Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2) (22 page)

Chapter Twenty Seven

T
he next day had Araminta in a fresh fit of the fidgets and the rain forming large puddles in the street. She pulled a straight-backed chair up to the window and peered through the raindrops coursing down the glass.

‘Is this rain never going to stop?’

Wilhelmina looked up from where she was reclining on a settee drawn closer to the sputtering fire. ‘It will be the hills, I expect. It always rains on hills.’

‘Well it’s raining on us too and . . .’ Araminta caught herself up, aghast at the petulant tone in her voice. ‘Heavens,’ she said. ‘I sounded just like a spoilt brat. I fear I am turning into a simpering miss.’

‘The day you simper,’ Wilhelmina said with some asperity, ‘is the day cats will grow wings.’

Araminta chuckled. ‘I fear
you
have the right of it. I shall never be a proper miss.’ A frown pleated her brow. She swivelled round on the chair and clasped her hands in her lap. ‘Do you think Freddie’s parents will take to me?’

There was a pause before she was answered. ‘I think they will . . . eventually. Once they have come to know you I am sure they will learn to appreciate what you can bring to the family.’

The frown deepened into something less innocently worried. ‘You mean Pa’s wealth?’

‘Oh, no. The Ellonbys stand in no need of that. No . . .’ Wilhelmina studied the wilful but charmingly disarming redhead. ‘You are courageous and spirited. Just what a family needs to enliven their blood.’

Araminta’s laugh filled the room. ‘Am I a horse then? Or a dose of some restorative that dreadful Doctor Winterspoon would suggest?’

She won a smile from the faded face. ‘That’s all very well but you must remember to speak more properly about Their Graces. And Lord Frederick too.’

‘What? I’ve never said anything impolite about them. Nor has Freddie.’

‘Now that comment is what I mean. You must always take care to refer to them as Their Graces, or His or Her Grace.
Your parents
shows too much familiarity. Nor should you refer to Lord Frederick as Freddie.’

‘But we agreed we should call each other by name.’

‘That’s as may be but in company you must be proper. I doubt you will hear Lord Frederick refer to you as Araminta when others are present.’

The titan curls tossed. ‘Well all I can say is the sooner we are married and removed from London society the better.’

Wilhelmina watched her charge slump an arm over the back of the chair and balance her chin on it. ‘I think you brought your paints with you. Why don’t you sketch the view?’

‘No. It’s too drab. All grey and wet. I like colours.’

Remembering the burgundy striped dress that was her first view of Araminta’s preference for colours, Wilhelmina believed her. She settled herself to a day of impatient girlishness, if not downright missishness.

The next morning the skies had cleared. A stroll to the Pump Room to enter their names in the Book as convention dictated was possible. Wilhelmina declined a chair most forcefully.

‘It is not far. The exercise will be beneficial.’

‘At least take this shawl.’ Araminta draped a length of fine wool about Wilhelmina’s shoulders before they set off down Milsom Street.

They made slow progress. Entering the Pump Room at last, Araminta stared around her. It failed to impress. Yes it had tall windows, all closed at the moment, with fluted columns between them but the ceiling was quite plain. She bent her head to Wilhelmina’s ear. ‘How disappointing. It’s not even as pretty as the Tiverton’s ballroom.’

She received a sharp tap on her wrist. ‘No names. Dropping names into one’s conversation is the sure sign of a social climber.’

Araminta’s voice lowered. Her eyes twinkled. ‘Be honest now, that’s what pa wants for me.’

Wilhelmina was tempted to bestow another tap but her honesty overcame her. ‘Very true,’ she smiled. ‘Now behave yourself.’ She walked on, bowing to a slight acquaintance but not pausing. ‘I shall take a glass of the waters.’

Heads followed her passage, or more correctly, that of Araminta. Two women were standing behind a counter stationed between a pair of pillars. Glasses of the famous water stood on it. Wilhelmina lifted one and sipped it. The striking aroma reached Araminta.

‘Ugh.’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘Do you really drink that?’

The elder of the two serving women stared at her. ‘It is very beneficial, ma’am. Even Royalty take it.’

