Sundays Child
By Rosemary Morris
Digital ISBN
Kindle 978-1-77299-178-9
Print ISBN
Print 978-1-77299-179-6
Copyright 2nd Edition 2016 Rosemary Morris
Cover Art 2016 by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Prologue
Hertfordshire, England
1810
Fourteen year old, Georgianne Whitley leaned over the banister to watch her aunt’s butler admit a handsome cavalry officer dressed in uniform. One day, her mamma frequently assured her, she would marry such a military man, a member of her dear father’s regiment. Of course, this officer was probably too old to ever be her husband. However, in future, she was sure she would meet someone equally handsome with whom she would fall in love. She giggled. ‘Love is not the main prerequisite for marriage,’ Mamma always claimed. According to her mother, rank, lands, and wealth were more important whereas, according to Papa, love was the only reason to marry.
She turned her head to look at her cousin, Sarah Tarrant. “Who is he?”
“Don’t you recognize him? He is my half brother, Rupert, Lieutenant Tarrant.”
“Of course, but he has changed so much since I last saw him five years ago. He is taller.”
Careless of whether or not he would look up and see her, Georgianne inched forward until, bent almost double, she could still gaze down at him.
Rupert removed his shako, revealing his thick, sun-kissed fair hair.
Sarah put her arms around Georgianne’s waist. “If you are not careful, you will fall.”
Georgianne gripped the rail of the highly polished oak banister while she straightened.
“Look at your gown. It’s crushed. You’re such a…a hoyden.”
She stamped her foot. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. My mamma says you are.”
“Well, she is wrong.” In spite of her denial, rueful, she looked down at her crumpled, white muslin gown. What would her aunt say if she knew Papa had taught her to shoot? Once again, she peered over the banister. A ray of June sunshine from the window illuminated the gold braid on Rupert’s scarlet uniform. Yes, one day she really would marry such an officer to please herself, and her parents.
Chapter One
Hertfordshire, England
November 1813
Rupert, Major Tarrant, caught his breath at the sight of seventeen year old Georgianne. Black curls gleamed and rioted over the edges of her bandeau. Georgianne’s heart-shaped face tilted down toward her embroidery frame. Her hands lay idle on her gown. It was lilac, one of the colours of half-mourning. A sympathetic sigh escaped him. She wore the colour out of respect for her father, who lost a hand and leg, during the Battle of Salamanca, and died of gangrene more than a year ago.
There had been so many deaths since he last saw Georgianne. Not only had her brothers died during the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo but his elder brother had drowned six months ago while bathing in the lake on their father’s estate.
He advanced into the room with Adrian, Viscount Langley, at his side. Georgianne looked up and smiled. He caught himself staring into her hyacinth blue eyes, fringed with long black lashes. Colour crept over her high cheekbones. Her arched eyebrows drew together across her smooth forehead. Egad, she had the sweetest countenance he had ever seen; one with the lustrous, milky white sheen of china, and bow shaped rose pink lips to catch at the heart.
Georgianne stood.
He bowed. “My condolences.”
Sarah, clad in full mourning for her older half-brother, stood to make her curtsy to Langley. “I trust you have everything you require, my lord?”
Langley bowed. “Yes, thank you.”
“My lord, allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Miss Whitley.”
Georgianne curtsied as his lordship crossed the parlour to make his bow.
Tarrant inclined his head. “Ladies, please excuse us, we must see to our horses.”
Sarah shook her head at him. “See to your horses? The grooms can do so.”
Georgianne gurgled with laughter. “Ah, Sarah, have you forgotten how cavalrymen fuss over their mounts?”
“Excuse us.”
* * * *
After the gentlemen left, Georgianne glanced at her cousin. She had seen little of her since Sarah yielded to the family’s persuasion to marry Wilfred Stanton, heir to his uncle, the Earl of Pennington.
Despite her reluctance to leave home because of her mamma’s unfortunate habit, and extravagant displays of grief over the loss of her husband and sons, Georgianne agreed to visit her cousin Sarah, who suffered from melancholy after the birth of a son.
Anxious for her mamma and two younger sisters, she reminded herself Whitley Manor—on the southern outskirts of Cousin Stanton’s Hertfordshire parish—lay a mere fifteen minutes away by carriage.
“Are you daydreaming, Cousin?”
Georgianne pretended to be busy untangling another strand of embroidery thread. “No.”
“Did I tell you Papa wants Tarrant to resign from the army now he is Papa’s heir?” Sarah’s needle flashed in and out of her work.
“Yes, several times.” Georgianne shivered, stretched her hands toward the fire, and fought a losing battle with the draughts in the old vicarage.
“Are you not interested in dear Tarrant?”
Georgianne bent her head. Once, she had wanted to marry a military man. However, after the loss of her father and brothers, she changed her mind for fear death might snatch him from her, either on the battlefield or as a result of wounds sustained in combat. She shook her head, remembering the dreams she harboured three years earlier when she last saw Major Tarrant. How her life had altered since then. Most of the time, she lived cloistered at home in reduced—yet not impoverished—circumstances. She spent her life in an endless round of mending and embroidery, both of which she detested. Her only escape from this drab existence consisted of daily walks, rides, or reading her beloved books. A yawn escaped her. Oh, the tedium of her days at home.
