Would the vehicle run her over? Would she either die or be mutilated? Terrified, Georgianne tried to roll away from the lethal hooves and carriage wheels. Strong hands dragged her aside. Bile rose in her throat. Georgianne cursed, muttering an unladylike word she had often overheard her brothers use.
“Georgianne, what the devil are you doing here? Oh, I beg your pardon for my language. Are you hurt?” Tarrant helped her to stand. “Thank God I noticed you on the other side of the street, but I am sorry I could not reach you in time to save you from falling.”
She pushed back her hood, took off her gloves, and attempted to wipe the dirt from her face with tremulous hands. “I was on my way to the inn.”
“Come.” He guided her to the door. “Mrs. Barton,” he shouted when they entered the building. The landlady bustled into the small, dark hall. At the sight of Georgianne a gasp escaped her.
Tarrant helped Georgianne take off her cloak. “A coach nearly ran over this young lady.”
Mrs. Barton recovered her power of speech. “Please, sit down, miss.” She indicated an old settle by the entrance from the street, and then beckoned to a lank-haired, young servant girl. “As you see, Sally, the poor lady’s had a mishap. With your permission, miss, Sally will take your boots and cloak. She’ll clean them and you may wash yourself.” Mrs. Barton peered at her. “Upon my soul, Miss Whitley. I didn’t recognise you with all that dirt on your pretty face. The pot boy shall go to ask your ma to send the carriage to fetch you home. All will be well.”
“No, I do not want to worry my mother.” When she tried to straighten her back, Georgianne caught her lip between her teeth to choke back a moan.
Tarrant stooped toward her. “Are you injured?”
“No.” She turned to sit on the settle.
Mrs. Barton’s eyes widened. She gasped. “What’s happened to you? There’s blood on the back of your gown. Come away with you to my bedchamber.”
In spite of Georgianne’s protests and with Sally’s help, Mrs. Barton guided her into the comfortable room where they unfastened her gown, before stripping her of her wet clothes.
“Land’s sake,” Mrs. Barton said, “Someone’s beaten you, Miss Whitley. I’ve never been so shocked in my life.” Her eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t have gone out alone. Did a man attack you, rob you or—”
“No, but I must speak to my cousin immediately.”
The landlady applied an unguent to Georgianne’s back while Sally clutched her apron. “Did yer ma strike you? Yer cook’s told us after Mrs. Whitley drinks too much she flies into rages.”
Mrs. Barton scowled at Sally. “Hold your tongue Sally.”
“I must speak with my cousin,” Georgianne repeated with increased desperation.
“You shall, my dear, after you drink some hot milk laced with brandy, then you can take a nap.”
“Thank you,” Georgianne whispered, overcome by the woman’s good heartedness.
“No matter what one of my girls did, I never beat them. I don’t approve of thrashing sons or daughters.” Mrs. Barton put the pot of unguent aside.
How humiliating! The landlady assumed Mother struck her. But she would not lie to pretend her mother had not.
“You’re shaking, Miss Whitley. I think you’ve caught a chill. Not even a duck should go out on a day like this.”
Georgianne chuckled in spite of her pain. “I appreciate your kindness, Mrs. Barton.”
“I hope I know my Christian duty.”
She smiled at the good woman. “Yes, you do.”
Mrs. Barton popped a large nightshift over Georgianne’s head. After serving her the hot drink, Sally stood by until she drank every drop.
Georgianne snuggled down. She sighed, hoping Mamma would not find out about this escapade. After all, she had only wanted a brief word with Tarrant.
“Sleep,” Mrs. Barton advised.
* * * *
Tarrant watched Mrs. Barton and Sally go down the corridor. He seized the opportunity to see how Georgianne fared. Grave, he looked down at the sleeping girl. What had brought her to the village alone on such a dismal day?
A few moments later, the door opened. Mrs. Barton entered, followed by Sally who carried a tray.
Mrs. Barton frowned. “Major Tarrant, you shouldn’t be in a young lady’s bedchamber.”
