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

by Rosemary Morris

  Morwenna narrowed her eyes. “I hope you are not set on remaining a bachelor because you are attached to a female your papa and I would disapprove of.”

  Dominic nearly choked on his mouthful of a lamb sandwich. His mother was unnervingly perceptive, particularly where her sons and daughters were concerned. During their childhood, no matter how hard they tried, they could rarely conceal anything from her.

  Gwenifer! Did she suspect he more than admired Harriet? Had she mentioned her hunch to their mother?

  Uneasy, he looked across the table into Mamma’s watchful eyes.

  “Dominic, the three of us are in agreement. You will relinquish two of your livings, familiarise yourself with your father’s business, and help him to supervise the estate with his bailiff’s help. And, of course, you will choose a wife.”

  He held back a deep sigh. No one knew better than Mamma’s children how determined the tough breed of Cornish ladies could be. And no one could guess what it cost her, a good Christian lady, to reconcile herself to God’s will.

  Inwardly, he groaned. Surely, the waste of Robert’s life was due to his weak will not God’s.

  * * *

  After Harriet had refused to go to London to choose her ball gown, the earl had summoned, Madame Celeste. A refugee from The French Revolution, now one of the most sought after modistes in London, only an exorbitant sum had enticed Celeste to Clarencieux.

  Madame clapped her hands. “Parfait, Lady Castleton.”

  Perfect? In her dressing room, Harriet turned around to look at her reflection in the mirror framed in ornately carved, gilded wood. For a moment, Harriet imagined she stared at a stranger. A young woman dressed in a gold net ball gown with a gold tissue rouleau at the hem. Worn over aquamarine satin, it was a tribute to Celeste’s skill.

  Harriet executed some lively dance steps, her skirts swirling around her ankles. “You are a genius, Madame. This gown is as heavenly as your name.”

  “Merci.” Celeste smiled, obviously appreciative of the play on her name.

  Harriet beckoned to Plymouth. “Please help me. It is time to try on my other new clothes.”

  Her father-in-law did not approve of her saying please and thank you to servants. Regardless of either his or anyone else’s opinion, she had no intention of being top-lofty.

  Two hours later, delighted with jaconet, silk and plain and sprigged muslin gowns, some made in fine wool, suitable for colder weather, and silk, crape, and velvet evening gowns, Harriet sank onto an armchair

  Celeste held up the skirt of a Prussian blue riding habit embellished with braid a la militaire. “Zis needs to be ‘ow do you English say it? Oh yes, adjusted. ’Eet is loose at ze waist. Time try those on.” Celeste indicated the pelisses, spencers and a dark blue cloak lined with cream-coloured silk on the chaise longue.

  “Later, Madame.” In need of refreshment, Harriet sank onto a comfortable chair in the corner of the room. She gestured to the accessories in a small trunk, mob caps and cornettes trimmed with bewitching lace and ribbons, hats and gloves, reticules and much more. ‘You have brought me riches beyond counting.”

  “A pleasure, Lady Castleton.” One by one, Celeste displayed hats for daywear and satin fillets, lace caps and turbans for evening wear. “When you come to London, milady, I hope you will give your custom to Mademoiselle Yvette, the milliner, whose creations are sought by the most fashionable members of the ton.”

  “Yes, I shall.”

  “Milady is too kind,” Celeste murmured.

  The clock chimed eleven. Time to have nuncheon with her father-in-law.

  “Plymouth, please arrange for Madame to be served with food and drink in the housekeeper’s parlour. Afterwards, I shall try on the rest of the clothes.”

  * * *

  Harriet sat opposite her father-in-law at the foot of the dining room table.

  Pennington gazed at her across the large expanse of the white damask tablecloth. “The arrangements are underway for the ball, which is to be held on the night of the next full moon.” He took a ham sandwich from a silver dish held out by a footman.

  Puzzled, Harriet frowned.

  “Ah, you have not been in England for long enough to know highwaymen and footpads prefer dark nights, so moonlit nights are safer,” Pennington explained.

  Harriet bit into her sandwich, remembering the pair of lady’s pocket pistols her father gave her. She smiled at the memory of practicing hour after hour until Father was satisfied. “For your protection,” he murmured, whenever she complained she was tired of shooting at the targets.