“You have not answered my question.”
Georgianne gathered her thoughts. “Yes, Sarah, I am interested in Major Tarrant. After all, we have known each other since we were in the nursery.”
“Good, but what are you thinking about? You are neglecting your sewing.”
Georgianne picked up her needle and thrust it in and out of the chemise, careless of the size of her stitches. Already she loathed the garment and vowed never to wear it.
“Papa wants Tarrant to marry,” Sarah rattled on.
Eyes downcast, Georgianne set aside her sewing and wrapped her arms around her waist for comfort. Before they died, her brothers and father had expressed their admiration for Major Tarrant in their letters. She shrugged. Once upon a time, she had built a castle in the air inhabited by Major Tarrant, a mere lieutenant when she last saw him.
Mamma still insisted on love not being the prime consideration for marriage, but novels and poems contradicted her opinion. Georgianne wanted to fall in love with one of the many eligible young gentlemen available: maybe a titled gentleman like Viscount Langley provided he was not a military man. She shrugged. Certainly her mamma would regard the Viscount favoura
bly. His lordship was wealthy, possessed good manners, and his height and broad shoulders equalled Major Tarrant’s. However, although she found no fault with him, Mamma might not approve of the Viscount’s skin—almost as dark as a gypsy from exposure to the sun while serving abroad—and his hair and eyes, sufficiently dark to rival any Spaniard’s. Her spirits lifted. The rectory would be a happier place with two fine young men in attendance. She was glad to be here, despite her acute concern for her family.
Sarah’s voice ended her musing. “Have you heard Tarrant inherited his godfather’s estate and fortune? Besides his pay, his income is thirty thousand pounds a year.”
Georgianne nodded. “Yes, I know. Major Tarrant is exceptionally fortunate.” Sarah blinked. “Why are you smiling?”
Georgianne stood and crossed the room to look out of the window. “I am happy because, so far, Major Tarrant and Viscount Langley have survived the war, which has taken so many lives and affected everyone in some way or another.”
She must force herself to remain cheerful. Papa had died eighteen months ago. It was time to set grief aside, if she could only find the means.
Thankfully, there was much to look forward to. After her presentation at court, she would be sure to meet many engaging gentlemen, one of whom she might marry. In time, she could help her sisters to escape their miserable existence.
Georgianne drummed her fingers on the windowsill. Her thoughts darted hither and thither. She glanced around the parlour, inhaling the odour of potpourri and lavender-scented beeswax.
Wilfred Stanton entered the room. He stood with his back to the fire, hands clasped over his paunch. “Mrs. Stanton, my uncle, the Earl of Pennington, has arrived unexpectedly, and is resting after the rigours of his journey. Tarrant and his friend are busy with their horses. No, no, do not disturb yourself, my love. No need to bestir yourself on my uncle’s behalf.”
Cousin Stanton’s lips parted in a smile revealing yellowed teeth. “Ah, I know what you ladies are like. Have you been matchmaking? There must be a dozen or more eligible members of the fair sex amongst our neighbours who would be eager to meet Tarrant. If they knew of his visit, I daresay all of them would harbour thoughts of marrying him.”
“Indeed,” Sarah said in a colourless tone of voice.
Georgianne, accustomed to taking long walks every day, fidgeted. She found it difficult to tolerate Sarah’s sedentary habits.
“Sarah, will you not come for a walk? You know the doctor is concerned by your continued lethargy. Do not forget he encourages gentle exercise to improve your health.” She stared out at the dark grey clouds. Suddenly they parted and sunlight bathed her. It heightened the colour of her gown and warmed her. She reached up to smooth her bodice and noticed a movement in the shadowed east wing. Was someone peering at her through the small, diamond-shaped panes? There were no menservants in the household. Could it be Cousin Stanton’s uncle, the earl?
Sarah stepped daintily to her side, and slipped an arm around her waist. “Come, it is time to change our clothes before we dine.”
Chapter Two
Georgianne stepped lightly down the stairs shortly after dusk, and entered the well-appointed parlour where everyone would assemble before dinner was announced.
With nervous hands, she smoothed the skirt of her lilac gown. Satisfied, she twitched the grey satin bow into place beneath her bosom. Why was she so anxious for the major to see her as a young lady and not as the little girl he last saw in her aunt and uncle’s house?
Her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace reassured her. The talented village dressmaker had made her stylish gown from a length of material found in the attic. The style flattered her shapely breasts.
She adjusted a knot of ribbon which ornamented one of her puff sleeves.
“Enchanting,” an unfamiliar male voice murmured.
Georgianne stared at a reflected face. He must be Stanton’s uncle.
“Did I startle you, Miss Whitley? If so, I apologise.”
