Tuesday's Child
by
Jeanette Baker
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 1996, 2012 by Jeanette Marion Baker. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Thank You.
Many thanks to Ron Medve, for his help,
his great knowledge of history,
and his willingness to share it with me.
Tuesday's child is full of grace.
—Anonymous
Author's Note
Never in the history of the world has a people with the same language, the same customs, the same heroes and ancestry, evolved with two such different ideologies as the Englishman and the American in 1812. Nowhere was the difference more obvious than in their attitudes toward marriage, fidelity, and class distinctions.
In England, where unemployment was high and the division between master and servant rigid, less than five hundred families had the means to employ a multitude of servants. Employment was generational and jealously guarded. The same servants had served the same families for hundreds of years. In a country where there was a Lord Steward to lay the fire and a Lord Chamberlain to light the fire, the crossing of class lines was nearly impossible. Marriages were dynastic bonds, entered into for the purpose of breeding children, to promote the lineage in the upper class, to work on the family farms and businesses in the working class. Men born to enormous wealth had little to do to assuage the boredom of their daily lives except gamble, visit their clubs and indulge in affairs. It was not unusual for women as well as men to satisfy their desires outside of marriage after first presenting their lords with the necessary heir. To dirty one's hands with trade was unacceptable for a gentleman.
America was different. In a desperate desire to carve out a country from the wilderness, keep Indians at bay, and expand the frontier, the American worked from dawn till dusk on the business of survival. Because the land was thinly populated, even wealthy ladies and gentlemen worked side by side with servants who knew that if the job didn't suit, another position was available down the road. An indentured servant could come to America, serve his time, amass a fortune in the virgin wilderness and run for political office with no hint of scandal attached to his name. To take pride in one's work was the American motto and the only unforgivable sin was laziness. Morality was rooted in Puritan England and the early sermons of John Knox. Marriage was based on respect, if not love, and it lasted until death. Children were a necessary and desirable addition to the pursuit of one's happiness and both male and female children were highly valued.
On the political scene, Britain was engaged in a costly and devastating war with Napoleon. They needed every available man. When numbers in the British Navy ran short, they impressed Americans from seaport towns. This, and the refusal of the British to negotiate trade agreements, their encouragement of Indian uprisings, their disregard for America's sovereign right to the open seas, were the powder kegs that led to the War of 1812.
Tess and James are fictional characters, but they are typical of their time. Tess is an American, intensely patriotic, despising the smugness of the English aristocracy, and appreciative of France's help in the American War for Independence. James is a British lord, weary of England's incessant fighting with her former colonies, and politically astute enough to know that Bonaparte is more of a threat than James Madison.
Langley and Harrington House are not real. Neither are Nathanial Harrington and Leonie Devereaux. But Lord Castlereagh, his wife Emily, Lord Liverpool, Lady Jersey, Lady Bridgewater and Lady Sefton are familiar names in the Regency Period, as are the famous military leaders Wellington, Ross, and Cockburn.
Beginning in the fifth grade, every schoolchild in America learns the story of the burning of the capital and Dolly Madison's brave refusal to evacuate the city unless George Washington's portrait came with her. Francis Scott Key is famous in American history as the author of our national anthem, but he was first and foremost, as introduced in my story, an attorney-at-law.
The cast, for the most part is fictional, but the events, the attitudes, customs, and prejudices are typical of the period.
Chapter 1
For the first time in his twenty-nine years, James Devereaux, Duke of Langley, was rendered speechless. Nothing in Georgian's letters or the Home Secretary's report had prepared him for Teresa Bradford. He remembered wondering what she looked like. Now, he knew.
The slender girl staring back at him from across the room was like no one he had ever seen before. She was young, much younger than he expected, with a regal poise unusual in an American. Everything about her reminded him of moonlight, the silver-blond hair pulled back into a coil at the nape of her neck, the pale gold of her skin, the clear light-struck grey of her eyes. Her face was thin and finely made, with the hauntingly beautiful bone structure of a Renaissance painting. His eyes lingered on her mouth. It was a passionate mouth, slightly chapped, full and pouting, made for the taste of a man's lips.
She was incredibly lovely, acknowledged Devereaux. By far the loveliest woman he had ever seen. But it wasn't her perfection of face or form that tugged at his heart and caused the blood to flow swift and hot, melting the ice in his veins. It was the expression in her eyes. Large and brilliant, her entire soul was revealed in those fathomless depths. Pain and rage, both tightly controlled, were reflected for all the world to see.
This slender woman with her proudly tilted head and straight back was no shallow, simpering miss. Those eyes were incapable of deception. Teresa Bradford harbored passion in its most primitive form and it threatened to consume her.
