Chapter Twenty
Sultry weather had yielded to drumbeats of thunder, lightning, and heavy rain, which prevented Langley from taking Georgianne to see the manor house she might rent. After the weather improved, he declined an invitation to visit one of Mrs. Bettismore’s relatives in Weymouth. Condemned to a life sentence with Miss Carstairs, he refused to begin it until he married her.
“My granddaughter will be disappointed,” Mrs. Bettismore grumbled.
His face impassive, Langley looked beyond her. “Madam, it is time for me to set my affairs in order.”
“According to our attorneys, they are in order. Or do you mean you prefer to join Major and Mrs. Tarrant in the country?”
“No, ma’am, as I said, I have business to attend to.”
Amelia pouted. “But I’ll see you soon, my lord?”
“Soon enough, Miss Carstairs.”
Mrs. Bettismore hunched her shoulders. “Don’t pout, my love. You’ll enjoy seeing dear Princess Charlotte in Weymouth. Her Highness will be as fine a sight as anything one may see at home in the North.”
Langley coughed to prevent his incipient laughter.
“Many of our acquaintances have decided to visit Paris, Grandmamma. Couldn’t we go there?”
“On your honeymoon, his lordship might whisk you across the Channel.” Mrs. Bettismore shuddered. “And, mark my words, you’ll regret it if he does. After my first husband took me to France, I decided there’s no place in the world as comfortable as England. No, no Amelia, don’t beg me to take you to Europe. My poor feet hurt too much.”
Langley’s shoulders shook with suppressed mirth.
Mrs. Bettismore winced. “Corns, my lord. Although it’s claimed ivy leaves soaked in vinegar will draw them, they don’t. At least, they haven’t drawn mine.”
“I sympathise with your suffering, ma’am,” Langley said, his voice on the verge of laughter due to the old woman’s outspokenness.
His future grandmother-in-law patted his arm. “I hope army boots never gave you corns.”
“No, they did not,” Langley replied in an uneven tone.
A footman entered the drawing room. “Your trunks are strapped to your coach, madam.”
Mrs. Bettismore heaved herself to her feet. “Amelia, I’ll leave you in his lordship’s care while I make my farewells to his parents.” She bustled out of the room, turning sideways to manoeuvre her wide skirts through the door.
Langley stood with his back to the fireplace regarding Amelia. What could he say to this girl whom he did not want to marry, who resembled a coloured plate in one of the fashion journals his mother and sisters spent much time studying? A extremely beautiful girl clad stylishly in a pale blue pelisse worn over a white muslin gown. He regarded her face. A poke bonnet of plaited straw ornamented with artificial lilies of the valley framed it perfectly. She was as exquisite as Bab’s china-faced doll. The thought left him gloomy. Even the fact that Amelia was the heiress to one of the richest women in England offered slight consolation. Her expensive blue leather gloves were worth as much as her maid’s yearly salary. The price of her matching reticule and half boots would keep a family such as Annie’s from starvation for the better part of a year. Unlike the vivacious Georgianne, it seemed his betrothed gave little or no thought to those less fortunate than herself.
“My lord, I wish you were coming with us to see the Dear Princess.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you know the Prince of Wales is still annoyed with his daughter?”
Bored, he nodded, but it did not deter Amelia. “Dear Princess Charlotte,” she trilled, more animated than usual, “displeased her father by refusing to marry the Prince of Orange. Distraught, Her Highness ran away. A stranger, who didn’t recognise her, called a hackney carriage. The princess told the jarvey to take her to her mother’s house in Connaught Place. Later, Her Highness explained she didn’t think it’s proper for the heiress to the throne of England to go and live in Holland.”
“Yes, I know.” His interjection did not stop his betrothed’s flow of words.
“The Prince of Wales is still furious. He dismissed all her ladies. She’s now in residence at Gloucester Lodge, the queen’s house in Weymouth. The doctors have advised the princess to bathe in the sea. Grandmamma says if sea bathing is good for our future queen, it will be good for me. Do you think Grandmamma and I might be fortunate enough to see her bathing?”
