“I have every sympathy with Her Highness,” rattled on Mrs. Deane, who took great interest in royal affairs. “Our little princess—” she broke off to snigger. “I should not refer to her as little for one can imagine her becoming plumper than a wood pigeon if her diet is not restricted. What was I about to say? Ah, yes, if she married the Prince of Orange, she would have had to live abroad. One cannot blame her for not wanting to leave this blessed isle?”
Georgianne laughed. “I agree. Our future queen should not live overseas. Tarrant, what do you think of Princess Charlotte taking up residence in the Lowlands?”
“I think she should remain in England,” Tarrant replied. “Who knows what the consequences would be if war broke out again in Europe while the heiress to the throne lived across the channel?”
She frowned. “With General Soult trounced at Toulouse, and Napoleon’s abdication, what have we to fear?”
Tarrant shrugged. He stood and patted his wife’s shoulder. “Will you ride with me tomorrow morning?”
She tilted her head to smile up at him. “Yes.” Despite nights when she did not go to bed until dawn approached, she never missed an opportunity to be alone with her husband, and no one rejoiced more heartily than they did when news of the allied armies marching down the Champs Elysee arrived.
Napoleon, the Corsican ogre, was beaten. Cartoonists set to work. Clergymen prepared sermons. People rejoiced. God willing, the world would never again see so monstrous a dictator.
* * * *
Georgianne sat at a small, circular table by the window in her charming parlour decorated in shades of wedgewood blue and white, her appetite sharp after a morning ride. “Peace at last,” she said to her husband.
“Yes,” Tarrant replied a little too heartily.
Always sensitive to every inflexion of his voice Georgianne raised an eyebrow.
“I fear I am a poor husband. I should spend more time with you.”
She looked at him and laughed. “I would have no other husband.”
“Georgianne.” He reached out across the small table to clasp her hand.
She returned the affectionate pressure. “Now that my sisters are with my grandparents I admit I enjoy breakfasting tete-a-tete.”
“If it pleases you, we shall do so every morning.”
Conscious of the blush stealing into her cheeks she looked down. “How good you are to me, but what of Mrs. Deane, will she not consider us eccentric?”
“No, m’dear, in view of the late nights we keep, I think she will be delighted by not being expected to put in an appearance at the breakfast table. Now I must change my clothes. I arranged to meet Langley at Jackson’s Saloon.”
To tease him, she pouted. “I cannot imagine why gentlemen enjoy boxing.”
Tarrant laughed before he stood. He kissed the top of her head. “Would you care to visit Richmond this afternoon? It would be a pleasant outing in this mild weather.”
She tip-toed to kiss him on the cheek. His eyes burned when he gazed into hers. Why did he look at her thus? What did he want of her? “Thank you, I look forward to the drive.”
After he departed, she dashed off a note of apology to an acquaintance to cancel their visit to view some newly hung paintings in The Royal Academy of Arts.
* * * *
Several days after the visit to Richmond, Georgianne looked in the mirror at her dashing rifleman’s green carriage ensemble trimmed with silver braid. She blew a carefree kiss to her reflection, perched her military style hat trimmed with matching braid on her head, pulled on her leather gloves, and went downstairs.
Tarrant, who awaited her in the hall, regarded her. “You look splendid.”
She curtsied. “Thank you, kind sir.”
Well aware that even her servants worried when she drove her most recent acquisition, a high perch phaeton, Georgianne stepped with deliberate daintiness down the front steps beside Tarrant. She suppressed a smile. Even her guards, who had previously served in the heavy cavalry, seemed doubtful of her ability to drive it. However, they had responded with great enthusiasm when she ordered them to escort her to a review of the army in Hyde Park.
Although Tarrant followed her down the steps, Barnes hovered behind them as though he would like to accompany them. For, as she well knew, he and the other servants took great interest in the state visit of personalities such as the Austrian emperor’s representative, and the Prussian commander, Blucher.
Concerning herself, Georgianne was much gratified when Blucher had greeted Tarrant one day, and asked to be introduced to the beautiful fraulein.