“Oh, sir, the poor young lady!” Sally exclaimed. “I remembers Miss Whitley riding through the village on her grey pony by her pa’s side. My ma always said, ‘Sally my girl, young miss will be a beauty when she grows.’”
Mrs. Barton frowned. “Hush, Sally.”
The girl ignored her. “What would the colonel have said about her ma beating her?”
“Leave us, Sally,” Mrs. Barton ordered. “It’s not for us to question other folk’s ways.”
Sally left the room.
Mrs. Barton frowned. “Well, sir, I’ve an inn to run. I can’t spare my jabbering wench from her work to chaperon you and Miss Whitley.”
“Has Miss Whitley been beaten?”
“There are cuts across her back, sir, as well as blood on her clothes. She also has a nasty bruise on her side.”
Tarrant frowned. “Please attend to your business, Mrs. Barton. She will be safe with me.”
“You should withdraw, sir, it isn’t proper for you to be in Miss Whitley’s bedchamber.”
Horrified by the description of Georgianne’s injuries, Tarrant held the door open for the landlady. “I promise you the young lady will come to no harm.”
Mrs. Barton regarded him gravely. She nodded and then left him alone with Georgianne.
* * * *
Georgianne woke and opened her eyes at the sound of the closing door. For one happy moment she forgot about her father’s death and mistook the man, seated with his back to the window, for Papa. Then she recognised Tarrant. She smiled and whispered his name.
“My poor girl, did Aunt Whitley beat you?”
Although his sympathy touched her heart, embarrassed by the mention of her mother, she looked away from him. “You should not be in my bedchamber.”
“I know, yet I could not resist waiting for Sleeping Beauty to awaken.”
“With a kiss?” she asked, and then blushed for she should not have put forth such an immodest question.
Tarrant smiled. He did not seem shocked by her boldness. “You did not need a kiss to awaken you.”
She pulled the sheet up to her chin. How could she have spoken so immodestly? Heaven only knew what he thought of her. She should have written to him instead of rushing here like an impulsive child. “Major, would you give a message from me to your step-mamma?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Please tell her that, although I appreciate her kindness, I cannot accept her offer to give me a London season.”
“Why not?”
“My mother has not recovered from her grief over losing my father and brothers. She needs me, so do my sisters.”
“You did not answer my question. Did your mother beat you?”
Ashamed, she nodded.
“Your mother is unfit to be in charge of anyone. I cannot go to London leaving you in such an abominable situation.”
Hopeless, she looked away from him. “There is nothing you can do to help me.”
He raised her hands to his lips. “I disagree.”
She tugged her hands free. “There is no need for you to trouble yourself with my concerns. I am capable of managing Mamma’s affairs. I am also able to care for my sisters.”
Tarrant let go of her hands. He sighed. “Of course, you need help. I will acquaint my parents with the particulars of your situation. I am sure they will want you to have your London Season. They can make suitable arrangements for your sisters. With regard to my Aunt Whitley, we must see what can be done to help her.”
“I am mortified because you know what happened.”
“Georgianne, there is no reason to feel humiliated. You are not to blame, either for Aunt Whitley’s shocking addict
ion to strong liquor, or for her equally shocking lack of conduct. I am disgusted by her treatment of you.” He stood. “I shall leave you to dress. When you have done so, I will escort you home.”
Mortified because the major somehow knew of her mother’s fondness for the bottle, Georgianne hesitated for a moment before she replied. “No need, I can make my own way home.”
He smiled. “Will you not indulge me by allowing me the pleasure of rescuing a damsel in distress?”
Appreciative of his good nature, Georgianne swallowed. “You must not blame Mamma for her—” She broke off. Her fingers clutched the sheet. She took a deep breath before she spoke again. “My father and brothers were more important to her than her daughters.”
“Let me be your friend. Confide in me. Tell me why Aunt Whitley beat you?”
“I would prefer not to tell you.”
