Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (12 page)

Chapter Twenty

I
n the Marchment’s kitchen Ellie sat on the housekeeper’s chair sobbing into her apron with the cook and Bryonie Seaton, the maid, hovering round her.

‘Now then, Ellie, lass. Calm yerself and tell us what’s ailing you.’ Mrs Yomkins patted her shoulder.

Ellie sobbed and leaned towards her. Her shoulder connected with the cook’s bony hip. For a cook, Mrs Yomkins was less well-padded than most of her kind. In fact she was the skinniest cook in the county, something which caused significant comment well outside the Marchment household. She was nonetheless a kind-hearted woman.

‘Come on, dearie. Take a deep breath and tell us what’s up.’

Ellie sniffed. ‘It’s Miss Amabelle. She’s gone to Lyngham. On her own.’

‘Oo er,’ said Bryonie. ‘I thought she weren’t allowed out.’

‘I don’t think she is. She still hasn’t taken his lordship.’ Another sniff. ‘At least she hadn’t this morning.’

The cook straightened up from patting Ellie’s shoulder. ‘She oughtn’t to be doing that. Not on her own.’ A frown. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes . . . well . . . almost.’ Ellie said between sniffs. ‘She was talking to Master Matthew.’

‘Bryonie, get yerself down the stables and ask Master Matthew if she’s really gone to Lyngham. He’s after playing with that whelped bitch of his.’

Thrilled to be charged with such a delicate and interesting mission the maid dashed out of the kitchen, skirts flying. Less than two minutes later she arrived back in the doorway, gasping dramatically, cap awry.

‘Oo, Mrs Yomkins, he’s not there. Arthur says he saw him driving Miss Amabelle out of the yard.’

Fresh floods of tears burst from Ellie.

Mrs Yomkins rose to the occasion. ‘I’ll tell the missus. It ain’t right them running off like that. People’ll talk.’ She stared at Bryonie. ‘Make sure you’re not one of them, miss, or I’ll see to it you’re looking for another place by the morning. And no character to take with you.’

Every hint of excitement drained from Bryonie’s face. ‘Yes’m,’ she said to the cook’s departing back. She subsided onto a stool by the table. ‘And no character,’ she whispered.

Ellie snivelled into her apron.

It took Mrs Marchment several seconds to understand what her cook was telling her. ‘Gone to Lyngham? With Amabelle?’ She put down the latest copy of
The Ladies Journal
. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes’m. She told Ellie that she were set on going and Arthur says he saw Master Matthew driving their gig out of the yard.’

‘Dear me.’ Mrs Marchment studied the cover of her magazine for several more seconds. She drew a deep breath. ‘Well, thank you Mrs Yomkins. Leave it with me.’ She paused. ‘I’m sure I’ve no need to tell you that this must go no further.’

The cook nodded. ‘Of course not, mum.’

‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable reason for Miss Amabelle to have gone off.’

‘Of course, mum. Bound to be.’

The two women looked at each other. Mrs Marchment looked away. ‘Thank you then.’

The cook backed herself out of the room.

Gerald Marchment was ensconced in his study with his agent, Ernest Chisholm, a short, stooped man who was much more knowledgeable than he appeared.

Both men looked up when Mrs Marchment entered. ‘Mr Marchment, I need to speak to you. Now.’

Her husband blinked. He was never interrupted when closeted with his agent. However he nodded to the man. ‘Thank you, Chisholm.’

The agent bowed to no-one in particular and edged out of the room.

The second the door closed, Mrs Marchment’s composure vanished. ‘Matthew and Amabelle have gone off to Lyngham together.’

‘What?’

‘Didn’t you hear me? I said Matthew and Amabelle have gone off together.’ She sank into the chair pulled up to the desk opposite her husband.

‘You don’t mean eloped? ‘

‘Oh, I pray to goodness not.’

The study door opened.

‘Not now,’ Mr Marchment yelled.

Edward pushed the door further open. ‘Arthur says Matthew and Amabelle have gone off in the gig.’

‘Oh dear, no,’ his mother gasped.

‘Come in and shut the door. We don’t want the whole house knowing.’

Edward closed the door gently. ‘I have to tell you, sir, that Amabelle asked me to take her to Lyngham only a few days ago.’

‘You?’ his mother gawped at him.

‘What’s the chit playing at?’

‘She had some notion of taking up employment there.’

His father frowned. ‘Whatever for? She can’t do anything.’

