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

by Rosemary Morris

  He brushed his hair and applied pomade to subdue his curls, with a regrettable tendency to riot, particularly over his forehead.

  To deny he presented a fine figure, maintained by exercise, would be false modesty. What did Lady Castleton think of him? Was she merely grateful, or did she really like him? Did she regret agreeing to teach him how to waltz? At the thought of putting his hand on her waist, and surrendering to the intimate pleasure of the dance, his breath came a little faster than usual.

  Someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” he called, turning around so he would not be discovered scrutinising his appearance.

  Gwenifer entered the room before he could do so.

  “Tut tut, are you peacocking?” she teased. “Come downstairs, it is nearly time for Lady Castleton to arrive.”

  At the sight of his sister wearing an old, plain cream muslin morning gown with a sash in the same colour beneath the short bodice, he raised his eyebrows. “Would another gown not be more appropriate for our dance lesson?”

  Rueful, Gwenifer looked down at her skirt. “Yes, it would. If only old Mrs Bates had not called after nuncheon. She is so overcome by the news of her son’s death in America that it would have been cruel to fob her off. Now, if I am not to keep Harriet waiting for me to play on the pianoforte, it is too late to change my gown.” Her eyes narrowed. “It is unusual of you to notice what I am wearing.” She pursed her lips. “Lud, have you made such an effort to tame your curls to impress Harriet? Don’t poker up. I have warned you that our parents would consider Harriet is, ‘beneath your touch.’ She waved an admonitory hand at him. “No, I knew you in the nursery so don’t try to intimidate me with a thunderous scowl.”

  At the sound of a carriage, his sister looked out of the window overlooking the lane. “Harriet has arrived. We must go downstairs to receive her.”

  After Dominic picked up a pair of white gloves, he opened the dressing room door and stood back to allow Gwenifer to precede him. She paused to gaze up at him. “Although I like Harriet, even if you resent it, I have given you good advice concerning her. Whether or not you accept it is up to you.”

  Pulling on his gloves, Dominic followed his sister down the stairs to the hall in time to see Lady Castleton step indoors.

  Each time he saw her his admiration increased. Today, gowned in a delicate shade of pink that matched her softly rounded cheeks, one hand poised on the tip of an unfurled parasol, she presented a charming picture, one which Dominic knew he would always remember.

  While Gwenifer and Harriet exchanged greetings, lost in appreciation of their guest, he paid no attention to their words, while her ladyship handed her hat and parasol to the maidservant.

  His sister rapped him on the arm. “Dominic, what are you thinking of? Don’t stand there like a statue. Say good day to Harriet.”

  Harriet raised her eyebrows, obviously amused because his sister chided him in the manner she used when they were children.

  He bowed. “Good afternoon, Lady Castleton. See how I am chivvied in my own house.”

  “Chivy? Who else is here to remind you of your manners?” Gwenifer asked.

  Harriet inclined her head. “Good afternoon, Mister Markham” she greeted him, laughter in her voice.

  “Come into the drawing room, Harriet. The carpet has been rolled back and I have selected sheet music. Shall I play Barley Mow, or would you prefer me to play either The Duke of Clarence or The Brighton Waltz?”

  “The Brighton Waltz, which is a delight to dance to,” Harriet replied. “When you play it, please mark time for us by emphasising the first note of each bar.”

  Gwenifer sat on the stool in front of the pianoforte. “Harriet, I cannot imagine what you think of this shabby room. After the lesson perhaps you would be kind enough to look at the samples of wallpaper and fabrics, which have been sent from London.” She arranged the sheet music. “I think light colours for the walls and rich ones for the curtains and carpet would be stylish.” Hands poised over the keyboard, Gwenifer added, “Please tell me when to begin playing.”

  “I shall, after I explain the dance steps and movements. They must be graceful, and in perfect time to the music. Gwenifer, after your brother has danced with me, perhaps the two of you can practice together while I play. Mister Markham, please face me.

  “Let us practice the Demi Sautien, the half support. Mister Markham, when the music begins put your right hand around my waist. Now, while I put my left hand on your shoulder, please take my right hand in your left one.”

  Not immune to her charms, Dominic obeyed. The delicate fragrance of her perfume, which mingled vanilla, the sweet scent of lilies of the valley, and an undertone of something spicy, overwhelmed his senses. Her close proximity, the warmth of her body through her gown thrilled him.

  Lady Castleton tilted her head. She gazed into his eyes, blushed, and quickly looked down, perhaps reading something in them she did not wish to understand.

  “Shall we practice the mutual support, Le Sautien Mutuel?” Harriet asked breathlessly. “With our right hands around each other’s waists we may either put our left hands behind our backs, or put them on each other’s shoulders. To begin with, I suggest the latter.”

  * * *

  Why, Harriet asked herself, was she somewhat breathless? Until now, although she admired many gentlemen, only Edgar had stirred her sensibilities when she waltzed.

  Aware of the rector’s charisma. she peeped up at his face . Surprised by her shyness, she looked down. “The next position is Le Sautien Entirement or full support,” she explained, even more breathless. “While I put my hands on your shoulders, please put your hands on each side of my waist while I put mine on your shoulders. Good. At this point in the waltz a variation on Le Sutien Entirement is to clasp our right hands above our heads while our left hands remain at our sides. Shall we practice it?”