Devereaux wondered what it would be like to unleash those passions, here and now, in the American minister's fussy sitting room. Immediately, he was ashamed of himself. Teresa, or Tess, as Georgiana called her, was a guest in his country. She was also, he reminded himself, with mocking self-derision, newly married to a man in full possession of all his body parts.
Conscious of those incredible grey eyes judging him, watching his every move, he forced himself, at great personal expense, to cross the room with only the slightest hint of a limp. He was surprised at how small she was when he stood beside her. From a distance, she appeared much taller.
"Welcome to England, Mrs. Bradford," he said, his voice not entirely steady. "I trust your voyage went smoothly?"
"Yes, thank you." She hesitated. "Your Grace."
He grinned. "Please call me James. We are bound to see a great deal of one another and it might be more comfortable for you if we dispensed with my title."
She laughed
, a low musical sound, that shattered the rest of his carefully reconstructed composure.
"We aren't accustomed to titles in America," she acknowledged. "It will be a relief not to worry about yours." The grey eyes searched his face. "I appreciate the invitation to stay with your family. It will be much easier living with friends than here at the ambassador's residence."
"Georgiana is looking forward to your visit," Devereaux replied smoothly. "She has great plans to show you the sights of London."
He neglected to mention his own reservations concerning Tess's visit. He hadn't wanted her to come. An American in London, on the eve of a declaration of war, was a responsibility he preferred to do without.
Tess walked to the window and looked out on the busy square where the business of English government took place. The sun reflected off her hair and bathed her face in a merciless glare that only young poreless skin could tolerate. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her.
"I didn't come to see the sights of London," she said, her voice very low. "I came to find my husband."
"I'm well aware of that." His voice cut like the crack of a whip. "Believe me, Mrs. Bradford, I shall do everything in my power to restore your husband to you. No one regrets the circumstances of his disappearance more than I."
She turned to look at him. Grey eyes met blue in an unblinking stare. Her skin was so clear he could see the delicate blue veins pulsing in her temples.
"I doubt that, m'lord," Tess replied coldly. "My husband's father is an old man suffering from poor health. Daniel is his only child." She lowered her head. "As for myself, we were married less than one week."
James gritted his teeth. He refused to take responsibility for the mistakes of the British Navy. After years of fighting in the peninsula with Wellington, he knew the value of strict adherence to discipline and military law. He had no patience for the bumbling disregard for foreign policy shown by certain captains of the British Navy.
His lips thinned as he recalled his recent conversation with the Secretary of the Naval Forces. Without actually condoning impressment of American citizens, the man refused to admit that it was even occurring, giving his captains free rein to proceed according to their own consciences. This time someone had gone too far. James had been recruited, however unwillingly, to find out who that someone was. Daniel Bradford was the son of a wealthy and influential senator from the state of Maryland. If he wasn't found immediately and returned unharmed, it could mean war.
Balling his fists in the pockets of his breeches, he struggled to control his anger. England was in trouble. Wellington, in the throes of a death grip with Napoleon, needed every available man. Another war with America could mean the end of the British Empire.
"Damn their self-righteous souls," he cursed under his breath.
"I beg your pardon?" Tess stared at him, a puzzled expression on her face.
Recovering quickly, James moved to her side. Taking her hand in his own he smiled. "Never mind. I'm no longer in the military. I sold out several months ago, but I give you my word that whatever power and influence I have will be spent securing the release of your husband."
Tess searched his face. Instinctively she knew that the man standing before her was a presence. That dark inscrutable expression, with its hard mouth and veiled blue eyes, exuded a confidence of the kind she'd never known before. Georgiana hadn't mentioned that her brother was devastatingly handsome. He was very tall and lean, with the high cheekbones, jutting nose and firm chin of one born to command. Well-muscled legs, clad in fawn buckskins, were tucked inside top boots considerably higher than the ones most men wore. The glossy perfection of the soft black leather was evidence of their sophistication and expense. The exquisitely tailored coat of blue superfine, stretching without a wrinkle across those broad shoulders, would keep an American farmer supplied with beef for well over a year.
Color rose in her cheeks. Tess was suddenly ashamed of her thoughts. What did it matter what he spent for a coat? The Devereauxs were fabulously wealthy. A hundred coats wouldn't make a dent in their incredible fortune. She needed help. The more powerful and wealthy the Duke of Langley, the better her chances of rescuing Daniel.
James smiled a warm intimate smile, leaving her wide-eyed and breathless. The very charm of that smile sent alarm bells ringing through her brain. No wonder the man had the reputation for being a brilliant statesman. Did he know that flash of white in his dark face was his most powerful weapon? She hoped not. There was fire and something else, something deeper than she cared to admit in the blue eyes that stared back at her.