Araminta’s opinion of Royalty did not improve. She stood patiently until the foul-smelling water had been consumed with a shudder. When the glass was lowered she said, ‘What would you like to do now?’

‘I think we shall leave. Unless I’m mistaken there’s a retired colonel near the third window with whom I’m acquainted. He appears to be puzzling over whether to approach.’

Araminta turned her head.

‘Don’t look round or he will.’ She led the way to the door.

‘But if he’s an acquaintance you could talk to him and I could . . . well, I could do something else. There must be someone here I can talk to.’

‘No you may not. You know no girls here and now you’re betrothed it is absolutely forbidden for you to engage in conversation with any other gentleman.’

‘What?’ Araminta’s exclamation brought several glances in her direction. ‘Oh, that really is too bad. Do you mean I mayn’t even talk to Mr Blythburgh?’

‘No-one could object if you do so privately in Lord Frederick’s company but not otherwise. It would open you to suspicion.’

‘Well that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Surely being affianced should make one less open to suspicion, not more?’

‘It’s the convention. You must accustom yourself to it.’

The remark was greeted with a silence that would have caused her father to worry.

Outside the Pump Room, the pace of Araminta’s steps increased. She stared about her with angry eyes, trying to see a woman talking to a gentleman. She saw only one. Stooped and wearing a gown of a style that had not been fashionable for some years, a woman tottered unevenly along the pavement, her arm through that of a grey-haired man. They looked to be over seventy. Apart from him, there were very few other men. Any there were showed no interest in the females clustered around shop windows, nor those lingering to chat in pairs or groups. No chance of breaking with convention here. It was all female nonsense, Araminta decided. A restriction decreed by nothing more than jealousy.

Not a word was spoken until she realised that her stride up the gentle incline of Milsom Street was defeating Wilhelmina. Her heart was immediately contrite.

‘I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’ve raced ahead and tired you. Please take my arm.’

‘Thank you, I believe I will.’ The words came with a small gasp. She rested her uninjured arm on Araminta’s raised one. Their progress to York House hotel was slow and slowing. Araminta studied her chaperon’s face with concern.

Wilhelmina kept to her bed the next morning, causing Araminta more concern and a lot of guilt. Her offer to read from her novel or even the day’s journal was declined with a small wave of a hand.

‘I fear you must endure another day indoors.’ Wilhelmina lay on her pillows, her cap askew and her grey hair fringing from it.

‘Oh, I shan’t mind. At least the sun is shining today. I might even paint the view.’

The comment won a slight smile. ‘Now I know you’re being pert. There’s no view worth painting from any of our windows.’

‘Don’t fret about me. I’m sure I can survive another day’s confinement.’ Araminta bent over the bed to straighten the covers. ‘Call me if there is anything you need.’

Her false bravura faded as she moved from the bedroom to the sitting room. She exhaled a heavy sigh.

Every moment of the morning dragged until Hollins scratched on the door and entered with two letters in her hand. Both of them bore the inscription
Miss A Neave
. Araminta grabbed them. She waved Hollins away and settled by the window eagerly ripping the wafer of the one with the writing she recognised.

My Dearest Girl
, it began.

I am missing You sorely and Hope this finds You well. And Miss Orksville.

I have spent much Time in Bond Street. It has become quite the Place to meet. Wilh Miss Orksville’s idea of a Tea Room has proved to be Very Well-Founded. We have more Ladies taking a dish than I have ever seen in the one place.

I have seen your Freddie once and he is well. He tells me I may contact him at The Albany where he is staying with his Friend Blythburgh.

Araminta frowned. Why was Freddie staying there?

Lord Freddie is as Cheery as ever though I fear he may be contracting a Rheum or some such. He lapsed quite quiet while Mr Blythburgh engaged me in chat. Mr Blythburgh quite surprised me. Apparently Freddie is minded to find some Employment. Odd. I made sure he had Elegant Means from his family but you never can tell.

A blot marred the page.

Wixhill has just come in with the latest Manifest so I must close.

