By the beginning of March, Langley, Tarrant’s parents, and Sarah and her husband, returned to the capital, but Mamma remained in the country where Georgianne hoped she would enjoy the peace and quiet. Unfortunately for her peace of mind, Pennington had returned to London. Despite her misgivings, Tarrant assured her a twenty-four hour watch would be kept on Pennington. She and her sisters would be safe.
To her disgust, Pennington’s hooded eyes watched her whenever his path crossed her own. Georgianne hoped she really did have the means to foil any evil intentions the earl might harbour. Only in public or private with Tarrant was she completely at ease. Every day she eagerly anticipated their daily rides in the park, during which Bab waited for her to return so she could visit her sister in her apartment before Georgianne breakfasted tete-a-tete with Tarrant.
A week or more after their return to London, Elliot helped Georgianne change out of her riding habit, while Bab clambered up onto the vast tent bed, hung with rosy curtains.
“It is pouring with rain,” Bab remarked. “I hope my dolls are dry in their coffins.”
Georgianne smiled across the room at Tarrant when he entered with a letter in his outstretched hand.
“Perhaps you should dig your dolls up?” Georgianne said to Bab who did not notice Tarrant because she sat with her back to him.
Bab pushed her curly red hair back from her forehead. “No, dead people stay in their graves forever.”
“Dearest, their bodies are in the graves but their souls are not.”
The arrival of a maid, who carried a silver tray loaded with porcelain china and solid silver cutlery, ended their conversation. Two other maids followed and the three of them arranged breakfast on a table by the window.
Troubled by Bab’s confidences, Georgianne thanked the maids, for she did not believe in ignoring the servants in the manner of some members of the ton. She smiled at her sister. “Would you like to breakfast with us?”
“Yes, please.”
“Elliot, please put another chair by the table.”
“Very good, madam.” Elliot did as she was asked.
“Thank you, that will be all, Elliot.”
Georgianne beckoned to Tarrant. After the three of them sat at the table, Georgianne poured milk for Bab.
Instead of drinking her milk, Bab wept. Tears poured down her cheeks. Unable to find a handkerchief in which to blow her nose, she used the skirt of her pinafore.
“Come here,” Georgianne began, “tell me what is wrong.” After she turned her chair, Bab came to stand in front of her. “In future, Bab, please do not blow your nose on your pinafore. Now, turn around.” She unfastened the buttons at the back of the pinafore and then slipped the shoulder straps down. “Take this off.”
Tarrant frowned. “My dear child, why are you crying?”
Bab swung around, entered his outstretched arms, and sat on his lap.
“I do not want to live with Mamma. I never want Georgianne to have a baby because I am your Bab. And I do not want the earl to snatch us from you.”
Why did her husband look as if lightning had struck him? Regardless of Bab’s fears for her, she longed for motherhood. Georgianne imagined a son, a fair-haired replica of her husband. Her cheeks burned. Through feminine conversation she now knew how babies were conceived. Looking back, she could scarcely believe how naïve she was when she married.
When her sisters wed, she would ensure they were not ignorant. She avoided looking at Tarrant. “I am not with child, Bab. What put such an idea in your head?”
Bab sniffed noisily. “Ever since you married I have known you will have a baby because married ladies always have one.”
Georgianne broke a brief silence. “Yes, they do, at least, most of them do. But even if we have one you will still be our Bab.” She sought for something to reassure the child. “What is more you will enjoy being an aunt.”
Bab looked at them doubtfully. “Will I not have to live with Mamma?”
Georgianne shook her head. “Bab, you have a guardian to protect you. Colonel Walton has already agreed you should live with us. As for Mamma, you must not be frightened of her. She was unwell for a long time. Now we hope she has fully recovered.”
“Do you mean she drank too much wine?”
Georgianne nodded.
After Tarrant dried Bab’s tears with his handkerchief, she stared up at his face. “Even if I live with you, I do not want you to have a baby.”
“Why not?” Georgianne asked.
