Sunday's Child (Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week Book 1)

by Rosemary Morris

  Due to the demands his father expected to be made on her time, Tarrant almost felt sorry for Mrs. Deane. If he employed her, he decided not to over burden her with duties. He flicked a speck of dust off his sleeve. “Please give me the lady’s direction. I will call on her. If she is suitable, I shall offer her the position.”

  His father assumed his habitual air of an indolent cat. “Good, if I had not found a solution to Cousin Deane’s problems, eventually, I would have been obliged to take her on board. Between us, I cannot afford any more hangers-on. My poor purse is not large enough to provide for so many daughters. Fine thing when a man’s son is more affluent than he is.”

  Before his father could again pursue the supposed injustice of his inheritance from one of the wealthiest nabobs—if not the wealthiest one of his era—Tarrant obtained Mrs. Deane’s address. He took his leave of Sir James and went to interview the fair-haired lady with a trim figure and eyes alert as a hawk’s. She welcomed the opportunity to re-enter society gowned at Tarrant’s expense, and with a generous salary to augment her small income.

  After Tarrant concluded his business with her, he sighed. Life as a married man would be quite different to that of a bachelor. He must rent a town house.

  Chapter Eight

  On her eighteenth birthday, Georgianne woke in her luxurious apartment in the property on Half Moon Street, one which her husband rented while their town house was being put to rights. She yawned. What kind of a year would 1814 be? Peace in Europe? Her husband believed the war would soon be over. And what of Tarrant since he had sold out of the army? Did he regret doing so? Was he sorry for marrying her? She sighed. When would he decide he wanted to start a family? What would it entail? Could she broach the subject to Mrs. Deane?

  Tarrant once said she need not be frightened of him. Georgianne smiled sleepily. Under no circumstances could she imagine being afraid of Tarrant, the most good-hearted, generous husband imaginable. Yet, she wanted to know him better. She also wanted to experience the romance described in novels and poetry.

  Eyes closed, she considered Helen, not only her dear sister but also her best friend. Her thoughts drifted to Bab, who had chosen to become a boarder at The Hampstead School for Young Ladies where she now studied English, French, Italian, writing, music, figuring, the art of drawing, water colours, fine needlework, and dancing. Georgianne yawned. She wished she had enjoyed both the advantages of a superior education and the opportunity to make friends who would ease any young lady’s introduction to the beau monde. Ah well, Helen—whose art, dance, and music teachers came to the house daily—and Bab were fortunate.

  Delighted by having helped her sisters, Georgianne rubbed her eyes. She remembered Bab was visiting them. Even now, the child slept upstairs in the well-appointed nursery, beneath the uppermost storey where the servants slept. She smiled, looking forward to spending the day with her sisters.

  * * * *

  Bab opened her eyes. She decided to go downstairs to wish Georgianne a happy birthday. Before she left the bedchamber she donned a wrapper. Enroute, she edged her way between drawn curtains on the landing. Hidden from sight, she opened a window decorated with frost flowers. At last, the bitterly cold wind had died down. Snow masked familiar details, and adorned every available surface. She shivered, shut the window, and turned her back to it.

  “There’s a Frost Fair on the Thames between Blackfriars and London Bridge.” The man’s voice came from the other side of the curtains. “A fellow could have a good time there.”

  “Is it safe?” a female voice asked.

  “The ice has frozen solid. There’s a thoroughfare called City Road down the middle of the river. If it doesn’t melt beforehand, shall I take you to see the fair on Sunday?”

  Bab peeped through a small gap in the curtains and saw the girl straightening her lace-edged mobcap. “No, yer piece of sauce, yer will not.”

  The footman laughed before he went through the doorway leading to the servants’ stairs.

  Bab emerged from her hiding place. “What is a Frost Fair?”

  The maid dropped her cleaning rag. “Yer startled me. Young misses shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

  “I did not mean to, I was looking out of the window.” She smiled in the friendly manner which usually pleased the servants. “What is a Frost Fair?”

  “It’s held when the ice is thick enough to walk on, but it’s no good pestering me, miss, I’ve got work to be getting on with.”