Take care, Dearest Girl

I hope to see you soon

Your ever loving

Pa

Araminta sat with the letter folded in her lap for several moments, staring at nothing in particular. The horrid notion that Freddie’s parents had been displeased by his news could not escape her. Her small teeth chewed at her bottom lip. She tried to remember everything she had ever heard of the ninth Duke. None of it reassured her. Her fingers clenched on her father’s letter until she remembered the second one and they flew to open it.

Dear Ma’am

I write to tell you I am arrived safely as is your esteemed Father. I learnt much of the shipping business on the journey.

If you wish to contact me, please use the direction

Care of the Hon Mr E Blythburgh

The Albany

Piccadilly

London

Your ob’nt servant

Frederick Danver

The words drove Araminta’s worries to greater heights. She was certain the Duke had refused his consent. Tears sprang to her eyes. Now it was under threat, the pleasure in Freddie’s company was greater than she had acknowledged. Not even in the stunning moment he had offered for her and her heart had leapt with understanding and delight. One salty drop slid over a lid and down her cheek. She could not, in all honour, be the cause of an estrangement between Freddie and his family. The tear dropped onto his signature. Another followed until the ink blurred and his name faded into greyness.

Araminta spent a restless night and a morning so filled with agitation Wilhelmina grew anxious in her turn. Every one of her gentle enquiries elicited no response. They succeeded only in sending the fretting girl to her own room to spend tortured hours attempting to write a letter to release Freddie from his engagement.

Writing a version she could bear to read let alone send cost her many tears and many fresh starts. With crumpled paper littering the floor she could finally do no more than dash off her heart-felt thoughts.

Freddie
,

Why are you staying with Mr Blythburgh? I fear it is I’ve caused a rift between you and your p their Graces. I beg you will tell me as soon as may be for I have no wish to be such an imposition. Were it possible to gain their approval I would be so happy but I cannot bear to be such a burden to you. I am sure it would become intolerable as time passed. It would tear my heart to see you suffer. Perhaps it is best we part now while there are fewer happy memories to hold.

Tell me the truth I beg you.

Araminta.

In great anguish, she folded it, sealed it with a wafer, inscribed the address and rang the bell for Hollins, telling her to give it to footman Borrick to send it off post haste.

Untouched by the curious glance Hollins gave her pink face and puffy eyes as she pulled the door closed, she flung herself on her bed. Tears spilled into her pillow.

At breakfast next morning Wilhelmina declared herself quite recovered. The discovery that one, Mrs Eveline Sherland, had left a card was responsible for the announcement in no small measure.

‘I haven’t seen Eveline since . . . oh, since we were girls at the Academy in Kirkby. I believe I shall invite her to take a dish of tea tomorrow.’ She paused. ‘Oh no, tomorrow is Sunday. Monday, then.’ A scrawl on the back of the card caught her eye. ‘Why she says a Colonel Draige begs leave to accompany her.’ She tapped the card against her cheek, concentrating. ‘Now I do believe he was in India.’ Her face brightened. ‘Perhaps he is acquainted with Mr Neave. How pleasant for you.’

Pleasure was not the first emotion to cross Araminta’s mind. All of her thoughts were focussed on the possible – the certain – arrival of a letter from Lord Frederic Danver that would bring her new-found happiness to an end.

Chapter Twenty Eight

L
ord Frederick lounged in his best superfine in the club chair in Everett’s set in a way that earned his valet sympathetic glances from Everett’s man. That each glance was delivered with a distinct edge of superiority added to Kidwall’s chagrin.

Frederick himself was the recipient of a significant glance from his host. ‘I don’t see what you can do, dear chap. If His Grace is set upon it, then you’re in the very devil of a quandary.’

There was no reply to the observation. Frederick thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. He slouched further down until his chin was buried in his crumpled cravat.

‘Mind you,’ Everett continued, gazing absently at the window, ‘your pater always was rather high in the instep.’ He pulled his attention back to Frederick. ‘You can’t please him and you can’t cry off from Miss Neave.’ The carefully nurtured fair curls shook. ‘No. I can’t see a way out.’