“People die when they have babies.”
Tarrant’s breath caught in his throat. For a moment, Georgianne saw agony in his eyes.
“I do not think I will die if I have a child,” Georgianne said to comfort Bab. “After all, I am as healthy as Aunt Tarrant, who has eleven children. And think of Mamma, dearest, she had five children.”
This time Tarrant caught his breath loudly, startled Bab scrutinised him before she gazed at Georgianne. “I never thought of that, I shall dig up all my dolls.” Her face cheerful, Bab slipped off Tarrant’s lap. She sipped her coffee before eyeing a dish of hothouse strawberries sent to London from Calcutta Place. Bab put her two-handled cup down, served herself with some of the luscious fruit, and then sprinkled them with sugar. Georgianne smiled. Bab’s appetite always decreased in proportion to her anxieties and fears and then increased as soon as she was put at ease.
Bab popped a strawberry into her mouth.
Georgianne glanced across the table to observe Tarrant’s eyes. The torment had disappeared. Instead, they glowed as if he nursed a secret joy.
“Eat politely, Bab, use a spoon.” Her sister ignored her. She pursed her small red lips and sucked a sugared strawberry.
“Eat politely,” Georgianne repeated.
Bab picked up her spoon. “Georgianne, are you happy? Sad Sarry says you fell in love with Tarrant when you were fourteen years old when he rode up to Tarrant Manor in his uniform and—”
“Did she?” Tarrant’s presence flustered Georgianne. “Well, she is wrong. I was much too young to fall in love but I did admire him very much, very much indeed.”
“I think you loved him. I understand because I love Lord Langley.”
“Bab! You do not know anything about love.”
“Yes, I do. Sad Sarry says Cousin Tarrant worships you.”
Mortified, conscious of her blushes, Georgianne averted her eyes from her amused husband. “People say too much, besides, you should not call your cousin Sad Sarry.”
“Well, our Cousin Sarah is right, I see the way Cousin Tarrant looks at you. If you were a strawberry he would gobble you up.”
By now, Georgianne assumed her cheeks were as red as the fruit.
“Why do you want to marry Lord Langley?” Georgianne asked, to divert her sister’s mind.
“He would save me from the earl.”
Every trace of laughter left Tarrant’s face. “You need not fear him. I shall protect you.”
“Come,” called Georgianne in response to a knock on the door.
Helen joined them, neat and pretty in a white muslin gown trimmed with dark green ribbons matching those in her hair.
“Tell Georgianne that what I said is true,” said Bab.
“What is true?” Helen bent over to give Georgianne a good morning kiss. “What is true, Bab?” she asked as she straightened her back.
“Cousin Tarrant worships our sister.”
Georgianne opened her mouth to protest, wondering what her husband made of Bab’s innocent foolishness.
“I cannot!” Helen said, the colour in her cheeks deepening. “It would be most improper of me. Bab, Mamma wants you to join her for breakfast. Please do not upset her by planning to hold another doll’s funeral.”
“My dolls do not need to be dead any more. I am going to dig them up.”
Helen rolled her eyes, but did not pursue her sister’s line of conversation. “Come and breakfast with us, Bab. I am sure Cousin Tarrant does not appreciate you hanging onto his
coat tails while saying outrageous things whenever you have the opportunity.”
“Bab has nightmares about Pennington,” Georgianne explained to Tarrant after the door closed behind her sisters. She pursed her lips, knowing she must put an end to Pennington’s mischief, another idea came to mind. Once upon a time, Mamma performed good works with genuine compassion. Perhaps she would help her with her Foundation House for the Betterment of Former Soldiers and Their Families. She glanced at Tarrant, who was deep in thought. She hoped he would have no objection to her charity now the time had arrived to raise funds.
* * * *
After Tarrant breakfasted, he kissed the top of his wife’s head before making his way to the book room with a light heart. Once there, he ignored a pile of papers awaiting his attention. Instead, he sat in a comfortable wing chair and faced his demon.