  Bab ran along the corridor to Georgianne’s apartment. Without pausing to knock she entered the boudoir adjacent to the bedchamber. “Morning, Elliot,” she greeted Georgianne’s dresser.

  “Good morning, Miss Barbara.”

  “What is wrong?” she asked, surprised by Elliot’s sour expression.

  “My head aches.”

  “Poor Elliot.”

  The woman’s expression softened. “You’re a scamp, miss, but you’ve got a kind heart.”

  “You must apply a saline wash,” said Georgianne, who entered the boudoir in time to hear Elliot mention her headache.

  “Thank you, madam, there’s no need.”

  “Of course there is,” Georgianne insisted. “Now, go and have your breakfast.”

  “When should I return, madam?”

  “After you have my chocolate sent up, rest, Elliot. One of the maids can help me dress.”

  Georgianne smiled sympathetically at her dresser whose black woollen dress emphasised her pallor. It contrasted with the colour of the regiment of light brown corkscrew curls across her forehead.

  As soon as she and her sister were alone, Bab slipped her hand into Georgianne’s. “Happy birthday.” She kissed Georgianne on the cheek.

  “Thank you, dearest.”

  Minutes later, a maid carrying a silver tray entered the parlour and put it on a table.

  Georgianne waved her hand at her. “I shall pour the chocolate. You may go.”

  Bab moistened her lips with her tongue. She looked at the steam coming out of the spout of the chocolate pot. “This is a very nice room. So is your bedchamber. I think it is one of the largest ones I have ever seen.”

  “Would you like to have a slice of my bread and butter?”

  “Yes, please. I am always hungry,” Bab said, her thoughts diverted from her obvious wish to share Georgianne’s bedchamber instead of sleeping in the nursery.

  Georgianne put a slice on a china plate and then handed it to Bab. “Please be careful not to drop any crumbs.”

  Bab held the bread and butter between the plate and her mouth. “Georgianne, the river is frozen. There is a Frost Fair. May I visit it?”

  “Shall I pour some chocolate for you?”

  “Yes, please. Georgianne, I want to see the fair.”

  “It is too cold.”

  “At home, you liked skating on the village pond. We could ask Cousin Tarrant to take us. It would be a treat for you on your birthday.”

  “You mean it would be a treat for you, you little schemer. I wonder if the weather is any better.” Georgianne crossed the room to look out of the large sash window at the dark sky, which intensified the dazzling purity of the snow. “Dearest, your constitution is not strong. Even if we bundled up warmly, it would be too cold for you.”

  “Georgianne…”

  “Barbara!” As Bab well knew, Georgianne only addressed her by her full name when she was annoyed.

  Bab scowled. She pursed her lips but did not argue.

  “No cajoling. No tantrums,” Georgianne warned.

  “Oh, you vexatious child,” Bab said, imitating their mother’s voice before she scampered out of the room.

  * * * *

  Bab entered the dining parlour. She pressed a kiss on Tarrant’s cheek. “Good morning.”

  He ruffled her curls. “Good morning.”

  “Georgianne said I could breakfast here instead of in the nursery.” She smiled cheerfully. “Good morning, Helen. Good morning, Mrs. Deane.” She bobbed a swift curtsy before sitting at
the table. Without being prompted, she folded her chubby hands together and said grace.

  Mrs. Deane’s eyes softened. “The sweet child.”

  Bab spread a thick layer of butter on a roll and topped it with damson conserve. “Cousin Tarrant, there is a Frost Fair on the river. May we visit it, and go skating?” She took a bite out of her roll.

  Tarrant smiled indulgently. “Of course we can go. Do you know how to skate?”

  “Yes, I do.” Bab jumped up. She danced around the table to plant a sticky kiss on his cheek.

  He recoiled and wiped the residue of conserve with his napkin. “Mind you, it is bitterly cold. You and your sisters must wrap up warmly.”

  Georgianne entered the breakfast parlour in time to hear her husband agree to the excursion. Although she smiled in appreciation of Tarrant’s unfailing good-heartedness, she often wanted to stamp her foot with annoyance, for she desired much more than kindness from him.