“Very well, for the moment, I shall not press you, if you will remember that if you are in need, I will always be at your service.”
She sat up, the sheet clutched beneath her chin. “You are most kind.”
“Do not fret while you dress. I promise to take care of you.”
As though she had put down an intolerable burden, Georgianne sighed. “Thank you for rescuing me from the coach, I thought I would die.”
“I am glad for the opportunity to have helped you.” He inclined his head to her before leaving her alone.
* * * *
While Georgianne dressed, Tarrant sat deep in thought in the private parlour he shared with Langley. His father’s letters to him were blunt. In one, he had written:
I believe your stepmother is beyond the age of child bearing. If she does not bear another son, in the event of your being killed while serving in the army, the Tarrant estate will be inherited by your cousin. Therefore, because my estates are entailed, it is your duty to marry and have sons.
A damnable coil. He thought of the impulsive vow made minutes after Dolores’s death. Now, in spite of the fear of putting any woman’s life at risk during childbirth, he knew he must wed to please him. However, he was unsure as to whether he would ever want to father a child. Moreover, if he must marry, he was damned if he would wed either a spoiled beauty or a bread-and-butter miss afraid of her own shadow, and even more afraid of not securing a husband.
Of course, his father wanted him to marry an eligible lady with a dowry to add to the fabulous fortune inherited from his godfather, a nabob. Eventually he must oblige. Fortunately, he neither needed to add to his wealth nor participate in the London Season, a focus of mothers anxious to secure well-born, wealthy husbands for their daughters.
His eyes moistened as he remembered Dolores. No, he must not go down the road leading to searing memories which tore at the heart. He must look to the future.
Mrs. Barton came into the parlour. She bobbed a curtsy. “Miss Whitley is ready to leave, sir.”
“Before I take the lady home, be good enough to request that she step in here for a few moments.”
“As you wish, sir.”
A minute or two passed before Georgianne joined him, her face drained of colour, her chin held high.
“Do sit down.” He paced across the small room to the mullioned window then turned and strode to her side. “I want you to be honest. Why did your Mamma beat you?”
Like many a young subaltern he had commanded, he hoped she would respond to his tone of authority.
“I shall tell you because I suppose it will become public knowledge due to servants’ gossip, for there is no way to silence them.” Her narrow nostrils flared as she took a deep breath. “The Earl of Pennington knows my dowry and my sisters’ dowries are small. To help us, he is willing to marry me.” She looked down at her hands. “I am not sure it would be the right thing for me to do.”
“Egad.”
She nodded. “It is true. He wants a son to prevent Cousin Stanton from inheriting his property.” She shivered. “Pennington said his sister investigated me. She decided I would be a suitable wife.”
“I can scarcely believe it.”
She nodded her head vehemently. “It is true,” she repeated. “Cousin Stanton, who overheard his proposal, is furious with me. He thinks I set a trap for his uncle. Although the earl berated him, I decided it was necessary to leave early on the following morning.” She heaved a despondent sigh. “When I reached home, Mamma told me the earl had visited her and he had made an offer for my hand. Of course, I told her I do not know if I want to marry a man I am barely acquainted with. She was very disappointed. She struck me with Helen’s riding crop, then kicked me.”
“What the devil—beg your pardon for cursing, Georgie,” he said using her nursery nickname.
Georgianne shrugged. “I admit I am considering Pennington’s offer. Things are damnable at home. Oh, forgive me I should not have used such a word.”
Tarrant captured her hands. He drew her to her feet. “My poor girl, you cannot marry the earl. It is said he is queer in the head. I have an alternative solution.”
“What?” she asked breathlessly while standing with only a small space between them, the scent of his spicy pomade mixed with that of horse and leather in the air she breathed.