‘Thanks. I’m mighty grateful.’ The hands were dragged out of the pockets. Frederick pushed himself out of the chair. ‘I’ll just have to find some employment.’

‘Employment?’ Everett gasped as if he had been punched in the chest. ‘But what?’ He surveyed his friend as he paced the room. ‘It’s not as if you’re exactly top-notch at anything. Other than horses. And you couldn’t go as a groom. The girl’s not going to share some country hovel with you. She’s been used to the best money can buy. And plenty of it.’ An expression of intense concentration formed on his face. ‘Of course you could always apply to her father. He must have dozens working for him.’ Enthusiasm flooded his features. ‘Yes . . . apply to be his secretary. He’d go for that.’

‘That’s all fudge.’ Frederick’s brows drew together. ‘First, he wouldn’t want me and second, I’m not going to hang on his sleeve. As if I would!’

‘There’s no need to fly into a dudgeon. It was only a notion. Anyway, I think you’re wrong. From what I’ve seen of him, he’d be delighted to have a lord bear-leading him around. You’d impress any Cits he met for certain.’ His eyes assessed the crumpled superfine coat. ‘At least you would if you stop ruining your man’s best efforts.’ He sighed, uncertain if the state of his friend’s attire or his current dilemma concerned him most. He gave himself a shake. It was the dilemma, of course.

Frederick slumped back into the chair and sighed. Everett sighed in sympathy.

Dejection lay heavy in the room. Minutes clicked by in silence.

Everett tapped his fingers against his temple. ‘Do you think,’ he said at last, ‘that you should make Miss Neave aware of the problem?’

‘No . . . well . . . I don’t know.’

‘She’ll have to know some time. Can’t be otherwise if you can’t present her to Her Grace.’ A small light crept into his eyes. ‘There is the chance that she’ll cry off.’

Several emotions swept across Frederick’s face, none of them happy. ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Not she. You’ve quite mistaken her if you think she’s the sort to decamp at the first hurdle. No. Her Pa might be a rum touch, despite being wise to the mark in the City, but she’s a thoroughbred.’

‘He’s not that wise to the mark. He was very keen to have Trelowen for her at one time.’ Disapproval covered every contour of Everett’s features. ‘Thank goodness you got there first and put a stop to it.’ He propped his elbow on the chair arm and wagged a finger. ‘Speaking of whom, I saw his man lugging a couple of portmanteaux down the stairs. Must be off somewhere.’

Nothing in Frederick’s demeanour betrayed the least hint of an interest in the Viscount’s movements. He remained scowling at the turkey rug under his feet. ‘You’re right,’ he finally remarked. ‘She should be told. I’d better go to Bath.’ He scowled ‘I offered to take Pegasus if she wanted him so she won’t think it odd . . . not until . . . I mean . . . .’ His words faded into another mix of depression and resentment.

The male subject of their conversation was at that moment urging his horses into the very city currently inhabited by Miss Araminta Neave. He coaxed his horses towards the house of a lady who was the occasional recipient of his intimate acquaintance, although lady might not be the most appropriate term.

He slowed his phaeton outside a narrow house in Little Stanhope Street. His new tiger jumped down ready to hammer on the door.

‘Don’t.’ Trelowen tossed the reins to him as he descended onto the pathway in a flurry of driving coat and capes. The lad caught them and watched, mouth drooping open, as his master entered the house without bothering to knock.

The lady of the house was not in evidence. A girl with her hair straggling out from under her cap rushed from the murky depths of the rear hallway, her eyes wide with apprehension. ‘Oo, sir,’ she gasped, trying to bar the way to the stairs with her crumpled pinafore stretched sideways between both hands. ‘You can’t come in. The missus is still in her undress.’

‘Taking her
breakfast
in bed if I know anything about it.’ Trelowen pushed the girl aside and mounted the stairs.

The girl squealed. ‘No sir, you mustn’t.’

‘Oh, yes, I must.’ He disappeared two steps at a time up the landing. The girl clutched her pinafore hem to her mouth, dreading blame for the scene that was sure to happen.

Trelowen opened the door to the chamber at the front of the house. His eyes scanned the room. A disquieting smile played across his face. ‘Well Cicely, up to your usual amusements I see.’