  No one noticed her entry. She turned her attention to Bab, simultaneously amused and displeased by the child’s wheedling. “Tarrant, the child is a minx. I told her it is too cold to visit the fair. Her chest is not strong. She is prone to infection so I fear the consequences of the bitter cold.”

  “Surely she will come to no harm if she is bundled up.”

  Although Georgianne shook her head to signify disagreement, she did not contradict him.

  After a short silence, Helen stood and kissed Georgianne’s cheek. “Happy birthday.”

  Tarrant rose. He waited for Georgianne and Helen to be seated before he sat again. “Your sister is right, Bab, you are a little minx.” He glanced at Georgianne.

  “Nevertheless, if the ice does not melt, and your sister consents, we shall go tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.” Bab pulled a package out of her pocket. She handed it to Georgianne. “Happy birthday,” she said for the third time that day.

  Georgianne removed the wrapping from the package. It contained a gold locket. She opened it expecting a small handmade gift.

  With tears in her eyes she looked down at the miniature portraits of their brothers. It had been given to Bab by their mother. “Thank you dearest, however, I cannot accept such a precious gift.”

  Bab put an arm around Georgianne’s neck. “Yes, you can, you remember them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I remember our brothers tossing me up in the air. I also remember riding in front of them on their saddles when I was too small to ride my pony. Yet if I close my eyes to think of them, I cannot remember what they looked like.”

  Georgianne slipped her arm around the child’s waist. “All the more reason for you to keep the locket.”

  Bab leaned against Georgianne. “I do not need it. I did not love them like you because I never knew them well. Now you have pictures of Charles and John to remember them by.”

  Mrs. Deane dabbed tears from her eyes. “What a dear child Barbara is.”

  Misty-eyed, Helen looked at Bab. “I will copy their portraits. You may keep them at school by your bed.”

  Tarrant cleared his throat. “Never forget your brave brothers, Bab.” He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, and then rang the hand bell to summon the butler.

  “I have something for you, Georgianne.” Helen handed her a neatly wrapped parcel tied with string sealed with red wax.

  She opened it. “Oh, Pride and Prejudice. “Thank you. I enjoyed Sense and Sensibility so much that I wanted to read this.”

  Barnes entered the dining parlour carrying a silver salver, on which reposed a gift wrapped in matte white paper. He offered it to Georgianne.

  Tarrant smiled boyishly at her. “Happy birthday, Princess.”

  So, he remembered Papa’s sobriquet. Did her husband love her a little? She wished he would kiss her again and spend more time alone with her.

  “Open it,” Barbara urged.

  Georgianne broke the red wafer imprinted with her husband’s seal. She untied the string, removed the paper, and stared at an oblong, red leather box.

  Bab leant over Georgianne’s shoulder. “Ooh, open it!”

  Georgianne raised the lid. “How lovely,” she said as she looked down at a pearl necklace, earrings and a pair of arm clasps, gleaming against a garter-blue silk lining. “Thank you, Tarrant. I have never owned anything so, so—”

  “No need to thank me. I purchased it from Rundell’s. I am assured pearls are suitable for a young matron soon to be presented at court. Happy birthday, Princess.”

  How generous of him. She longed for the means to reciprocate. “Thank you. They are beautiful. I shall treasure them always.”

  Her husband stepped toward her. He fastened the clasp at the back of her neck. For a second his fingers lingered on her skin.

  His touch sent streaks of lightning through her. Too shy to embrace her husband in front of an audience, she wanted to be alone with Tarrant. She tilted her head to look up at him, with the intention of repeating her thanks. Fire flickered in his eyes. Before she could say anything, Bab spoke. “I hope I shall be given beautiful jewels when I grow up.”

  “You will, if you become as charming as your sister,” Tarrant assured the child.

  Georgianne gazed at her husband. If they were alone, she would ask him if he really considered her charming. After all, his opinion meant more to her than any other gentleman’s, even that of Langley, who was always so good-natured.

  Bab wound a curl around one of her chubby fingers, and smiled at Tarrant.