‘Oh dear.’ His wife pulled a scrap of lace handkerchief out of her cuff. ‘It’s Lord Conniston.’ She sniffed into the lace. ‘The silly, silly girl.’ She sighed. ‘I always wondered at Sir Richard’s indulgence of her and now we see what it’s brought her to.’

The master of the house looked from one member of his family to the other. ‘Are you saying Conniston’s going to employ her in Lyngham?’ Disbelief coloured his voice.

‘No, sir. She’s running away from him. She don’t want to marry him.’

Comprehension failed to dawn. ‘I thought it was all arranged.’

‘No, Mr Marchment. She’s still refusing him and Sir Richard has banished her to her room until she agrees.’

‘Banished her? He should give her a good hiding. Edward, I’ll drop a note to Sir Richard. You can ride over with it.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll get my horse saddled.’

‘Do. And tell Arthur he’s to keep mumchance about all of this. It’s all a misunderstanding.’ He looked at his wife. ‘I’ll leave you to speak to anyone in the house who knows.’

His wife drew herself up. ‘I’ve already done so. I’m not entirely without sense.’

Mr Marchment bowed. ‘Of course not, ma’am. Unlike that stupid girl.’

Edward arrived at Southwold Hall with his horse in a sweat. He abandoned it at the front door, tossing Jessie’s reins and his hat to the surprised butler.

‘Where’s Sir Richard?’ he called, taking the two steps in one stride.

‘In the library, sir.’ Phillips caught the reins as if they were red hot. The hat fell to the ground. ‘Shall I –’

‘No bother. I’ll announce myself.’

Edward ran into the hall and hurried to the library door. He knocked and went in without waiting for an answer.

Sir Richard swung round in his chair. ‘Edward my boy, what’s all the haste?’

‘I’m sorry to intrude, sir, but . . . well, there’s news.’ He held out his father’s note. ‘You had better read this.’

Sir Richard took the fold of paper. His face stilled as he read it. Then it flushed from jaw to brow. He stood up. ‘Please tell your father I am much obliged.’

‘Shall you go after them, sir?’

‘Of course. I must. The girl will ruin herself otherwise.’ He strode towards the door.

‘Then may I accompany you?’

‘There’s no need, thank you.’

‘Perhaps it will occasion less comment if I do. Look more like a family party.’

Sir Richard paused. ‘Very well then. Thank you.’

Five minutes later they trotted out of Southwold Hall’s stableyard, looking for all the world as if they were going to inspect the hedges and ditches around Five Acre field. Once they were out of site they spurred their horses to the gallop, heading for the road to Fincham Wortly. Sir Richard’s horse resented the action and let him know it. He pulled at the reins and squeezed its flanks between his knees, forcing it to his bidding.

They slowed to a walk when the first buildings of Fincham Wortly came into sight. Further on, several stalls were clustered together in the centre of the town square. Sir Richard muttered under his breath. ‘It would be market day, wouldn’t it?’

Edward nodded to an acquaintance. ‘It won’t matter, sir,’ he whispered back. ‘No-one will wonder that we’re riding out today.’

‘Let’s hope they didn’t see Amabelle.’

They cleared the town, pausing only to let the horses drink at the trough outside the inn.

‘Come on.’ Sir Richard spurred his horse. ‘They can’t be much farther on. Not if your brother’s any sense at all in his head.’

They galloped along the road, under trees meeting overhead, past farms and cottages and over the bridge at Ersham Magna.

‘Thank God there’s been no rain,’ Edward gasped, holding Jessie steady. ‘At least we’re spared the mud.’

‘Yes, but so are they.’

The road ahead bent round a shallow hill on the left. Reaching the apex of the curve, Edward raised his arm and pointed into the far distance. ‘There they are.’

Ahead of them a gig was proceeding at plodding pace along the road. The couple in it sat with their heads together in a manner that seemed over-friendly. Sir Richard spurred his horse to the gallop.

‘Yikes,’ Edward gasped and set off in pursuit.

Sir Richard’s horse took exception to having its ribs repeatedly kicked with two boot-heels. It flattened its ears and did its utmost to escape them. Its hooves flew over the ruts and stones of the dry road. A cloud of dust billowed in its wake.

‘Sir Richard! Sir Richard, slacken your pace, I beg you.’

His words failed to reach the angry father. He neared the gig. The sound of his tumultuous approach disturbed the passengers. They turned. Whoever the young couple were, they were certainly not Amabelle and Matthew.