  Her father-in-law eyed her. “You are amused by my mention of such dangerous criminals?”

  “No, Papa, I remembered my dear father drilling me in the use of firearms.”

  The earl raised his eyebrows. “Drilling you, like a common soldier?”

  Harriet’s nostrils flared. He should be grateful to all the soldiers, common or not, who fought against Napoleon’s army. “No, my father made sure I could defend myself if necessary” Harriet decided to send someone to Brighton to retrieve the pistols and other items she pawned in order to survive.

  “Invitations to the ball have been issued,” Pennington informed her. “If the fortunate recipients accept, I daresay forty couples or more will participate in the country dances.” He paused, presumably to give her an opportunity to express admiration.

  “Splendid,” she responded.

  “Invitations, he continued, “have been sent to the gentry, Mister Markham and Lady Gwenifer, their parents, the Dowager Duchess of Farringdon, her granddaughter, Lady Elizabeth, the Kershaws and other important landowners.”

  Harriet thought of both the impromptu and magnificent formal dances in Portugal, where she and her husband had been popular. “I look forward to your splendid ball.”

  “Good.” Pennington’s rare smile appeared. “I have employed a dancing master, who will arrive this afternoon. I expect you to apply yourself to your lessons.” His crafty eyes gleamed. “I fear you will have less time than usual to devote yourself to Arthur. Don’t concern yourself. He shall be well-cared for.”

  Insufferable of him to assume she did not know how to dance, and to reduce the hours she spent with her son.

  “I expect you to be a credit to me,” Pennington continued. “Of course, you have not time to learn the minuet so the ball will not commence with one.”

  Before she could speak again, her father-in-law forestalled her. “Besides, the minuet is no longer popular.”

  Despite his portrait, that hung in the gallery, she looked at him unable to imagine him in his youth.

  Her father-in-law picked up his wine glass. “Cole, the dancing master, will ensure you have learned the steps of country dances, the cotillion, which is now less in fashion than it used to be, and the popular quadrille. I hope you are both grateful and pleased.”

  “Yes, I am, Papa, but-”

  “Not a word of protest. In view of your parents’ shocking elopement, you should thank God on bended knees for my generosity. Without it, you would never be able to be introduced to polite society.” Pennington dabbed his mouth with his napkin.

  “I was not going to protest.” For Arthur’s sake she must tolerate the humiliation. She could not imagine what the repercussions would be if she provoked the dictatorial old man. “I merely intended to remark you did not mention the waltz.”

  Would he sanction the dance, which many people considered a shocking threat to morality?

  “Certainly not!”

  “I beg your pardon?” She did not dare to explain the dance had been her own and Edgar’s favourite, for, it was the only one which gave a couple the opportunity to concentrate on each other. “I asked because, since army officers introduced the waltz in England, it has even been sanctioned at Almacks.”

  “No more on the subject.” Pennington held up his hand to silence her. “My instructions to Cole don’t include him teaching it to you and the other young people; and, at the ball, I expect you
to conduct yourself with utmost propriety.”

  Harriet’s temper flared. Although her parents and Edgar were now in God’s keeping, she would never knowingly disgrace them. Her stomach churning, she suppressed an angry retort.

  Harriet supposed the earl meant well, yet no matter how hard she tried, she could not like him. In fact, she disliked him more than any other person, living or dead.

  “There is so much to arrange.” Pennington helped himself to a small plum tart. “I am certain of one thing, my guests at the ball, must be served white soup.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Made with Jordan almonds and other expensive ingredients, few can afford to serve it to so many guests. Apart from it, I have planned a sumptuous repast. Lobsters and prawns, roast meats, pineapples, peaches and raspberry ice to name a few of the dishes on the menu.”

  * * *

  Seated in the drawing room at the rectory, Harriet smiled at Gwenifer, relieved to have escaped from the confines of Clarencieux. Indeed, Harriet liked her hostess, and hoped they would become close friends.

  “Some wine or would you prefer orgeat?” Gwenifer asked.

  “Thank you. A glass of orgeat.”