Georgianne climbed up into her phaeton. She gathered the reins while Tarrant settled himself beside her.
Mrs. Deane stood on the flagstones near the phaeton gazing at the six-foot high wheels. “Mrs. Tarrant, the sight of you so far above the ground makes me dizzy.”
Most of her attention on the lively horses still held in check by the groom, Georgianne allowed a carefree laugh to escape her. “If you are so frightened, I shall never ask you to accompany me when I am driving my phaeton.”
“Oh, I do hope dear Cousin Tarrant will take the reins from you if you have the least difficulty managing the horses.”
Annoyed by the implication, Georgianne shrugged. She ordered the groom to let the horses have their heads, tempted not to check their pace until she drew them to a halt in the park.
Uniforms, familiar to Georgianne since early childhood, brought her father to mind. Her lips trembled while her blood stirred at the sight of scarlet and gold, red and silver, riflemen’s green, yellow facings, tartan kilts, the blue of the light cavalry, feathered Highland bonnets, busbies, and glittering helmets—a pageant of colour and disciplined movement. She smiled at Tarrant. Did he regret marrying her or wish to be with his regiment?
Georgianne glanced hither and thither at happy faces. Faces of those belonging to the triumphant island. Although sweat, blood, and guts overthrew Napoleon, there were still rank after rank of splendid men on parade.
Only a glimpse of Pennington marred her pleasure. How ridiculous the repulsive old man looked, posturing with a wasp waist, which must owe its slenderness to a corset, and a chest covered by a coat obviously padded to improve his aging figure. For a moment, Georgianne almost released a mocking laugh at the sight of him strutting through the crowd like a peacock with unfurled tail feathers. Then she cursed the earl under her breath. But for him, her sisters would still be with her. Her hands tightened on the reins. The horses snorted. One of her bodyguards went to their heads. She relaxed her hands, grateful to Tarrant for not interfering by trying to take the reins from her.
“Dare I approach the high and mighty?” a voice teased.
She looked down. “Good day to you, Langley, Mrs. Bettismore, Miss Carstairs.” She smiled while noticing how possessively Miss Carstairs’ gloved hand clutched Langley’s arm.
“Mrs. Tarrant,” Mrs. Bettismore and Amelia responded one after the other.
Tarrant inclined his head, and then descended to shake Langley’s hand and wish the ladies good day.
Langley looked up at Georgianne again, before indicating the footmen, while Tarrant and the ladies were engaged in conversation. “Gad, those fellows frighten me,” he teased.
“My bruisers?”
“You shock me by using a word unfit for a gentlewoman,” Langley joked.
“Which word? Oh, bruisers. That is what Tarrant calls them. Anyway, as you see, they always accompany me.”
Alarmed by shrill trumpet notes Georgianne’s horses snorted, creating a potentially deadly dance with their flashing hooves.
Amelia covered her face with her hands.
A bodyguard clung to the leader’s bridle.
“Mrs. Tarrant,” Amelia began, “your horses’ hooves threw dust over me. My gown’s dirty.” She shook her cowslip yellow skirts with hands gloved in the same delicate shade.
After Georgianne’s phaeton backed out, the blacks calmed. Georgianne leaned over the side.
Regardless of good manners, she stared into Amelia’s eyes. “With your grandmamma’s permission, would you like me to teach you to drive my phaeton?”
“No, I could not be so unwomanly.”
“On the contrary,” Langley drawled, “perhaps you need lessons in how to be more womanly.”
Amelia’s cheeks turned from shell pink to scarlet.
“You are too harsh, Langley. You have mortified poor Miss Carstairs,” Georgianne protested.
“My lord, you’re unkind,” Mrs. Bettismore gasped.
“Madam,” Langley said to his future grandmother-in-law, “allow me to claim the privilege of being frank with my future wife, and please do not take offence at the suggestion that she choose her words more carefully.”
“Do not fight my battles for me, Langley,” Georgianne intervened.
Langley bowed. “Very well.”
Her eyebrows twitched. “As for Miss Carstairs,” she said, too low to be overheard above the cacophony of sound, “maybe because she is somewhat childish, she speaks thoughtlessly.”
