looked at each other.

‘The curtsey, miss. If you please.’

Araminta obliged. Her skirt sank and rose. Her eyes were decently lowered but the muscles round her mouth tightened. Across the room her father uttered a silent prayer that it would remain closed. He need not have worried. So many words of protest were tumbling into her mind that Araminta could scarcely decide which ones to use first.