  Georgianne also smiled. It seemed Bab knew how to enter her brother-in-law’s heart.

  Tarrant glanced at Mrs. Deane. “After breakfast, Cousin, I would appreciate a word with you in my book room.”

  “As you please.” Mrs. Deane looked away from him. She handed Georgianne an oblong parcel. “My love, a small token of my regard.”

  Georgianne smiled at the good-hearted widow. “Thank you, how generous of you, ma’am, you should not have troubled yourself.” She opened the parcel. “A fan, how pretty, thank you. I shall carry it when I make my curtsy at court.”

  * * * *

  After breakfast, Tarrant escorted Mrs. Deane to his library.

  With his customary courtesy, he inclined his head to her. “Please be seated, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Deane did so, arranging her skirts to their best advantage.

  Tarrant seated himself opposite her. “After we dine, Viscount Langley and I will escort my wife and her sisters to Astley’s Amphitheatre where I am sure they will enjoy the equestrian ballet and other performances. Would you care to join us, ma’am?”

  “Yes, please. Never will I forget the performance of The Flight of The Saracens. So thrilling! Many of the ladies present needed sal volatile for fear they would faint with excitement.” She clasped her hands to her breast while looking earnestly at him. “I am pleased to have this moment in private with you, Major. I wanted to tell you it is now acceptable for Mrs. Tarrant to come out of half-mourning, so she will require a new wardrobe.”

  Tarrant waved his hand to cut her off, mitigating his rudeness with a smile. “So be it, no reasonable expense should be spared.” Thanks to his inherited fortune, he could afford to foot his wife’s bills besides giving her generous pin money. “Other than her court gown—which I am sure my step-mamma wants to help her choose—my wife must have whatever she needs. Moreover you may purchase whatever is necessary for yourself.”

  Her eyes lit up like blazing candles. “You are generous, Major. I did not expect such consideration.” She cleared her throat. “By the way, at the start of the season, there is nothing more intimidating for a young lady than to be thrown into society in which she has few if any acquaintances. Instead of whiling away your time at your club every evening, I trust you will accompany Mrs. Tarrant whenever possible.”

  He stiffened, yet because of their relationship, he did not rebuke her for impertinence. However, he folded his arms across his chest, and made no reply.

  Mrs. Deane ignored his silence.
“Later today, Mrs. Tarrant and I will call on my dear friend, Mrs. Bettismore, and her charming granddaughter. Good day to you for now.” With quick footsteps she left the room.

  After the door closed, Tarrant chuckled. What a sly old fox his papa was. He had pleaded poverty to foist Mrs. Deane on him. When Papa said she was too proud to accept help, Papa had pulled the wool over his eyes. Doubtless, his father would be found at his club. He would go there to pass the time of day with the dear, but crusty, gentleman.

  * * * *

  Horrified, Georgianne—who had chosen not to visit Mrs. Deane’s friend—Mrs. Bettismore, stared at the Earl of Pennington.

  With perfect composure the earl bowed. Without permission, he sat opposite the bay window in Georgianne’s drawing room.

  “Barnes, why did you admit this gentleman?” Only her iron control prevented Georgianne from running out of the room.

  Pennington chuckled. “It seems I am unwelcome. Do not blame your butler for my intrusion. I refused to hand him my card, and forced my way into your presence.”

  “My lord you should not have done so.” She nodded at Barnes. “You may go.” It would not do to create gossip. Nevertheless, after her butler withdrew, she looked apprehensively at the closed door.

  “My dear Mrs. Tarrant, I have come to say you may always count me, not only as a member of your family through your cousin’s marriage to my heir, but as a friend.” Pennington pressed the tips of his gloved fingers together. “An exceptionally dear friend.”

  Her nostrils flared. “You cannot be in earnest, my lord.”

  “I am. From the moment I first met you, your beauty delighted me.”

  She stood with the intention of summoning Barnes. “Please leave.”

  With an unnatural light in his eyes, the earl sprang to his feet with agility unusual in one so old. “Allow me to trespass, for a moment, on more of your time.”