How did he know her name? Of course, Sarah and Cousin Stanton probably told him she was their guest. She turned to make her curtsy to the old gentleman dressed in the height of fashion in a perfectly cut black coat, fawn waistcoat, and black pantaloons. He raised his quizzing glass to his eye and scrutinised her. Although he gave her no cause for alarm, she repressed a shudder when his gaze lingered on her bosom. “Please stand aside, my lord. It is improper for us to be alone.”
“Miss Whitley¬—” The earl spoke in a languid tone. His dark eyes regarded her, seeming to observe every detail of her appearance. “You are charming, quite charming. My sister mentioned you are the eldest daughter of my late, much lamented friend, Colonel Whitley.”
Should she believe him? She frowned. “My father never mentioned the friendship.”
“I daresay there is much a gentleman does not remark upon to his family.”
She inclined her head; her frown deepened. Why should his sister, whom she had never met, take the slightest interest in her?
The earl’s smile did not warm his eyes. “I dare say you wonder why she mentioned your name.”
“I confess to curiosity, my lord.”
“She described several eligible young ladies.”
“I am not eligible because I have not yet entered polite society.”
“It does not mean you are ineligible, Miss Whitley.”
He approached her. Wary of his intentions, Georgianne moved away from the hearth. She mistrusted the feverish glitter in his eyes.
“The daughter of a hero of good family is most definitely eligible. After all, one cannot thank our brave soldiers sufficiently for keeping Napoleon’s brutal army at bay. Besides, I am not seeking a lady from a noble family to be my wife; I am seeking a modest young lady of good birth to marry me. One who will be grateful to me for a title and all else I have to offer.” She eyed him with distrust as he continued. “Doubtless, like me, you are still in mourning. My sons are dead: one died on the hunting field, the other in battle.”
“My condolences, my lord.” She retreated from his steady advance until she stood with her back to the window.
“My nephew tells me your dowry is small. A pity. The daughter of so gallant an officer should be in better circumstances.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Shocking of me to speak so bluntly of pecuniary matters, yet necessary, for I must make the most of this opportunity while I am alone with you.”
His fiery gaze alarmed her. “Please step back, my lord.”
He obeyed, although one hand stretched toward her. For a moment, before he lowered it, she thought he would force his unwelcome touch on her. “I ordered my man of business to make enquiries. Now, why should I not favour someone so pretty who is also part of the family? If you consent to be my wife, I will be a considerate husband who indulges you.”
Be his wife? Could he be serious? Georgianne stood as straight as a ramrod, her head held high. Although he appeared amiable he aroused her suspicions.
“Miss Whitley, I respect you for not falling into maidenly hysterics.”
Although she had left the schoolroom only three months before, she knew it was extraordinary for a peer of the realm to suggest marriage to an insignificant Colonel’s daughter. She frowned. “What do you want of me, my lord?”
“To be blunt, I need an heir of my body.”
“Why? You have an heir.” No sooner did she ask the question than she reprimanded herself. In response to the earl’s indelicacy, she should have ignored his frankness.
The earl coughed gently. “I do not care to speak ill of anyone. I hope you understand I only do so because I want a son to replace my nephew who is my heir.”
Georgianne repressed a shiver, and simultaneously wondered what it would be like to be the adored, pampered wife of an elderly husband. Yet, she knew she must be cautious. “Earlier on, I overheard Cousin Stanton claim your younger son married days before he died. He said your son had a posthumous child. Is it t
rue?”
The earl shrugged. “After a thorough investigation, both at home and abroad, we have come to the conclusion it is no more than a rumour.”
Footsteps sounded in the hall. His lordship ignored them. Instead, he stepped toward her.
“My lord!”
One of his bony hands rested on her shoulder. His lined face drew closer to hers. Colour stained his pale cheeks. “Miss Whitley, forgive me for not approaching your guardian to ask for his permission to address you.” Before she could protest, he spoke again. “Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
Over his lordship’s shoulder, Georgianne saw Cousin Stanton enter the room, his hands clasped over his paunch.
“My lord, we are not alone,” she protested.
The earl let her go.
“Jezebel,” Cousin Stanton’s voice thundered. “Eve tempted Adam with fruit from the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden. You have deliberately tempted my uncle.”
The earl’s eyes mocked her cousin by marriage. “Strive to be original, nephew.”
Georgianne glared at Stanton. “You are abominable. Instead of offering me your protection, you blame me because you fear for your inheritance.”
“Uncle, pay no heed to anything she says,” her cousin-in-law-said. “Only consider the Whore of Babylon ‘in raiment of fine linen, and silk, and, broidered work.’”
Georgianne cringed, insulted by the Biblical reference.
The earl roared with laughter. “Do not make yourself ridiculous, Nephew. One only needs to look at the young lady to know I am at fault. Anyway, my intentions are honourable.”
Stanton’s cheeks purpled. “Stoop to marry a brazen hussy who tempted you?”
Georgianne peered at Stanton. While she felt sorry for him, knowing he was fighting for his inheritance, nevertheless, she opened her mouth to protest. He spoke before she could offer her defence. “You are shameless. I will not permit scandalous behaviour in my household. Words almost fail me at the sight of you standing close to my uncle with one of his hands on your shoulder.”
Sunday's Child (Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week Book 1) Page 1