The straw-haired woman lounging on the disordered bed shifted her rounded figure voluptuously. The tangle of curls tumbled about her neck. ‘I think perhaps you misapprehend, my lord.’

The Viscount wafted an elegant hand towards the quaking curtain strung across the alcove by the chimney breast. ‘Never. Tell your beau I shall admire the view for a few moments. When I resume absorbing your delightful appearance he had better be gone.’

Good as his word, he walked to the window. Behind him there was a hurried scuffling followed by the sound of equally hurried bare footsteps across the wooden floor. The door opened and shut. Trelowen continued to stare out of the window. In a few moments a portly man, his clothes in some disarray, scurried across the narrow street below.

He turned. Cicely Tanner met his eyes. A smile curved her mouth. She raised her chin, well aware that the line of her smooth throat would cause Trelowen to follow it down to the frilled robe. A shrug sent it sliding gently down over her soft, rosy flesh.

‘No time for that, my dear. Not but we may come to it later. In the meantime there is a small service you can do for me.’

Cicely flipped the robe upwards. She turned a cold stare on him and reached to the nightstand to lift a half-drunk glass of ruby wine. ‘Oh yes. And what might that be?’

Trelowen chuckled deep in his throat. ‘Very well,’ he said, slipping his coat from his broad shoulders. His eyes gleamed. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

Monday’s visit from Eveline Sherland and Colonel Draige was worse than anything Araminta could have imagined.

Mrs Sherland was well into her later years and bore none of them well. Her figure had expanded and her choice of gown in the modern style did little to hide the fact. Her hat, with an alarming plume rising from it, framed a plump face undistinguished by a pair of noteworthy eyes. Colonel Draige was a wholly suitable companion, his width matching that of Mrs Sherland to the inch. When he bowed he creaked. Araminta knew that noise. A corset, such as her father wore, was hidden under his shirt. A sharp longing to hear her father’s plain speaking and see his affectionate smile stabbed at her heart.

Colonel Draige’s speaking was far from plain. Military terms littered it in an unending litany of his final days in India. He found the topic vastly interesting and apparently thought a young girl would think the same. When Araminta’s link to the sub-continent was discovered his conviction knew no bounds. He expanded his history until it occupied the entire time Mrs Sherland spent bringing Wilhelmina up to date on every whisper of Bath gossip.

Relief for Araminta finally came when one of the maids entered with the tea tray. The girl lowered it to a table by the window and dragged a crumpled letter from her apron pocket.

‘For you, Miss. Just arrived.’

Araminta snatched it, ignoring Mrs Sherland’s comment on the freedom today’s girls were allowed in the matter of correspondence. She excused herself to the Colonel and hurried out of the room.

‘Freddie,’ she said, biting her lip. Could he have received her letter already? What would he say of her offer to break the engagement? Was he so relieved he had rushed to reply?

Her worries and doubts stayed unresolved. The letter made no mention of engagements or parents or indeed anything but a brief offer to bring Pegasus down as soon as he could.

Sitting on her bed, she lowered the page into her lap. He cannot have had hers. Would he set off before he’d seen it? Would he have to be told in person? She pushed a hand over her trembling mouth. How could she manage that? He’d be bound to see her distress. Sighing heavily she took herself back to the sitting room and more of the Colonel’s histories interlaced with Mrs Sherland’s strictures.

When the last of the customary thirty minutes had dragged to its tedious conclusion, the visitors rose to leave.

Inaction rendered Araminta desperate but not so impatient that she couldn’t order her words into the sort of flummery Mrs Sherland would admire. ‘I wonder, ma’am, if I might prevail upon your company as far as Duffield’s? I have finished my book and am minded to borrow another.’

‘Of course, my dear Miss Neave,’ Mrs Sherland beamed. ‘I always patronise Duffield’s myself.’ She bestowed a gracious smile upon Araminta. ‘I hope you’ve only paid your five shillings for a quarter’s subscription. I take a yearly one, of course.’ She waved a hand to indicate that the annual rate of fifteen shillings was no inconvenience to such a person as she.