"Shall we call a truce, Mrs. Bradford?" the low voice teased her.
"Can we, my lord?"
"Yes," he replied firmly.
She laughed shakily and pulled her hand away. "A truce it is then."
"Very well, shall we begin?"
"Begin?" she looked puzzled.
He walked to the fireplace and leaned back against the mantel. Tess noticed that he favored his left leg.
Motioning to a high-backed chair directly in front of him he said, "Please, sit down. I'd like to find out everything you know about your husband's activities before he disappeared. That way I can begin making inquiries before I take you home."
Seating herself in the chair she looked up at him, her eyes enormous in her small face. James found it difficult to concentrate. His leg ached abominably and the woman before him looked absurdly young sitting there like an expectant child, her hands folded primly in her lap. Much too young for marriage, he thought, or for the improper fantasies taking root in his mind.
"What did you wish to know, m'lord?" Her voice was clear and cultured, the accent only slightly colonial.
James cleared his mind for the matter at hand. "How did you come to find out Mr. Bradford had been impressed?"
The knuckles on the clasped hands were very white. Tess wet her lips before answering. "He was on his way home from Washington when he stopped to eat at a tavern owned by a friend. Mr. Hawthorne, the owner, closed up early." She stopped for a moment and twisted the gold band on her finger.
James held his breath, hoping she would not succumb to tears. Relieved to see that her eyes were dry, he relaxed and waited for her to gather herself.
Taking a deep breath she continued. "Four British seamen demanded entrance. Mr. Hawthorne had no choice but to obey. No one else was there, you see." She looked up, anxious for him to know she held the tavern proprietor blameless. James nodded and she smiled faintly.
"They demanded that Daniel come with them. He refused and they beat him senseless." Her voice took on a husky quality but her words did not falter. "I fear he was badly hurt. Mr. Hawthorne was almost dead when his wife found him."
The white line around Devereaux's mouth deepened. For a long moment he said nothing. Finally he spoke.
"Why did they leave Mr. Hawthorne?"
"He's an older man. Perhaps they thought someone his age would serve them no purpose."
More likely they left him for dead, James thought grimly. Pushing himself away from the mantel he reached out to pull her to a standing position. She was so close he could smell the faint lilac scent that clung to her hair. His searching gaze rested on her mouth.
"How long did you say you were married?" he asked gently.
"Less than a week."
"How is it that a bridegroom of less than a week leaves his new bride to visit Washington?" The blue eyes looked directly at her, missing nothing.
"We received a message that his father wouldn't last the night," she explained. "Daniel left immediately after the wedding to go to him."
Devereaux's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Adam Bradford's ill health was common knowledge. It was her other piece of information that intrigued him. How soon after the wedding had his son left Annapolis for Washington?
He looked down at the exquisite face barely reaching his shoulder. He would give a great deal to learn the answer to that question, but it was hardly something a gentleman could ask a
lady and still remain a gentleman.
His hands slid up her arms to rest on her shoulders. She was smaller-boned than Georgiana, almost as small as Lizzie. "My intentions are not to distress you," he said quietly, "but there is the possibility that your husband may no longer be alive."
There were no tears this time either. Only a look of pure anguish, much like a cornered fox at the end of a hunt when he knows his time is at hand. Devereaux's impersonal facade was no match for that look. With no thought other than to offer comfort, his arms closed around her.
With a strangled cry, she pulled away violently. The chair she stumbled against fell to its side, rocked for a brief moment, and then lay still.
"Don't touch me," she whispered. "Please, don't touch me."
The moment stretched out between them, like the span of a lifetime.
"I'm not your enemy, Tess," he said at last, using the familiar address. She was Tess in his mind and had been since the first moment he saw her.
In the startled silence that followed, he watched the desperate fear fade from her eyes only to be replaced by a cold merciless anger.
"You're an Englishman," she said, as if no more damning evidence was needed. "Your ships, even now, sweep across the oceans forcing those of lesser strength to your will. With your government's permission, they sail into American harbors, blockade our ports, invade our cities and impress our citizens." Her voice cracked. "Perhaps, even now, I am a widow before I was truly a wife. Do you wonder that I despise all you stand for?"
His dark face was expressionless and his eyes, veiling his thoughts, met hers without a hint of anger in their icy depths.
"I am not responsible for the decisions of the British Navy," he said quietly.
Again there was silence. Finally, her shoulders slumped and she shook her head. "No," she replied unsteadily, rubbing her hands over throbbing temples. "Forgive me for appearing ungrateful. You cannot have known any of this." The words were conciliatory but the eyes were not.
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