“Out of the mouths of babes,” he murmured. For over a year he had not consummated his marriage because he feared if his wife died in childbirth he would not be able to bear the guilt. It took a frightened, red-haired child with an indomitable spirit, coupled with his wife’s common sense to banish his demon. Most women survived childbirth not once but many times.
His wife’s face and form materialised in his mind’s eye. What a blind fool he was. He had loved Dolores, lost her, and ruthlessly suppressed the new love which beckoned so enticingly.
Tarrant sprang to his feet, carefree as a boy who escaped punishment. He must choose the right moment to tell Georgianne he loved her and to claim her without alarming her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Pennington’s butler opened the front door.
Georgianne handed him her card. “Take this to your master. Inform him I wish to see him immediately.”
The man goggled. “His lordship’s eating breakfast. He isn’t dressed to receive you, madam.”
Georgianne put her foot over the threshold. “Stand aside.”
The butler hesitated.
Georgianne advanced, followed by her companions: a lady, a curly-haired young child wearing a white muslin dress,, two burly men, and a short man.
The butler stared at them before retreating.
“Do not worry. My visit will please your master,” Georgianne said, while she stood in the entrance hall, heedless of passers by, amongst whom she glimpsed Mrs. Bettismore and Miss Carstairs seated in a barouche.
* * * *
“Did you see her?” Amelia asked.
Her short-sighted grandmamma peered. “Who?”
“Mrs. Tarrant in the Earl of Pennington’s house?”
Mrs. Bettismore wafted her fan. “Shocking—although it’s not our business—but it’s time for us to visit Viscount Langley, who is staying with the Tarrants. We’ll call at the house and pretend we don’t know Mrs. Tarrant is out. When the butler tells us she’s not at home, we’ll ask if Viscount Langley is there.”
“Why, Grandmamma?”
“We must compel him to agree to a wedding date.”
Deep in thought they remained silent until their footman knocked on the door of the Tarrant’s resplendent London house.
“Mrs. Tarrant is not at home,” Barnes said.
Mrs. Bettismore surveyed the entrance hall, made sumptuous with a chandelier and numerous oil paintings. “Is Viscount Langley here?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Announce us.” Mrs. Bettismore pressed a coin into his hand.
Tarrant and Langley, who sat reading newspapers in the library, sighed when Barnes disturbed them. “Sir, my lord, Mrs. Bettismore and Miss Carstairs await you in the small parlour.”
They put down the broadsheets, stood, and went to bid the ladies good morning.
“Excellent ratafia,” Mrs. Bettismore said after an exchange of commonplace civilities with the gentlemen.
“Major Tarrant, although our barouche passed your wife earlier on, we thought she might have returned by now,” Amelia said.
Tarrant inclined his head to her. “I expect she is taking the air in the park.”
Amelia smirked. “You’re mistaken, sir, Mrs. Tarrant is visiting the Earl of Pennington.”
“The devil she is!” Tarrant hurried out of the room, spilling his wine on the carpet as he left.
“Manners,” Mrs. Bettismore protested. “In my youth, gentlemen were not so discourteous.”
Langley ignored her protest. Without offering the ladies any excuse, he followed his friend into the library, where Tarrant stood removing a case of duelling pistols from the drawer of a hitherto locked cabinet.
“The horses will be brought round in a moment, Langley.”
“Calm yourself, Rupes, your wife has already proved she is more than a match for Pennington.”
* * * *
With her companions, Georgianne entered the breakfast parlour where Pennington sat sipping coffee.
“What the devil?” he asked his butler. “Have I not told you never to admit visitors when I am in a state of undress?”
“Madam would not be denied,” the butler murmured, his pale face apprehensive.
“Do not suppose she would, nasty little creature, glad I did not marry her.”
Georgianne watched Pennington smooth his sage green, gold embroidered dressing gown. She noticed the prominent veins and dark brown splotches on his hand, recoiling at the thought of him touching either her or Helen in a familiar manner. She stiffened her spine. His lordship was at a disadvantage without his powder and rouge. Georgianne’s upper lip curled. The green and gold turban wound around Pennington’s head did not flatter his wrinkled face with its dark shadows under his eyes.