Sir Richard dragged on his reins. His poor mount, much tried by the pursuit, reared on its hind legs, protesting loudly. The female in the gig screamed at the foam-flecked horse and struggling rider bearing down on her.

Her screams panicked Sir Richard’s horse further. He cursed loudly and struggled to regain control before horse and gig collided in an incident that could only spell disaster. His hands, however, were damp with sweat. The reins slid through them. Unable to maintain a grip, his horsemanship was no match for the distressed animal. It bucked and reared again. Sir Richard slid from the saddle and crashed to the ground. The female in the gig screamed louder.

Sir Richard landed with hip, shoulder and head. He rolled onto his back and lay still. The horse’s hind leg caught him squarely on his thigh before it cantered off down the road.

Dragging his reins and clutching his pretty companion close, the gig driver heaved his own plodding mare to a halt. The two young people stared at the motionless figure on the ground. Silence filled the air. Then the female in the gig screamed again.

Edward arrived. He leapt from the saddle. ‘For God’s sake stop screaming woman. You’re scaring the horses. Haven’t you done enough?’

‘Us?’ the driver shouted. ‘We’ve done nowt. It’s that madman’s fault.’ He pointed at Sir Richard. ‘What cause had he to be charging us down like that?’

‘He thought you were his daughter eloping.’ Edward knelt beside the prone figure.

‘Eloping? What d’you mean, eloping?’ The young man’s plump face turned ruby red. ‘Beth and I were proper wed last Michelmas. Ask Parson Wilberforce if you don’t believe me.’

Sir Richard was lying very still. Edward knelt beside him.

The driver ceased his staunch defence of his right to be driving in a gig with a young woman who was legally his wife. He peered at Sir Richard. ‘Is he dead?’ A sob broke from the girl’s throat.

Edward laid a hand on Sir Richard’s forehead. He bent lower, holding his head close to Sir Richard’s mouth. ‘He’s still breathing.’ He looked at the leg the horse had trodden on. It lay at an awkward angle. ‘Tie the gig to that tree.’ He pointed. ‘We’ll have to get him into it somehow.’

‘Won’t he have to lie down?’ the driver asked. ‘The gig’s not big enough for that.’

Edward chewed his lip. He looked around. Off to the left, a farmhouse stood facing down the hill they had just passed. ‘Take my horse and see if they’ve a wagon we could use.’

‘They will have. That’s old Ellerby’s farm.’ The young man jumped out of the gig. ‘Get you down, Beth and hold Fay’s head.’

Beth stared at him, hands pressed to her mouth. Her husband sighed. He pulled the gig’s reins towards the hedge and tied them to a hawthorn branch before mounting Jessie and trotting away, looking for a gate to the field.

Edward loosened Sir Richard’s cravat and coat. A trickle of blood ran down one temple. He mopped it with the tail of the cravat. Sir Richard moaned.

It felt like hours before the young man reappeared on Edward’s horse. Behind him, a wide man of middle years whose rubicund face told of hours on the open air drove a farm wagon. Seated beside him was a plump woman clutching a basket.

‘This be Mr Ellerby,’ the young man announced. ‘And missus.’

The farmer peered at Sir Richard prone on the ground and Edward kneeling beside him. ‘Nah then, what be going on?’

‘This gentleman has taken a fall,’ Edward said.

‘Ah.’ Mr Ellerby peered closer. ‘Is he dead?’

‘No, but I must get him to his home.’

‘Right you are then. Get you down, Mary gal, and hold us still while we sort the gentleman.’

The woman put the basket onto the seat and clambered down. She was short and motherly with an ample bosom. Mr Ellerby directed, instructed and ordered the two young men’s actions until the three of them had the gig out of the way, the wagon turned round and Sir Richard laid as comfortably as possible on the hay in the back.

‘Right,’ the farmer said when all was to his satisfaction, including a small swig of brandy dispensed to everyone, including the Beth, from a bottle in his wife’s basket. ‘Let’s be moving. Mary gal, you get up beside the poor soul and keep an eye on him.’ He lifted his wife’s basket off the seat and dumped it beside Sir Richard. ‘Davy, lad,’ he said, turning back. ‘You might as well get on your way. I can take the wagon to the gentleman’s home with this young sprig.’

Edward was not sure he cared to be described as a young sprig but he was too relieved to have an older, capable-looking person to take charge of the nightmare to worry much about it. Tying Jessie’s reins to the tail gate, he clambered up beside the farmer.