  “The ball to be held at the abbey is the talk of the neighbourhood.” Gwenifer poured their drink into glasses and handed her one.

  Harriet pressed her free hand to the side of her head. “Please don’t mention the subject to me. I have been turned this way and that, pricked and jabbed with pins while my ball gown was fitted, and now I am at the mercy of a dancing master.”

  Gwenifer raised her eyebrows. “Why? Don’t you know how to dance?”

  “Yes, I do, but my father-in-law-” Harriet realised she should not criticise him, so she broke off, instead of explaining the earl only assumed her parents neglected her education, and refused to listen to her when she tried to protest.

  “Doo you know how to waltz?” Gwenifer asked. “I hear the dance is popular on the continent. Sadly, in this country, many still consider it scandalous.”

  “Well, it is quite different to country dances and quadrilles, in which each participant must co-operate.”

  Gwenifer stood and assumed a pose. “Last time I visited London, where I stayed with my sister Rozen, our cousin, an army officer, taught her how to waltz in the privacy of her house.” She blushed. “I admit to confusion. Part of me cannot imagine being in such close proximity to a gentleman, who might be a stranger. The other part tells me I wish to learn such a dashing dance.”

  “Which one?” asked Mister Markham from the threshold.

  Captured by his deep, well-modulated voice, Harriet turned her head to look at him. Intensely aware of his well-made figure in a black riding habit heat flooded her cheeks.

  The rector approached her, every inch a gentleman from the tip of his riding boots to his intricately arranged cravat. “Forgive my rudeness, Lady Castleton, I should have greeted you before I put a question. Good day to you, I hope you are well.”

  Harriet looked up into his green eyes. For a moment, she was lost in their depths. With a sense of unreality she recovered herself, but not before she realised the only other gentleman whose eyes she ever drowned in were Edgar’s.

  “Lady Castleton?” Dominic’s gentle voice drew her from her thoughts.

  “Good day, Mister Markham,” she managed to respond with tolerable composure.

  Settled on a chair opposite her, his long fingers wound around the stem of a glass of wine, he repeated his question. “Which is?”

  Her eyebrows twitched. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Which dance is dashing?”

  “Oh, the waltz, “ Harriet replied, thrown into confusion at the thought of dancing it with him. “Of course, many think it is indecent. I disagree and so did my late husband.” She closed her eyes at the memory of rotating around a ballroom with Edgar.

  “I would like to learn.”

  “You are a clergyman; would it not be improper?” Harriet objected, aware of hot colour flooding her cheeks.

  Dominic laughed. “No such thing. Dancing provides exercise, besides, I am too hidebound to be prepared to learn how to waltz. Can you teach me?”

  “Yes.” She indicated the pianoforte with a wave of her hand. “Gwenifer, would you be kind enough to play for us?”

  “Yes, I shall, on condition you will also teach me,” Gwenifer agreed.

  “I shall come here tomorrow, after I have nuncheon with my father-in-law, if it is convenient.”

  Gwenifer clapped her hands. “Please do if my brother has no prior engagement.”

  “Mister Markham?” Harriet queried.

  A glint in his eyes, Dominic glanced at her. “If I had, ladies, I would cancel it.”

  “We have agreed. I shall be here by half past one. The dance is not difficult to learn. If it is agreeable to you, Three or four lessons on alternate days should suffice.” At the thought of being in the charismatic rector’s arms a thrill, she previously believed died with Edgar, ran through her.

  Dominic finished his wine “I look forward to furthering my education,” he agreed, the expression in his eyes now merry. “Lady Castleton, Gwenifer, please excuse me, I must consult with my curate - not on the subject the waltz, which I fear would shock the poor man.”

  Gwenifer tapped her toes on the floor while her brother left the room. “Lud, what would our neighbours think of a widow and their rector learning to waltz?”

  “And of another widow teaching both of you?” Harriet giggled. “What do I care for their opinions?”

  “Not much it seems, unlike my brother, who must guard his reputation. He is well aware of numerous traps set by young ladies, who hope to force a proposal of marriage from him.”

  “Surely there is one lady whom Mister Markham favours,” Harriet probed, although the idea dismayed her.