“Miss Carstairs, I would not be vulgar enough to view our future queen as if she is a figure in a peep show.”
Her eyes glittered with tears. He almost regretted giving her such a set down. Then he remembered how she tricked him into offering for her hand and hardened his heart.
* * * *
At the end of August, to ensure her sisters safety, Georgianne and her husband returned them to her grandparents in Northumberland; and under a moral obligation to provide for the loquacious Mrs. Deane, they arranged for her to escort the girls and remain with them.
After they said their farewells to Helen and Bab, they retired to Calcutta Place where Georgianne enjoyed rearranging the principal rooms.
In September, they returned to town to inspect the London house Tarrant inherited from his godfather. They smiled at each other, well pleased with the completed work, which included two bathrooms and water closets, a private bathroom and water closet adjacent to Georgianne’s suite, and a bathroom and water closet for the servants.
“No more chamber pots behind screens and no more privies in the garden,” Tarrant said while they studied pattern books, appreciating the designs for complete rooms, which included even the doorknobs and carpets. Georgianne smiled at Tarrant across a table in the library. “I prefer the neoclassical designs to the Chinese and Egyptian ones.”
Tarrant stretched his back. “Neoclassical it shall be.”
“We need not go to the expense of refurnishing the whole house. Most of the charming French furniture can be used, and many of the old English pieces would look well in the dining parlour and some of the bedchambers.”
Tarrant looked at her approvingly. “I agree, but for you Fair Prudence, I shall order a tent bed. Your bedchamber shall be furnished in pink. So shall your dressing room and boudoir. Would you like that?”
“Yes, I would, that is, by all means pink for my bedchamber, but blue and white for my dressing room, and creamy butter yellow for my boudoir, if you please.”
Tarrant did please, for when she accepted his hand in marriage, he had resolved that he wanted her to be happy. He smiled. By the time they returned from another visit to Calcutta Place, the London house would be ready for occupation.
However, before they retired to the country, Georgianne visited her attorney’s dusty office.
“So, Mr. Syddon,” she said toward the end of their conversation, “you will inspect the property I have chosen, and lease it on my behalf if no serious fault is found with it?”
“Yes, Mrs. Tarrant,” he replied with far more respect than he accorded her on her first visit.
“Please do not forget the destitute lady Johnson introduced to me in Brighton, for whom I am providing. Have her brought to London and ensure she is suitably accommodated.”
Mr. Syddon’s intelligent brown eyes regarded her. “Really, madam, I assure you, there is no need to recapitulate, I have noted all of your instructions including the investigation of her …er… circumstances. I shall carry them out.”
“Very well, I depend on you to see Johnson and his daughter move into the house I want to lease or—if you do not lease it—make sure they are taken care of until I return to London. If you need to communicate with me, I shall be at Calcutta Place until the New Year.”
Early in 1815, when Tarrant took Georgianne to visit friends and enjoy many fine days hunting, she had not yet received a message from Syddon. In February, they returned to Calcutta Place where Georgianne spent much time having the rooms re-arranged to suit her taste, using the furniture from Jaipur, colourful fabrics,
paintings on silk embellished with gold leaf, and jewelled trinkets Tarrant’s godfather had furnished the house with. “Much nicer than the Egyptian style that is so fashionable,” she said to Tarrant, after he spent a chilly day riding around the estate with his bailiff.
He whistled low. “I agree. I must say you have created comfort and elegance in this drawing room. Shall we call it The Indian Room?”
“What a good idea.”
Her husband sat opposite her, staring into a fire in the hearth, which blazed and crackled releasing the scent of pine. “What are you reading?”
“Lord Byron’s poetry,” she said, unable to keep a wistful note from her voice.
“Read to me.”
She hesitated, in the hope he would attribute the rising heat in her cheeks to the fire.
“Georgianne?”
Oh, she could not read aloud for fear she might reveal her nebulous yearning for him. If she did, Tarrant might despise her, for it seemed he had no romantic interest in her so he might consider her unbecomingly forward.
