Tuesday's Child (Heroines Born on Each Day of the Week Book 3)

by Rosemary Morris

“I see.” Dominic leant down from the saddle to pat the baby’s head. “Little Benjamin looks well and so does William. They do you credit. Good day to you, Mrs Page.”

  “I shall visit the mother-in-law to assess the situation,” Dominic said, after they rode away.

  “I am sorry for young Mrs Page, but she is fortunate to have a rector who takes an interest in his parishioners,” Harriet remarked, while they crossed a hump-backed bridge over a stream, with water so clear she could see minnows, sticklebacks and other small fish darting in and out of water weeds.

  Harriet could not imagine the inn-keeper in Clarencieux Village having the temerity to invite its haughty vicar to take a glass of ale, any more than she could imagine the man talking so kindly to his flock.

  They drew near to the water mill, outside which the miller stood by a cart loaded with sacks. “A fine day, sir,” he called out, and pointed towards a large, thatch roofed cottage on the banks of the placid pond, its waters reflecting the clear blue sky. “I know my wife would be honoured if you and the lady would step inside Mill House and have some refreshment. My Sally has a light hand with bread and pastry.”

  “Not today, thank you, but please give her my good wishes,” Dominic called back.

  Within less than a mile of pastures, in which fat cattle or sheep grazed, they turned right onto the drive bordered by plane trees, which led to Clarencieux. All too soon they reached the former abbey. Mister Markham dismounted. Harriet swung her right leg over the pommel, and permitted him to help her out of the saddle. Both feet on the thick gravel of the semi-circular drive in front of the grey stone building, she gazed up and shivered at the sight of time-worn gargoyles’ malicious faces.

  “What is wrong, Lady Castleton?”

  She pointed at the stone images. “I know they are only water spouts, which fascinate Arthur, but I dislike them.”

  “I hope they don’t disturb your dreams.”

  “I sleep well, though I confess Clarencieux often seems unquiet. I imagine the ghosts of long dead monks linger here. Perhaps they disapprove of my father-in-law’s alterations to the building, both inside and outside, so much that they would prefer their hallowed walls to tumble down.” Uneasy, she laughed. “What a shocking thing to say to an Anglican rector. Please forgive me, you must think I am too fanciful.”

  “No, I don’t. To quote from the Merchant of Venice: Tell me where fancy is bred? Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished?”

  Surprised by his reply Harriet scrutinised him. “You read the works of William Shakespeare?”

  “Yes. Also Pride and Prejudice and Waverley, and many other books besides poetry. Please don’t look so surprised, Lady Castleton. I would not like you to think I am a dull fellow, too academic to read anything other than either sermons or dusty tomes of a serious nature borrowed from my father’s library.”

  Harriet shook her head. “No, no, I assure you I don’t consider you tedious, I only fear you consider me too imaginative.”

  “No, I don’t. To be honest, I now fear you will think I am a frippery fellow because I read fiction.” Dominic looked into her eyes, every trace of amusement banished from his. “Lord Jesus Christ cast out demons. In His name, whether living or dead, they can, in theory, be exorcised. However, in my opinion if gentle ghosts haunt their previous dwelling places they should be ignored.”

  Harriet thought of the staircase at the rear of the abbey, a shortcut from the second storey to the back of the building. On the only occasion when she descended it, in spite of the hot day, icy cold enveloped her, the hairs on the back of her neck quivered, and a sense of malevolence terrified her.

  Mister Markham’s eyes seemed to pierce through hers.

  “You are pale, Lady Castleton. Has something frightened you?”

  She shrugged. “Yes, there is one place in the abbey which I avoid because it seems…seems... Oh I cannot describe my impression. Even if I could I am sure you would think I am foolish.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You are kind, but, for now, I must bid you good day. Thank you for escorting me, and for your help.”

  Dominic inclined his head. “It is my pleasure, Lady Castleton.” He mounted his horse, waved his hand in a gesture of farewell and rode away.