  Gwenifer sighed. “No, although it would please our parents, for it seems my older brother has not long to live. Dominic is the next heir to the Faucon title and inheritance.”

  “I am sorry to hear your oldest brother is so ill.”

  “Thank you.” Gwenifer shrugged. “Dominic knows it is his duty to choose a suitable wife and father an heir.”

  An unanticipated pang unsettled Harriet. Even if she wanted to marry again, Mister Markham’s family would consider the granddaughter of a mere baronet and a squire unsuitable.

  “Harriet, to judge by the expression on your face, you seem surprised, but you should not be. To be born into an aristocratic family is not always a blessing. Along with high rank and wealth comes duty, not only to one’s family, but also to one’s dependants.

  “I don’t have the words to express how painful it was for me to defy my parents and marry the man I loved. However, I am fortunate because they have taken me back into the fold.”

  Harriet looked into her friend’s eyes. “Please don’t answer my question if you don’t wish to. Have you ever regretted your marriage?”

  Gwenifer shook her head. “Never.”

  “Neither did my mother regret hers, although the hardships she endured following the drum are almost unimaginable to anyone brought up in luxury.” Harriet gestured to the view from the window. “Oh, how serious I have become on such a beautiful, sunny day. Have you chosen your gown for the ball?”

  Gwenifer nodded. “Yes, there is an illustration in La Belle Assemble of a silk gown, which I have ordered from my dressmaker in London, who has my measurements. Mamma’s abigail is skilled with the needle so she can make any necessary adjustments. I already have elbow-length white kid gloves, an ivory fan and a pair of silk slippers.” She sighed. “Although I am a widow, I enjoy dancing, so I hope my brother will not be the only gentleman to invite me to dance. “Oh,” she covered her mouth with her hand, “I am sorry. The ball is in your honour. I did not mean to imply your dance card will not be filled although you are also a widow.”

  “There is no need to apologise.” Harriet stood. “It grows late. I must take your leave.
I look forward to seeing you and Mister Markham tomorrow.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  After nuncheon with her father-in-law, Harriet retired to her dressing room, where Plymouth helped out of her morning gown.

  Dressed only in a chemise, stays that pushed up her breasts, lace-edged pantaloons, and a petticoat, Harriet caught her lower lip between her teeth. What should she wear?

  “The striped cream and primrose yellow muslin, Plymouth.”

  Her abigail took the gown out of the wardrobe.

  “Perhaps the forget-me-not blue silk,” Harriet murmured.

  “Or the new dog-rose pink cambric with the dark pink satin sash, my lady?”

  Why was she so indecisive? After all she was only going to teach Mister Markham and Lady Gwenifer to waltz. At the thought of his hand on her waist she took a deep breath and tried to ignored an excited frisson.

  “An excellent suggestion, I shall wear the pink gown with the satin spencer which matches the sash.”

  In silence, Plymouth, assisted her with her toilette. Completed, the abigail stood back. Her nod indicated her satisfaction, before she handed Harriet a pair of white kid gloves and a beaded reticule.

  The abigail scrutinised her from head to toe. A smile interrupted her usual, bland expression. “If I may make so bold, my lady, you look elegant” She glanced out of the window. “The sun’s shining and there’s not a cloud in the sky, so you need a parasol.”

  Harriet pressed her lips together to prevent herself from laughing at the memory of army camps. In summer there had been little protection from the brazen sun, so she had worn long-sleeved gowns and broad brimmed hats, and known how to protect her skin with a cream made from calendula and the best quality olive oil. Now, she preserved her complexion with rose milk, which Plymouth concocted from olive oil, a quart of rose water and a few drops of oil of tartar.

  Did she have everything she needed? No she did not. To dance with a gentleman she required elbow length gloves.

  * * *

  Dominic gazed at his reflection in the pier mirror in his dressing room. Despite the excellent cut of his black coat, waistcoat, and pantaloons, the severity of his clothes, relieved only by silver buttons and starched white linen bands at his throat, depressed him. Vanity, vanity, he chided himself. It is not one of the seven deadly sins, though it could be categorised as pride. Never mind, black is suitable for a clergyman.