Suitably subdued and with great care, the convoy plodded back along the road. The only sounds were the birds calling overhead, an occasional moo from the cattle in the fields and the creak of the wagon wheels.

Sir Richard made no sound at all.

Chapter Twenty One

T
he ladies stood near the tall main door in Darnebrook Abbey’s vast hall. Araminta Neave was dressed for travel in a green pelisse over a ruby and cream striped gown. A feather floated at the side of her bonnet á la Ecosse. Lady Tiverton stared at it and sniffed. Behind her, backed by a line of grey-gowned maids in snowy pinafores and caps, Garton studied the opposite wall

Araminta grasped Harriette’s shoulders in her gloved hands and hugged her.

‘Being here’s beyond anything. I’m so glad we’re such friends.’ She released her. ‘You must come and visit us in London as soon as you can. Pa is renting a house there. St James’s Square, he said.’

A long breath was drawn into Lady Tiverton’s long nose. At least seven Dukes and four earls had houses in St James’s Square. Worse, the Tiverton town house was not among them. She consoled herself with the thought that anything the Neave’s were renting must be on the least fashionable side. She looked down the long nose. ‘On the south side, I assume.’

‘I don’t know. Pa didn’t say.’ A beaming smile washed over everyone. ‘He did say it was opposite the Duke of Ellonby’s house.’

The west side. Sophronia Tiverton swallowed the gall that rose in her throat.

‘And he said Viscount Fosbury lived next door.’

Lady Tiverton shuddered, thankful that Constance Fosbury would be ensconced on the Viscount’s estates by now, well away from any attempt by Miss Neave to presume a claim upon her acquaintance – her very slight acquaintance – with herself.

‘So you’ll come then?’

Harriette glanced up at her mother’s rigid face. ‘If Mama permits. Thank you.’

‘And you too, Rowena?’

‘It is most kind of you but I am needed at home.’

‘Indeed.’ Lady Tiverton bestowed a wide smile on her niece. ‘And Harriette will be accompanying her cousin back to Southwold Hall. To see Amabelle.’

Harriette blinked, as did Rowena. No such plan had been mentioned to them.

‘Oh, that is sad.’ Araminta stared at the floor for a second or two. Her face brightened again. ‘But we’ll be there for the whole of the Season too. You’re bound to be back in London for that. We can see each other then if you can’t come before. Does Lord T have a London house?’

‘Of course.’ Lady Tiverton almost snorted.

‘It’s in Grosvenor Street,’ Harriette said. Her mother glared.

‘Excellent.’ Araminta clapped her hands. ‘We must be practically neighbours.’ Her smile widened. ‘Pa said I might have my own curricle so I can drive you along The Row every day. Won’t it marvellous?’

Harriette realised from her mother’s expression that she would soon be hearing just how marvellous it would not be. She foresaw an endless series of visits to her mother’s acquaintances in London specifically intended to render her unavailable for driving along Rotten Row in any conveyance at all.

A door opened behind them. Male voices emerged.

‘You’ve convinced me, Neave. I’ll have the papers drawn up.’ Lord Tiverton escorted his guest towards the doors under Conniston’s bland stare.

Archibald Neave beamed. ‘I thought you’d see it my way, Lord T. You look like a man of sense.’ He buffeted his host’s arm with a playful punch. His hostess suppressed another shudder.

‘Ah, Lady T, delighted to have made your acquaintance.’

Sophronia Tiverton, fearing she would be the recipient of a similar mark of approval, rapidly extended three fingers for him to shake. ‘It has been an education, Mr Neave.’

Bowing, he produced another of his broad smiles. ‘Miss Rowena. I hope to see more of you.’ He wagged a fat finger at her. ‘I shalln’t let you forget my offer.’

Waves of embarrassment rushed up Rowena’s back and flooded into her cheeks. Garton continued to stare at the wall. Lord Conniston did not. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at Rowena. Her blush deepened.

‘Let me show you to your carriage.’ Lady Tiverton surged through the door like a ship under sail, obliging the rest of party to straggle in her wake. Rowena found herself beside Conniston and hurried forward until she was beside her cousin instead.

The leave-taking between Harriette and Miss Neave was affectionate and protracted. Lady Tiverton brought it to a halt. ‘Say goodbye, Harriette. Mr Neave will wish to make a good start.’

With a final hug and a wave to Rowena, Araminta relinquished Harriette and climbed into the carriage after her father. Scant moments later, Lady Tiverton had turned her back and entered the house leaving Harriette lingering under the portico watching Araminta’s handkerchief fluttering from the window. She waved back until the carriage had disappeared into the avenue of lime trees, blocked from sight by the following baggage coach carrying the Neaves’ maid and valet.