  Their arms arched, Harriet breathed in the pleasing scent of Mister Markham’s toilet water, redolent of lavender. One quite different to Edgar’s odour for, no matter how hard he had tried, and how much toilet water he applied, her husband found it impossible to completely rid himself of the odour of leather and horses.

  “Lady Castleton?”

  “I beg your pardon, Mister Markham, I was thinking about the past. Shall we repeat the Sautiens while your sister plays?”

  Although Harriet gave him instructions while they danced, light on his feet, his body lithe and his movements fluid, her willing pupil soon mastered the intricacies of the waltz, so she surrendered to the pleasure of dancing with him

  “You are a strict teacher,” Dominic remarked, half an hour later, when he made her giggle by pretending to wipe perspiration from his forehead.

  “Mister Cole, the dancing master, my father-in-law engaged to teach me is much stricter.”

  Gwenifer turned around on the pianoforte stool. “Surely you don’t need lessons, Harriet.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” She sighed. “The earl ignored me when I tried to tell him that, when I was overseas, I often danced until my slippers were in shreds.” She stared into the delicious depths of Mister Markham’s eyes, the colour of green jade in the daylight. “You are a man of the cloth, so I hope you will not be shocked by this. After I performed that daring dance, the bolero, in the Duke of Wellington’s presence, he was kind enough to present his compliments.”

  Dominic bowed. “Who am I to criticise a dance the great man praised?”

  “Oh, you are teasing me, but I am pleased you approve, for I did not believe you are stuffy,” Harriet confided, aware of the laughter in her voice.

  “Stuffy!” Dominic spluttered.

  “Clergymen do have that reputation,” Harriet teased, and laughed when he frowned.

  “Wine to refresh ourselves?” Gwenifer suggested. “Harriet, would you prefer apricot flavoured ratafia or sherry?”

  “A glass of ratafia would be welcome.”

  “Claret for you, Dominic?”

  “Yes please, Gwenifer.
It is warm in here, shall I open the window?” Without waiting for a reply he did so.

  “If you are over heated, take off your coat before we dance again,” Harriet suggested. “I often pity gentlemen forced to swelter in garments unsuited to exertion and hot weather. In Spain, I pitied men in woollen uniforms, who baked in the fierce sun.”

  “Thank you for the suggestion.” Dominic glanced at his sister. “Would you object, Gwenifer.”

  “No.”

  After they finished their wine, Mister Markham stood, took off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair.

  Tall and well built, he would make an excellent cavalry officer. The Glory Boys black uniform with gold buttons and epaulettes would suit him. Harriet shuddered at the thought. Too many men and horses died both in the Iberian Peninsular and at Waterloo, the battle to end all war in Europe.

  The clock stuck three.

  “’Pon my word!” Harriet exclaimed. “How fast time seems to go by when one is in good company.”

  “Indeed,” Dominic agreed.

  Harriet stood and walked across the floor to replace her empty glass on top of a pier table. “At Clarencieux we dine at the fashionable country hour of six o’clock. To have time to spend with Arthur, before I change into an evening gown, I must leave at four o’clock, when the carriage will return. So, let us make the best use of our time.”

  The rector stood in the centre of the room, a handsome figure, his white cambric shirt sleeves in sharp contrast to his black satin waistcoat. No need for him to pad his clothes or wear corsets!

  He bowed and held out his hand.. “Shall we recommence the lesson, Lady Castleton?”

  Why did shyness seize her again? Once, she lived in close proximity to soldiers, saw them, bare-chested, washing at the pumps or sluicing themselves down with buckets of water. Lud, what reminded her of it? Honesty compelled her to admit that a fleeting image of Mister Markham in a state of undress stirred her senses..

  “Lady Castleton?” Dominic repeated.

  Aware she coloured up, Harriet moved forward. “If you will play, Barley Mow, Gwenifer, I shall demonstrate the gentlemen’s steps. Mister Markham, please copy me.”

  An apt pupil, he soon mastered them. “Well,” Harriet began, a little out of breath after her exertion, “shall we dance together. Please put your right arm around my waist and take my left hand in yours.”

  In spite of the distance between them, at the touch of his firm hand, from which heat penetrated her thin gown, she trembled? Barely able to draw breath, she waited for Gwenifer to play the first chords.

  “One two three,” Harriet intoned, in tune with the rhythm. “Good, I must compliment you, Mister Markham, you keep excellent time.”

  “And I must praise you for your graceful footsteps.”

  “Thank you.”

  A man’s raised voice sounded from the hall. “Ignore it,” Mister Markham said, “I have told the servants not to admit any of the parishioners during the lesson.”

  She faltered, then corrected herself, saying, “one, two three,” in time to the music.

  The door burst open. Pennington strode into the drawing room, Arthur’s hand in his.

  Gwenifer played a discordant note.

  “Unhand my daughter-in-law,” the earl ordered.

  “Mamma.” His grandfather’s hand on his shoulder, prevented Arthur running to her.