Tarrant hesitated. Although she was young, beautiful, and amusing, did he want to proceed? He stared over her head at a landscape on the opposite wall. He could not deny she stirred his senses, yet he believed that never again would he be swept away by any passionate tide. Tarrant swallowed. He looked down into Georgianne’s large blue eyes so different from Dolores’s sultry ones. Did Georgianne have an inkling of his imminent question? “My dear, will you do me the honour, the great honour, of accepting my hand in marriage?”
Staring up at him, her eyes wide open, she sank onto the chair.
Although his proposal took her by surprise, he had not anticipated her silence. He had expected her to be—what? Delighted…grateful…?
He knelt to take her hands in his. “Georgianne?”
“I do not know how to reply. Once, I wanted to marry an officer. Since then I have changed my mind.”
“Why?” He made a conscious effort to speak in a gentle tone.
“War is not glorious. It robs us of those we hold closest to our hearts. I could not bear it if war stole my husband.”
“Do not fear for me. I told you, Boney will soon be beaten, so I am going to sell my commission. However, if England is ever in danger again, Wellington might require my services. I cannot promise I will never purchase another pair of colours.”
Her hands tightened around his. “You have already been wounded. Next time you might lose an arm or leg or—” she broke off, obviously too distressed to speak.
“So, though you care for me, you do not want to marry me?” he asked, almost unable to comprehend she would reject his offer and consider Pennington’s.
She peered up at him. How pretty she looked with her loose, charcoal black ringlets clustered around her small face. He wanted to touch one to discover if her hair was as silky as it appeared.
“Why do you want to marry me, Major Tarrant?”
Self-conscious, he considered his answer. “Why? Lord, do you expect me to spout poetry? If so, you forget I am a simple soldier.”
“Major?”
“Georgie, I want to protect you from Pennington. Besides, I believe we can deal well enough together.” Unexpectedly ill at ease, he continued, “I am making a mull of my proposal. I really want to marry you. May I hope you will accept me as your husband.”
Her eyes gazed at him like a delightful kitten’s.
“You have nothing to fear from me.” He continued. “There is no need to worry, I am not going to set the stage for our nursery. Moreover, I will welcome your sisters into our household.”
At the mention of her sisters, a poet might have compared Georgianne’s smile to the sun shining through parted storm clouds.
“How considerate you are. I accept your offer.” She gazed at him with a question in her eyes. “You ment
ioned our nursery.” She looked down at the floor. “The thing is, I do not know how women beget babies. I asked Sarah. She flushed beetroot red and refused to tell me.”
What to do or say in the face of such innocence? Should he ask Sarah to enlighten her? He sighed, unable to bear the thought of her suffering childbirth at the risk of her life. “You really have no reason to worry. Perhaps we will not have children.”
“Do you like babies, Major?”
He shrugged. “Why speak of such matters? After we marry we shall go to London where you will be presented at court.”
“With regard to our marriage, we need my guardian’s consent.”
“We shall visit Colonel Walton. We will gain his permission to both our marriage, and to your sisters’ residing with us after the knot is tied. Should he object, we will explain your intolerable situation. I have no doubt he will agree to the marriage, and to your sisters taking up residence with us. After he consents, Langley, whose uncle is the Bishop of St Albans, can take us to purchase a marriage licence. If you want Stanton to marry us, he shall. “
“Perhaps Cousin Stanton will refuse? Surely, he will be too frightened of his uncle to oblige us.”
Tarrant laughed. “I am sure Stanton is even more scared of losing his inheritance, which is what would happen if you married Pennington and bore him a son.” He stroked Georgianne’s cheek with the tip of his finger. “You are so young. Are you quite sure you want to marry me?”
“I am not too young to wed. Some ladies who marry in their first season are sixteen. I will be eighteen in February. Are you quite sure you want to marry me?”
He liked and respected her more and more with each passing moment—although in the most secret recess of his heart, he believed he would always mourn Dolores. “Yes, m’dear, I do want to marry you.”
In spite of his resolution to resist temptation, he drew her close and gave her a chaste kiss on the brow.
Chapter Five
Sunday's Child (Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week Book 1) Page 4