In the great entrance hall, Lady Tiverton’s relieved sigh drifted up to the painted and gilded ceiling. The Marquess cast a furtive glance over his shoulder and beat a hasty exit towards his library. Standing a few paces from Rowena, Conniston watched his hostess’s departure with an amused smile lifting one corner of his mouth.

‘Harriette,’ Lady Tiverton called. ‘Come in at once.’ Her strident voice caused the nearest maid to wince. The girl hastily rubbed her nose as if a sneeze had threatened.

Harriette drooped at the outermost edge of the sheltered portico. She stopped gazing wistfully at down the drive and with dragging footsteps, moved towards the door still held open by a stony-faced footman. She paused for a final backward glance.

‘Don’t dawdle,’ Lady Tiverton snapped. ‘And should Miss Neave ever write to you with an invitation you may answer with your regrets.’

‘But, Mama,’ Harriette reached the threshold. ‘I don’t know I should need to decline. We don’t know what dates she might offer.’

‘The dates are immaterial. You will be otherwise engaged whenever they are.’

Evincing little interest in his hostess’s instructions to her daughter, Conniston approached Rowena who was absently running a finger across the smooth stone of the centre pillar. His voice was low. ‘Miss Harcourt-Spence, might I persuade you to take advantage of the sun and join me in a stroll along the avenue?’

‘Oh, no, really. I ought –’

Even at a distance, Lady Tiverton’s ears were in fine working order. She paused in her progress across the hall. Returning to the door with a caustic glance at Harriette still lingering there, she surveyed her niece’s pink cheeks. ‘Gracious me, child. Stop being so missish. There can be no exception at all in your strolling around the grounds with Conniston. Why, he’s practically family.’ She squinted at Rowena’s fair skin. ‘Just be sure to stay in the shade as much as possible. We don’t want you coming out in freckles again.’

Rowena wished the marble tiles under her feet would dissolve and swallow her up. ‘Perhaps Harriette would care for a walk too.’ She looked at her cousin who was again gazing down the empty avenue, apparently lost in a world of her own, a distinct hint of tears in her eyes.

‘No she would not.’ Lady Tiverton twitched the shawl draped over her elbows. ‘I need her with me.’

Conniston sketched a minimal bow and directed a minimal smile at Lady Tiverton. ‘Shall we?’ he said to Rowena.

He shepherded her away from Harriette who heaved a sigh that lifted her shoulders. ‘Her own curricle. How wonderful.’

‘It will be wonderful if she doesn’t break her neck,’ Conniston said. He trod down the first two steps.

Harriette’s attention returned. ‘What?’ Her face brightened. ‘Are you going for a drive?’

Rowena looked meaningfully at her cousin. ‘Lord Conniston has suggested a stroll.’

Harriette stepped forward. ‘That will be better than nothing. Better than sitting around stitching a handkerchief and wishing Araminta could have stayed longer.’

‘Harriette.’ Her mother repeated. ‘Come here at once. I said I needed you with me.’

Harriette drooped. ‘Yes, Mama.’ She trailed into the house on a wave of sighs.

Still staring into space, the footman closed the door behind her.

Left on their own, Conniston extended his hand to assist Rowena down the steps. The gesture made her feel a hundred years until the warmth of his touch made her stunningly conscious of her real age and feelings.

Conniston waited until she stood on the ground before releasing her hand. ‘Lady Harriette seemed mighty taken with the idea of driving a curricle herself.’ He looked at her face, so calm it appeared almost expressionless. ‘I suppose it would hold no appeal for you.’

Rowena clasped her hands together, hurriedly suppressing the tingle left by his touch. His nearness and his assumption that she might be no more than a boring sort of female caused her eyes to sparkle.

‘Why, sir? Why should you suppose I would not like to drive such a vehicle?’

He glanced at her in surprise, then bowed. ‘Forgive me, Miss Harcourt-Spence, I am obviously in error.’ He studied her flushed face. Something of a gleam entered his eyes. ‘Allow me to rectify my fault. Shall we instead stroll to the stables and have my phaeton put to? Not a curricle, I’m afraid but nonetheless, much more exciting than a governess cart.’ Rowena gasped. ‘Ah, I see the idea appeals.’ He smiled. ‘Come – let us to the stables.’