Before she could offer Langley further encouragement, Tarrant resumed his place beside her. The review at an end, Georgianne concentrated on backing her horses. She did not indicate her awareness of Pennington, who amongst others, turned their heads to admire her skill with the reins. However the earl’s presence sent a shudder up her spine. Yet, having experienced grief over the deaths of her father and brothers, she pitied him. Undoubtedly the loss of his sons addled his brain. But had he lost all his family? Was it possible the rumour, that his youngest son had married and fathered Pennington’s heir before his death, was true? If so, and if the child could be found, the earl would no longer be a threat to Helen or any other lady.
Georgianne looked down. Amelia’s outraged expression drew her from her thoughts. Her head bent toward Langley’s betrothed, she gurgled with laughter. “I hope I am not so unwomanly that you will refuse to be seen in my company. It would please Langley if we become the best of friends.”
Mrs. Bettismore smiled. “You are too kind to my granddaughter.”
“Not at all, ma’am. If driving a phaeton is not too unladylike to win your approval, I trust you and Miss Carstairs will attend a play at The Haymarket with us on Friday evening. Langley, I take it for granted you will honour us with your presence.”
The viscount nodded.
Mrs. Bettismore beamed. “You are most gracious. We are pleased to accept.”
Chapter Eighteen
Three days later Tarrant and Georgianne’s carriage joined the end of a long queue of vehicles waiting to set their passengers down outside The Haymarket Theatre.
“We are late,” Georgianne said.
Her husband nodded at her, his expression obscured by the darkness of the interior. The carriage stopped at the entrance. They alighted and then went to their box where Langley awaited them with Mrs. Bettismore and Miss Carstairs.
Five minutes after they settled, they saw a ripple of movement in the opposite tiers of boxes. Georgianne, who sat at the front of her box, rested her arms on its velvet-padded edge, and then leaned forward to see the cause of the commotion.
The fleshy, powdered, and painted Princess of Wales, excluded from the society of her husband and daughter—as well as every other member of the royal family—had arrived.
During an expectant but horrid silence, Her Highness curtsied to the Prince of Wales, who sat in The Royal Box with the Czar and the King of Prussia.
It was not a secret that whenever His Royal Highness saw his wife’s head of bright yellow curls, he felt ill. Everyone waited for the Prince’s reaction.
The heir to the throne hesitated before he rose to make his bow to his estranged wife. Relieved of scandal by such graciousness, the audience in the stalls rewarded the couple with loud cheers. The First Gentleman of Europe bowed as though the ovation was only for him. He remained on his feet and continued bowing to the public, until the clapping, huzzahs, and stamping of feet ceased.
“My sympathies are with His Highness,” Georgianne whispered to Tarrant.
“So are mine,” he whispered back. “I admire him for not listening to the Whigs when they screamed for peace. He wanted Napoleon to be defeated.”
Georgianne clapped languidly, trying not to stare at Princess Caroline’s untidy mane of hair. She drew her chair even closer to the red velvet edge of the box and noticed Pennington leering at her across the theatre.
Breathless, she sat back. Confound the earl for so often ruining her pleasure. Thank God her sisters were safe beyond his reach. Although Georgianne knew her grandparents were kind and indulgent, life in so remote a part of the country must be dull and irksome. Poor Bab wrote often to complain about her incarceration in Northumberland. She begged to return to school. But what of Helen? Had Langley’s forced betrothal broken her heart?
Ever conscious of Pennington, she sat back, her face in shadow.
Mrs. Bettismore fanned herself vigorously while turning her attention to Langley. “My lord, you’re remiss. Young ladies like compliments. You are remiss for not remarking on my chick’s appearance. Don’t you think she looks remarkably well this evening?”
Three huzzahs for her chick, Georgianne thought, regretting her inability to like Miss Carstairs.
“You look charming, Miss Carstairs,” Langley drawled.
His betrothed smiled at him before she turned her attention to the performance.