  While Harriet handed the reins of her mare to a groom, she watched Mister Markham, who rode in perfect rhythm with his horse’s gait. Something deep within her fluttered. She took a quick breath. The rector aroused something in her which, after Arthur died, she never again expected to experience? She thrust the thought away and tried to recall every detail of Edgar’s handsome face. After a brief struggle with guilt, she acknowledged he slipped farther away from her every day.

  Unfortunately, Arthur’s only knowledge of his father would be hearsay. Harriet shook her head. No, she would not indulge in self-pity. She must look forward instead of backward.

  * * *

  Deep in thought, Dominic rode slowly back to the rectory. Unlike his older brothers he never consorted with ladies of questionable virtue or with members of the demi-monde. He had also rejected severable opportunities to have affairs with married women.

  After his introduction to the ton at the age of eighteen, he had met several young ladies he admired. Yet, since his rejection by a young girl, which, at the time, he believed broke his heart, until now, he had never met a lady whose charms induced him to consider exchanging his contented bachelor’s life for a married man’s.

  Without enthusiasm, Dominic raised his hand in acknowledgement of those he knew, whom he rode past. His head filled with thoughts of Lady Castleton he passed by the Cooper’s thatch-roofed cottage on the outskirts of the village.

  The more Dominic saw of Lady Castleton the more he admired her. He struggled to convince himself only a desire to help the widow drew him to her. In vain he castigated himself for his admiration of her fairy-like appearance. Ridiculous to be inexorably drawn her as though she were a magnet.. Every time he saw Lady Castleton, spoke with her and walked by her side, and when he rode with her today, the lure of her graceful form and delightful personality tugged him towards her. He must not hint at how much he was inexorably drawn to her, while keeping his promises to try and trace her father’s bank and her family. For his own sake he should not favour her any more than any other Christian soul who needed his help. Yet, could he manage not to?

  For the second time in recent days, Dominic reminded himself of his parents’ expectations of him. Unless Robert made an unlikely, miraculous recovery, Dominic believed that if he chose a wife of unequal birth it would not only distress his father, mother, but disappoint all of his relations, even distant connections. Yet he could never enter into a tepid marriage with a suitable lady to please his family.

  “You know your duty. What of your heart?” his silent, cynical, inner voice objected,

  How would his parents react if he introduced Lady Castleton to them as his prospective bride? Could he depend on her charm to make a favourable impression?

  He had no concern about the succession, for her ladyship had given birth to one delightful son. In spite of her delicate appearance, there would be no reason for his father and mother to doubt Lady Castleton would have more healthy children. So, apart from the hurdle of their inequality of birth, why should his family object to him marrying the widow?

  Chapter Eleven

  Aware of Gwenifer’s scrutiny, when seated at the dining table in Faucon Castle, Dominic made polite conversation with Miss Kershaw, daughter of Baron and Baroness Loughton, one of his mother’s candidates for his hand in marriage. While the attractive young lady mentioned September, when she looked forward to fox hunting, his aversion increased. Not for Miss Kershaw, but for his future elevation to the peerage, the reason for his mother’s introductions to eligible ladies.

  While he made polite conversation, his distaste for his mother’s arrangement to introduce him to several well-bred beauties, one of whom she hoped he would marry, increased.

&
nbsp; Bored, while he listened to Miss Kershaw, Dominic admired the opulent table setting, with monogrammed silver cutlery, hand-painted porcelain and an epergne with a large crystal bowl filled with hothouse fruit, and smaller ones containing flowers.

  A small frown, quickly banished, reproached him for his lack of interest in her plans to join the fox hunt.

  What must Miss Kershaw think of his failure to initiate conversation? From the top of her head of pomaded chestnut-brown curls to the tip of her dainty white kidskin evening slippers, no fault could be found with her appearance or her deportment. He should enjoy furthering his acquaintance with her. How old was she? Eighteen or nineteen and, to put it vulgarly, ripe for marriage. Probably, during a London Season or two she failed to secure a husband, although he could not imagine why, unless her dowry would be small. After all, her oval face was flawless, her conversation remained within the bounds of strict propriety, and her manner was not vulgarly flirtatious.

  “Papa told me the castle was built in the eleventh century.” Miss Kershaw remarked.