She bent her head. The poet’s words awakened her longing to experience love—no—not only love, but passion. The ardent adoration described in the Song of Solomon. “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth—” No, she should not think thus. Did clergymen not say Solomon’s song referred to the mystical love of the church for God?
Oh, in Tarrant’s presence, she could not continue to read Byron’s poem aloud. Even as she closed the book and put it down on a low cedarwood table, her mind dwelt on some of the lines.
“She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry nights;
And all that is best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.”
If only her husband viewed her thus. How many ladies had he known? Did he ever love one? Could he ever love her?
Tarrant’s voice interrupted her reverie. “Georgianne, what are you thinking?”
“Not about anything important. It is nearly time to dine.” She indicated her gown with one hand. “I must change.”
* * * *
A month later, no closer to Tarrant than before, Georgianne returned to London with him, glad Pennington was in Europe, which meant she would be reunited with her sisters.
After a comfortable journey, Georgianne stood beside Tarrant in the magnificent pale pink marble-floored entrance hall. Looking up the broad flight of stairs, she saw Bab.
To Georgianne’s surprise, instead of hurling herself into her arms, Bab held back seeming unexpectedly shy. “How fine you look.”
“Dearest, fashionable clothes make fine birds,” Georgianne said, self-deprecatingly while inwardly overwhelmed by Tarrant’s generosity, “yet I will never be too fine to give you a hug and a kiss.” She opened her arms.
Bab bounded straight into them. After a little while, Bab withdrew to look at her. “May we live with you now?”
“Maybe.”
Helen came forward to embrace and kiss her. “Georgianne, it is good to see you.”
“Yes it is.” Bab turned to Tarrant and flung herself into his arms. “Oh, I am so happy to see you. Everything has been horrid without you.”
Tarrant grinned. “You were starved?” Bab shook her head. “Were you beaten every day?”
“Do not be silly, Cousin Tarrant.”
“Did our grandparents and Mrs. Deane imprison you in the nursery?” asked Georgianne.
Bab laughed at her. “You are as silly as Cousin Tarrant.”
Tarrant’s laughter mingled with Bab’s before he came forward to kiss Helen’s cheek. “I trust all is well with you.”
While Helen returned his kiss, Georgianne stared across the hall. “Mamma, I did not expect to see you here.”
Watched by Barnes, one of the footmen on duty stepped forward to take her hat, gloves, and pelisse.
Barnes cleared his throat. “Refreshments have been set out in the small parlour.”
Amazed by her mother’s unexpected presence, Georgianne could not speak. She clutched her husband’s arm.
Tarrant ushered the ladies up the stairs to the small parlour.
He patted Georgianne hand and nodded at the butler. “I will have a glass of Madeira wine.”
Mamma sank onto a chair. “I shall have oregeat, so will Miss Whitley and Miss Barbara.”
Georgianne accepted a glass of ratafia.
Mamma’s hands shook. “Georgianne, you have become quite the lady of fashion. Although you refused to marry the Earl of Pennington, you have done well enough.”
Georgianne shrugged without looking at her mother.
“Ladies, please be seated.” Tarrant waited for them to sit before he sat on a wing chair upholstered in straw coloured heavy silk.
Mamma stared at the cream and gold Aubusson carpet. “Georgianne, I have recovered from my…er…my indisposition, so I shall stay with you. I hope I am welcome.”
The sting of the riding crop would remain with Georgianne for the rest of her life. “Put your question to my husband.” She turned her head to look at Tarrant. “Please excuse me. The journey from Calcutta Place has tired me. I shall have my dinner on a tray in my room.” She left the room with her sisters at her side.
Tarrant watched the door close. His wife had left the room too quickly for him to stand.
His Aunt Whitley dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “Will she forgive me?”
“Possibly not, ma’am. The scars your brutal beating inflicted on my wife, will remain until the day she dies.”
Tarrant withdrew from the drawing room. He did not respect Aunt Whitley. Never could he excuse her for neglecting her daughters, and drinking away most of the legacy inherited from her husband. He pressed his lips together. As if that were not bad enough, she capped it by trying to marry Georgianne off to Pennington, of whose unsavoury reputation she must have been aware.