At the end of the play, there was a rush to the foyer where Georgianne greeted some acquaintances. While she spoke to them, Amelia’s fingers drummed a bored tattoo on Langley’s coat sleeve. “Grandmamma is fatigued, she needs to go home.”
Langley glanced at Mrs. Bettismore. “We shall leave as soon as the crowd lessens.”
The press of people thinned. Accompanied by their guests, Georgianne and Tarrant made their way outside, listening to uneasy talk while they waited for their carriages.
“A mob surrounded the Princess of Wales’s carriage.”
“Some of the rascals dared to snatch her hand and kiss it.”
“Has the Lord Mayor been informed?”
“A ruffian asked Her Highness if she wanted them to set fire to the Prince of Wales London residence.”
“To Carlton House? Surely no one would dare.”
“Is it safe to leave?”
“Yes. After the princess told them not to torch the building, the mob dispersed.”
“Dear Lord, this reminds me of bloodthirsty French mobs during the revolution.” Mrs. Bettismore moaned.
“Do not be alarmed, ma’am, there will never be a revolution here,” Tarrant reassured her.
Georgianne intercepted a glance between her husband and Langley. Through studying the broadsheets, she knew as well as they did how much the government feared the London mob. Their carriage arrived. A groom opened the door. Georgianne put a foot on the lowered steps. A hand tugged her cloak. “Please, ma’am, please,” a voice implored.
Tarrant’s hand fingered the pistol Georgianne knew he had concealed in the pocket of his greatcoat in case Pennington attempted a further outrage. “Are you one of those who offered to torch Carlton House?”
The person bundled in a tattered blanket shook its head.
“What do you want?” Tarrant demanded.
“Ma’am,” said a male voice, “when I came to your house your servants wouldn’t let me see you, although I told them Colonel Whitley would’ve helped us.”
“My father? You knew my father?”
“Yes, ma’am. He was never too hard-hearted to help a man who served well under his command.”
“What is your name?
“Johnson, ma’am.”
Miss Carstairs cringed while she covered her nose with a scented handkerchief. “Major Tarrant, please tell the man to go away.”
Langley stared at Miss Carstairs with a hard expression on his face. “Your carriage has arrived. Forgive me if I do not escort you to your house.”
Mrs. B
ettismore looked displeased. “Ungracious, my lord.”
Georgianne ignored the old lady. “Tarrant, please explain to Miss Carstairs that Johnson is one of those who saved her from invasion by The Corsican Ogre.” Anger added unintentional force to her words. If their country had been invaded, heaven only knew how the enemy would have behaved.
“Miss Carstairs, if the French had invaded England, pretty chits like you might have suffered,” Tarrant said.
“My lord!” Mrs. Bettismore exclaimed.
Presumably the old lady objected equally to Tarrant referring to her granddaughter as a “chit” and his implication. Georgianne looked from Amelia’s dainty shoes to the carefully arranged curls on either side of her face. “Miss Carstairs, do not concern yourself about this unfortunate soldier. We will help him.”
Mrs. Bettismore’s ample bosom swelled. “Mrs. Tarrant, I hope I know my Christian duty to the poor as well as any other woman, yet you can’t make yourself responsible for every soldier who—”
“Allow me sufficient Christian charity to speak to a man whom my father commanded.”
Tarrant looked at Johnson. “Have you been discharged from the army?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you receive a wound pension?”
“No, sir, I wasn’t wounded.”
“Why have you approached my wife?”
Johnson pulled aside the blanket to reveal a child’s dirty, tear-stained face. “I need work, sir.”
Large, dark eyes stared at them before the girl drew closer to Johnson.
“I wouldn’t ask for myself. I’m asking for my daughter. Her ma’s dead. I’ve no relatives to help me. We’ve not enough to pay the rent of our shared room. I’m asking for honest work, not charity.”
Georgianne appreciated the impoverished man’s touching dignity. “Up on the box with you. The child may ride in the carriage.”
Mrs. Bettismore shook her head. “My dear, he might be a member of the conscienceless rabble.”
Georgianne tilted her chin. “Perhaps France would have done better if it had exercised more compassion.”
Sunday's Child (Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week Book 1) Page 18