  “Yes,” he replied, almost unable to imagine himself as lord of this, his ancestral home, “according to the records it was completed in the year 1090. Yet, over the years there have been innumerable alterations. For example, my grandparents replaced the worm-riddled, linen-fold oak panelling in this room, which dated back to Queen Elizabeth’s reign.”

  “Is the castle haunted, Mister Markham?”

  “Oh, in common with most old buildings there are tales of spectres, of ladies gliding through the walls, and even of a gentleman who carries his head in his hands.” He chuckled. “I hope you will not be disappointed by my confession that I have never glimpsed sight of one. Besides, the Anglican Church does not believe in them.”

  “You are a clergyman, so I suppose you must deny their existence, nonetheless you disappoint me,” she protested, while the first course was removed from the table to make way for the next. Miss Kershaw laughed. “After reading The Mysteries of Udolfo by Mrs Radcliffe, I shall sleep more easily tonight now you have reassured me I have little to fear.”

  Dominic’s thoughts returned to Lady Castleton. He believed her when she told him something unnatural on the back stairs at Clarencieux Abbey frightened her. The desire to protect her from all ills welled up in him.

  Miss Kershaw turned her head away from him to converse with the gentleman on her right. Dominic sighed and spoke to Lady Elizabeth, the orphaned granddaughter of the high stepper, the Dowager Countess of Farringdon.

  Only the most exacting person could find fault with Lady Elizabeth. Dominic remembered reading an ode which compared her glossy hair, ‘black as the darkest night’ and a face ‘star-white tinged with dawn’s first flush.’ Indeed, adorned with a pearl necklace and earrings, and dressed in a white silk evening gown cut low over her full breasts, she could have stepped out of the pages of La Belle Assemble, each edition of which his mother and sisters eagerly perused and discussed in person and by post.

  “Are you enjoying your retreat to the country, Lady Elizabeth?” Dominic asked.

  “To be truthful, before my parents died, I preferred their Hertfordshire manor house on the outskirts of St Albans, which is near here,” she responded, a little breathlessly. Perhaps she was nervous of him.

  Despite their introduction in the drawing room, before the butler announced dinner was served, it must be difficult for any lady to converse for the first time with a gentleman whom they knew their elders regarded as a prospective husband.

  Would he ever meet another lady with whom he would be as much at ease as he was with Lady Castleton? An unexpected vision of her ladyship presiding at his table, concerned for his comfort, and at his side in bed for the rest of their lives overwhelmed him.

  After a moment lost in the charming image, Dominic forced his attention back to Lady Elizabeth’s pretty face. Since he must marry to please his family, perhaps an innocent young lady would be an excellent choice for his companion through life. One he could expect to become a gracious hostess, a careful mother and an attentive wife, whom he could help and guide.

  “May I cut a slice of the chef’s excellent plum tart for you, Lady Elizabeth, or would you care for a wedge of game pie?”

  “Thank you, I would like a small slice of plum tart.”

  Dominic thanked God he was not a lady obliged to wear stays which would impair his appetite. At the thought of so intimate a garment, he imagined dismissing Lady Castleton’s abigail, and untying the laces to reveal beguiling flesh. Confound his lusty thoughts, unworthy of any clergyman, which had plagues him in his youth.

  He served Lady Elizabeth simultaneously making polite conversation. Out of boredom, he sighed inwardly.

  At long last, the final course was removed. His mother stood to lead the ladies into the drawing room, and leave the gentlemen to enjoy their port. To Dominic’s dismay, the conversation turned to the Earl of Pennington’s daughter-in-law and grandson. This led to army officers, who fought in the Iberian Peninsula and at the Battle of Waterloo, expressing their sympathy for the earl’s loss of his younger son, and mention of the happy chance, which united him with the widow and his grandson.

  While The tragedy of Sir John Moore’s death, early battles and England’s final triumph, due to her brilliant commander in chief, the Duke of Wellington, were rehashed while the port passed around the table, for gentlemen to refill their glasses.