Araminta suppressed the urge to fall into boastful comment and stuck to her path of politeness. ‘How very kind of you, ma’am’ she said. ‘If you’ll permit, I’ll fetch my bonnet and be back in a moment.’ She paused by the open door. ‘I won’t take Hollins. It’s only two steps away.’

At the exit from the hotel Colonel Draige insisted on proffering an arm to each lady, avowing himself signally honoured. His compliments continued in the same vein until Duffield’s was reached and Araminta could unclench her teeth.

At the threshold Mrs Sherland announced her intention of entering. There might be some new publication to interest her own particularly elegant cast of mind. Araminta managed to look delighted, an expression that turned genuine when something across the road caught the Colonel’s eye. He bowed and begged to be excused. Another pressing engagement, ladies. He bowed twice more and hurried between the carriages as fast as his portly shape would allow.

Mrs Sherland led the way into the library. Pausing in the entrance, she commandeered the attention of the short, thin assistant. ‘I declare, I am moved for some poetry today.’

The man hovering by the door unclasped his hands from across the tails of his coat, half bowed and begged the ladies to follow him, all the while shooting sidelong glances at Araminta. Mrs Sherland snorted her disapproval.

Araminta seized the opportunity. Her excessive politeness continued. ‘I must thank you, ma’am, for your company. I am minded to find an improving book. Or perhaps an account of some traveller’s experiences.’ She sketched a quick curtsey and took herself off in the opposite direction. In the farthest corner of the shop she opened a copy of Mrs Edgeworth’s
Leonora
.

A rustle of petticoats sounded behind her. Mrs Sherland’s mittened hand snatched the book from her fingers. ‘Oh, no, dear Miss Neave, that will never do. Miss Orksville would never forgive me if I let you borrow
that
particular work.’

Araminta’s eyes sparkled. Politeness crumbled. ‘And why not, pray?’

‘My dear, it’s quite beyond all decency. It’s about a . . . well, the sort of lady you would not wish to know. The world is so unknown to you innocent girls.’

A description of how much of the world she had seen – unlike those who only knew Bath for instance – hovered on Araminta’s lips. She pulled the book back and flipped a page. ‘It’s just a series of letters. I don’t see why –’

‘No. No. I really must insist you be guided by me.’ Mrs Sherland reclaimed the book. She laid it down as if dropping a soiled cloth, unaware that only the arrival of straw-haired woman of indeterminate age but fashionable dress had saved her from a sharp response.

‘My dear Mrs Sherland,’ the woman said. ‘How delightful to see you again.’

Mrs Sherland rotated. ‘Mrs Tanner. I declare I haven’t seen you for an age. I heard you were keeping to your room.’

‘No. No. I am quite recovered now. A mere chill. Nothing more.’ Cicely Tanner turned her best smile on Araminta. ‘And who is your charming companion?’

‘Allow me to present Miss Neave, lately come to Bath with an old friend of mine, Miss Wilhelmina Orksville.’

Mrs Tanner inclined her head slightly. ‘I hope you find our little city to your liking, Miss Neave.’

Araminta produced a brief curtsey. ‘Thank you, ma’am, I believe it must almost be pleasant when the rain stops.’ She picked up the nearest book – a worn copy of Mr Fielding’s
The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
and turned to Mrs Sherland said. ‘I must beg you to excuse me, ma’am. Miss Orksville will become concerned if I am away for long.’

Mrs Tanner looked about her. ‘You are unaccompanied?’

‘Indeed, but it’s only a few steps to York House.’

‘Ah. Then you are taking my direction,’ Mrs Tanner smiled again. It turned her face quite charming. ‘I shall walk with you so your Miss Orksville need have no concerns.’

Holding tightly to the book and her temper, Araminta gave her choice to the assistant, declined to have it wrapped in brown paper and bore with great deliberation Mrs Tanner’s lively conversation until they reached the hotel entrance. The lady produced a card.

‘Please be good enough to give this to your duenna, Miss Neave. I hope we may meet at the Pump Room.’ She executed a slight inclination of her head and turned away.