With the intention of reassuring Georgianne, Tarrant hurried up to her bedchamber and rapped on the door.
When Elliot opened it, he stared into the room. Until now, he had not believed a heart could melt. But at the sight of his wife, on whose lap Bab’s head rested and of Helen sitting on the end of the bed, which was strewn with broken sealing wax, string, and paper, his heart did melt.
“Am I welcome, Georgianne, or shall I withdraw?”
Her beautiful smile greeted him. “Tarrant, you are always welcome wherever I am.”
“Thank you, my good angel.”
Bab giggled.
Tarrant raised his eyebrows. “Why are you laughing, miss?”
“Georgianne is not an angel,” came Bab’s muffled voice.
“Be careful, miss, or I might tickle you,” Tarrant teased. He smiled at his wife. “I came to ask if you think your mother would like to visit my parents.”
Georgianne sat still. “Maybe, if not, when we return to Calcutta House, she could stay here with Mrs. Deane.”
Bab grabbed Georgianne’s hand. “May we go with you?”
Before Georgianne could reply, Helen rose to answer a knock on the door. “Mamma,” she said in an even tone.
Their mother stepped into the room. She looked from one face to another, hesitating by a bedside chair.
Her nostrils pinched, Georgianne thrust her chin forward. “Please be seated, Mamma.” She turned her attention to her sisters. “Yes, Bab, if Tarrant has no objections, you and Helen may accompany us to Calcutta Place. Mamma, you can stay here with Mrs. Deane, or, if it pleases you, put up with Aunt Tarrant. After all, as well as being my mother-in-law, she is your sister,” Georgianne said, her voice cold.
“Bab, would you like to visit the stables with me?” Tarrant asked. The child scrambled off the bed and then slipped her hand into his. “Come along.”
“So,” Mamma commenced, “you will not forgive me, Georgianne. It also seems you and their guardian have decided not to allow Ba
b and Helen to reside with me.”
“You have my forgiveness, but I will never forget you struck me while trying to force me into marrying Pennington.” Her anger swelled. “The earl is insane. First he abducted Bab, next he kidnapped Helen because I refused to marry him when he asked me to.”
“Yes, I know, your sisters told me about it, but I do not understand what he hoped to gain by abducting Bab.”
“To blackmail me into passing the night with him. Afterwards, as Helen must have explained, he kidnapped her with the intention of marrying her and having sons.”
Mamma sank onto the chair. “Lud, I still find it hard to believe him capable of such wickedness.”
Helen’s cheeks flushed. “He is, Mamma, and although he is overseas, for fear of him, the three of us dare not go out if we are not protected by guards.”
Mamma raised her eyebrows. “I am shocked, but I am capable of protecting you and—”
Georgianne glared at her mamma. “No you are not. Besides, for all I know, you are not yet in a fit state to—” she broke off, realising that deep in her heart, despite her hurt and resentment, she loved her mother. At least she loved the kind mother of her childhood whom she wanted to regain.
Mamma supported her head with her hands as though her neck was too weak to support it. “You think I will over indulge in wine and strong liquor again. It is why you do not want your sisters to live with me.”
Georgianne stared at the floor and made no reply.
Mamma wrapped her arms around her waist while staring at Helen with tears in her eyes. “I cannot tell you how much I have missed the three of you. If you and Bab remain with Georgianne, what shall I do? My life will be no more than an empty shell.” Mamma rocked back and forth. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Is it not enough for me to have lost your father and brothers?”
“Oh, Mamma, do not distress yourself.” Georgianne slid off the bed. She patted her mother’s shoulder. “I shall ask Tarrant if you may stay with us for a while at Calcutta House.”
Tarrant agreed, but when the first spring leaves unfurled, Georgianne did not know why her mamma decided to return to Whitley Manor alone before members of the fashionable world began to return to London. Georgianne settled into the London house with her husband. About to participate in the London Season, she simultaneously pitied Langley and admired Mrs. Bettismore’s determination to set the date of her granddaughter’s wedding.
Sunday's Child (Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week Book 1) Page 21