  Dominic listened, his sympathy Lady Castleton, and his admiration of her growing. What did gently reared females such like Miss Kershaw and Lady Elizabeth know about unpleasant aspects of life? Matters, he came into contact with through Lady Castleton, and countless destitute veterans, who tramped across the land in search of work.

  His father stood and raised his glass. “To the ladies, God bless them.”

  All the gentlemen rose and held up their glasses. “The ladies,” they chorused.

  “Shall we join them?” Joshua turned around.

  With the other male guests, Dominic followed his father to the drawing room.

  Reluctant to seat himself next to any of his mother’s contenders for his hand in marriage, Dominic stood with his back to the crimson brocade curtains drawn across the windows.

  “Some music will pass the time pleasantly,” Morwenna suggested.

  In spite of the dismay on some of the gentlemen’s faces, his mother shepherded everyone into the music room. “Lady Elizabeth,” she began, after everyone sat, “will you play for us?”

  After several protests, and in response to a nod from her grandmother, Lady Elizabeth walked across the beautifully woven carpet towards the harpsichord. She sat, blushed, plucked the first strings, a prelude to playing and singing the melancholy ballad Last Rose of Summer. After a competent performance, she returned to her chair next to her grandmother to the sound of polite applause.

  Morwenna seemed to glide across the room towards Miss Kershaw, who looked alarmed. “Would you favour us with a song?”

  The young lady shook her head. “I regret my voice would dismay you.”

  “I am sure you are being too modest.”

  No one knew better than his family how determined his mother could be so, with amusement, Dominic waited to see if she would prevail.

  “No, no, my lady, I am not being modest. When I sing, I sound like a frog croaking.”

  “I can hardly believe it because, when you speak, your voice is charming.”

  Miss Kershaw blushed. “Thank you Lady Morwenna.”

  His mother looked at him before she continued. “Perhaps you would play for us. My son, who is an excellent tenor, will sing to your accompaniment.” She looked at him with mingled affection and pride., her eyes bright in the candlelight. “Is it not fortunate for a clergyman to have a fine voice with which he can praise The Lord?”

  Mamma and her schemes! To refuse would be unmannerly. Dominic escorted Miss Kershaw to the musical instrument, and pulled out the stool for her to sit.

  “Mister Markham
, what should I play?”

  Dominic leafed through some sheet music. “The Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill?” he suggested.

  After she nodded, he stood behind her. On cue, he began to sing the popular song claimed to be one of the third King George’s favourites

  On Richmond Hill there lives a lass,

  More bright than May-day morn.

  Whose charms all other maids’ surpass,

  A rose without a thorn.

  When they completed their performance, a moment’s silence followed, before applause thundered around the music room. Dominic bowed to the audience. Even if Miss Kershaw could not sing in tune, the short piece proved she was an accomplished musician, and if he denied his voice excelled, it would be a case of false humility.

  “An encore,” Joshua suggested.

  Miss Kershaw shook her head.

  Delighted by the song, Dominic sat next to his sister. The words, “a rose without a thorn”, repeated itself over and over again in his mind.

  Harriet was the only perfect rose he yearned to pluck.

  A footman held out a tray laden with glasses of wine.

  “Dominic,” Gwenifer prompted.

  He handed her a glass. Dominic sipped his wine, thoughtfully looking across the room first at Miss Kershaw, next at Lady Elizabeth, and then at several other belles, gently bred, beautiful, accomplished young ladies carefully brought up to become gentlemen’s wives. It would be unreasonable of him not to make polite conversation with all of them. If he did so, perhaps he would be drawn to one of them.

  After an hour or more, during which several ladies and gentlemen sang and played, Morwenna led her guests back to the drawing room, where she poured tea.

  Gwenifer bent her head towards Dominic’s ear. “Don’t allow Mamma and Papa to bully you,” she whispered. “I don’t regret a single day of my marriage. To have wed to please anyone other than myself would have been worse than being sentenced to deportation or imprisonment.” She stood, put her empty wine glass on a tray, and approached Lady Elizabeth and her grandmother. “Goodnight, madam.” She curtsied to the old lady and smiled at the young lady.