Rowena gave way to the increasing suspicion that he was teasing her. She folded her hands at her waist and composed her features. ‘Another day, perhaps, my lord. I fear any more excitement after Miss Neave’s departure might produce a fit of the vapours.’

A crack of laughter emerged before he smiled at her. ‘You are being missish again, as your aunt would say.’

Despite her best intentions, Rowena smiled back.

‘I see having you as a sister will be one entertainment after another.’ His smile widened.

Rowena’s vanished. She glanced at him with anxious eyes. He had turned and was surveying the immaculate lawns that swept from the house down to the lake. She hoped he had failed to notice the sudden change in her expression. He gestured at the stand of trees planted by Tiverton’s grandfather, or rather, by his gardeners.

‘The lime avenue it is then.’ He waited until Rowena moved before falling into step beside her. ‘Perhaps now is a fortunate opportunity to discuss the arrangements I shall make after the marriage.’

Rowena stopped walking. ‘Arrangements?’

‘Indeed. I had proposed to take Amabelle to France and then on to Italy. Assuming it will be safe to do so by then, of course.’ He turned to her. A slight breeze disturbed his hair, ruffling one brown lock onto his forehead. ‘But now I am less sure. Do you think she would enjoy the galleries and buildings? The history, perhaps?’

Rowena was very certain Amabelle would not. She, on the other hand . . . she strode out again, faster than she intended. The ancient branches of the first pair of limes closed over her head, hiding her expression in their green dappled gloom. ‘I fear it might be somewhat trying for her to be so far away from home.’

Pebbles crunched under Lord Conniston’s boots. He flicked at a leaf drifting down. ‘Is that your tactful way of indicating she has no interest in the treasures of Europe?’

She suppressed a sigh. Memories of hours spent in her father’s study poring over his books filled with pictures of Paris, Rome, Venice and the many other cities that he had brought home from his Grand Tour invaded her mind. Another sigh of longing did escape and drift into the air. ‘Perhaps when she is a little older . . .’

Conniston frowned. ‘I see.’ He walked on in silence.

The cattle in the field beyond the avenue looked up from the grass, their jaws rotating with their ceaseless chewing. They watched his progress with large, incurious eyes, content to stay their side of the railings.

Rowena was obliged to hurry her steps to keep up with him. ‘She
is
still very young, sir.’

‘Indeed.’

More paces.

More silence.

The cows resumed their attention to the grass.

In the green cathedral of high branches three swallows swooped into, only to disappear as fast as they came. Rowena stole a look at his face. His expression appeared stern, rather like her father’s when a groom he had trusted had been brought before him for stealing.

Conniston stopped. He swung round. ‘If you came with us, perhaps?’

Delight filled Rowena. ‘Oh, I would . . .’ She bit back the words as reality struck, obliterating the momentary surge of delight. She swallowed. ‘I am honoured by your consideration but it is impossible for me to leave home. Papa and Cousin Thomasina . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

‘Cannot Miss Quigley supervise the household for a few weeks?’

A slight bitterness tinged her laugh. ‘You were not there, my lord, when she ordered sparrows for Christmas Day’s nuncheon. Nor when she all but set fire to the new linen else you would not say such a thing.’

Conniston stared at her. ‘Sparrows? For Christmas?’ A half shake of his head. ‘Incredible.’

Rowena rubbed three fingers against her temple, hiding her expression from him. ‘I know.’

Conniston surveyed her. ‘The housekeeper perhaps?’

‘No. Papa thinks Cousin Thomasina manages well enough.’

‘I see.’ He bent his head, trying to see her averted face. ‘So ordering the household falls to you?’ A silent nod. ‘But, Miss Harcourt-Spence, does not your father realise?’ A shake.

Several wordless moments passed until Conniston drew a deep breath. ‘So it is unlikely you would be able to visit your sister for any length of time once she was established at Ampney Park?’

‘I fear not.’ Rowena was not quite sure whether that would be a blessing or the reverse. Tears prickled her eyes.

‘That is most unfortunate. I had looked forward to seeing you there. As would Amabelle.’

Rowena discovered her handkerchief had dropped from her sleeve somewhere. She sniffed in a regrettable fashion.

Conniston cleared his throat. ‘Pray do not distress yourself, Rowena. I will see to it that you can visit Amabelle. After so many years together it is no surprise that you expect to miss her.’

Rowena swallowed, trying hard to overlook his use of her name. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered brokenly.

His face in the shade of the trees looked dark. The scar on his cheek seemed to gleam whiter.