“Why are you here?” Pennington snapped. “Your husband will kill me if—”
Georgianne came straight to the point. “You wanted to marry me to have a son. Why did you want to when you have a legitimate heir?”
“Do not mention Wilfred to me.”
Georgianne held her head higher. “No, another heir, I will explain matters after you have the courtesy to invite us to sit.”
“Ladies, please be seated,” Pennington snapped.
They sat. Johnson and her bruisers stood observing them while Georgianne spoke. “May I present Lord George, Viscount Castleton, and his Mamma, the dowager Lady Castleton, to you, your lordship? Lord Castleton, go to greet your grandpapa.”
His lordship, a shy three-year old, clung to his mamma’s black skirt. He put his thumb in his mouth and refused to make his bow.
“My lord, there is no reason not to receive your grandson and daughter-in-law. Syddon, my attorney, has examined their claim. He assures me it will be upheld in a court of law.”
Pennington coughed repeatedly. He caught his breath, and stared at his hitherto unknown daughter-in-law, obviously trying to come to terms with the idea. “Lady Castleton, why did you not come to me after my son died?”
“Despite the longstanding rift between you and your son, my lord, I wrote to you many times from Portugal. You did not reply. Almost destitute, I came to England in despair. In your absence, your servants refused me entry to this house.” She smiled at Georgianne. “Johnson, a soldier well-known to my husband and me in the Peninsula, greeted me in Brighton. Later, he introduced us to Mrs. Tarrant, my benefactress. Had he not, we would have starved.”
Pennington’s face relaxed. The skin stretched less tightly across it. “This is terrible. I never received your letters. Last year, I trawled the continent, walked the battle fields, and checked many inns. I did my best to find out whether or not my son married and had a son before he died.” The ghost of a smile hovered around his thin lips. “However begrudgingly, I am indebted to you, Mrs. Tarrant, my nephew, Wilfred Stanton, will not be the next earl.” A malicious glint appeared in his eyes. “I can only imagine the expression on his face when the news is broken to him.” He turned his attention to Lady Castleton. “You and my grandson are welcome, very welcome.”
“Please. Step forward Johnson,” Georgianne indicated the small man with a military bearing. “Johnson wi
ll help me with my project, Tarrant House, a foundation for the benefit of penniless soldiers and their families. I am sure you wish to subscribe generously to it.”
“I do not care to be in debt. Your magnanimity forces me to drink a bitter cup of gratitude,” Pennington snapped.
“Good, I hope you will drink it every day of your life. My life and my sisters’ lives have been embittered because of you.”
A distant door banged violently, startling Georgianne. Feet pounded up the stairs. The door to the breakfast parlour burst open. Surprised, they all stared at Tarrant, while Georgianne, head held high, addressed Pennington. “After you promise me my sisters and I are no longer in danger from you, I shall take my leave. There is no further business between us.”
“Business you should not conduct in this devil’s house,” Tarrant said his words clipped. “You promised me you would never again tackle Pennington. Come.” He seized her elbow and pulled her out of the room.
Tarrant kept a firm, but not painful grip on her arm, while he marched her through the hall, out of the front door, and down the steps.
They returned home in silence. Without speaking a word, they ascended the white, well-scrubbed steps.
Tarrant rapped on his front door. Barnes opened it, took one look at them, and did no more than beckon to a footman to take their hats and gloves.
“We are not to be disturbed.” Tarrant guided Georgianne up to her daintily furnished parlour where a fire flickered on primrose coloured walls, keeping spring’s chill at bay.
“Tarrant, how dare you drag me out of the earl’s house.”
“Why did you go there?”
Never before had he spoken to her in such harsh tones or looked at her with such contempt.
“May I sit down?” Georgianne asked, as though she was a child.
Sunday's Child (Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week Book 1) Page 22