  “You are shameless, Madam!” Pennington exclaimed, his cheeks purple with rage beneath the powder and rouge. “Moreover, you are unfit to be a mother.” He scowled. “And you, Mister Markham, are a rake unworthy of your surplice.”

  “But I am not wearing one my lord,” Dominic retorted in a level tone.

  Gwenifer’s hands crashed down onto the keys. She stood and stared at the earl with utmost distaste. “How dare you insult my brother, who is the soul of goodness. Do you think he would act with impropriety in the presence of his sister? If you do, you must be more degraded than your reputation implies.” She ignored Pennington’s glare. “What harm could result from Lady Castleton’s kind offer to teach my brother and I to waltz?”

  “A dance which is a byword for decadence,” Pennington sneered.

  “Only in the eyes of those with ungodly thoughts,” Gwenifer retorted, hands on her hips in an unladylike fashion.

  “Gwenifer!” Dominic interjected.

  In silence, his sister sank onto the pianoforte stool.

  Pennington looked from Dominic to Harriet and back again. Although the colour in his cheeks remained high, his forehead smoothed. “I am displeased, Lady Castleton, most displeased.”

  Harriet’s temper rose. What right did her father-in-law have to speak to her in the same way he would to a naughty child, and to say she was an unfit mother? In the past, she had starved herself almost to death to feed Arthur.

  No wonder Edgar had despised his father. What of the earl’s married daughters and their children? They never visited him. His only good quality was his love for Arthur. Yet, did he love Arthur or merely regard him as valuable property to be taken care of? She swallowed her anger in order to speak in a well-modulated tone. “Papa,” she began, although the word almost stuck in her throat, “Mister Markham and Lady Gwenifer expressed a wish to learn how to waltz, so I obliged them.”

  Pennington withdrew fixed his eye glass into place. His right eye, horribly enlarged, glared at her.

  “Quizzing me will not intimidate me.” Within a few steps, Harriet reached her son. “Papa, let go of Arthur.” She spoke in the voice that, in the past, had produced an immediate effect on any soldier, who showed the slightest sign of disrespect. “If you do not immediately release my son I will prise your hand from him.”

  Although Pennington pursed his lips, he let go of Arthur, who immediately clung to her skirts. Harriet clasped one of her son’s hands, then led him towards a chair near the window. After she sat down, she lifted Arthur onto her lap. His head on her shoulder, her boy began to relax, while the earl glowered at the rector.

  Pennington clenched his fists. “What was I to think when I entered the room and saw you, sir, in a state of undress embracing my daughter-in-law.”

  That, Harriet assumed, was the closest her father-in-law would come to making an apology.

  Dominic picked up his coat. “My lord, you insult me and Lady Castleton, so, as Our Lord said, let he who is without sin cast stones. So, unless you are sinless, I suggest you don’t throw verbal stones.”

  Her father-in-law’s cheeks flooded with colour, but did not respond to Mister Markham. Instead, he addressed her. “Lady Castleton, you know what my opinion of the waltz is.” His eyebrows twitched. “Confound it, why should you be chosen to teach Mister Markham and Lady Gwenifer the dance?”

  “My education has not been neglected. If Mister Cole did not need to earn money he would tell you I am familiar with country dances, the Highland Reel, the cotillion and the quadrille and the waltz, which, in Spain and Portugal, many were kind enough to say I excel at.”

  “Why did you not speak out?” the earl asked.

  “Because, whatever the subject is, you always refuse to listen to me.”

  Pennington frowned, the expression in his grey eyes steel-hard. “Despite my opinion of the degenerate dance, which I made clear, you defied me, and-”

  “Although you have offered me more than enough provocation, I have not flouted you once since I joined your household,” Harriet interrupted, her voice higher than usual.

  Arthur burst into tears.

  Gwenifer came forward and smiled at him. “Hush, little man, I think you are hot and tired. With your mamma’s permission, shall I take you to the kitchen and ask cook to give you some lemon barley water and gingerbread?”

  “To the kitchen! My grandson in a kitchen,” Pennington spluttered.

  Harriet and Gwenifer ignored his outburst.

  Harriet smoothed Arthur’s hair. “Thank you for your kind suggestion, Gwenifer. I regret it is time for us to leave. Arthur, if you eat no
w, when you dine you will not be hungry.” She tried to mop up his tears with the back of her hand. “Oh, why don’t I have a handkerchief whenever I need one?”

  Dominic held one out. “Take mine.”

  “Thank you.” Harriet used the linen to dry Arthur’s woebegone face.

  “Lord Castleton,” Gwenifer began, “I shall tell cook to bake gingerbread men for you in case your mother brings you to visit us on another day.”

  His distress overcome, Arthur smiled. “Thank you. Mamma, may we come here again?”

  Harriet gazed up at Mister Markham. “Yes, Arthur, if we are still welcome.”

  “Indeed, both of you are,” Dominic replied. The warmth in his eyes, when he had looked at her, died. Cold as a frozen sea on a winter’s day, he looked at the earl, and raised his eyebrows.

  “Thank you, Mister Markham. Tomorrow, I shall return at the same time to continue the dance lesson.” Even if she incurred her father-in-law’s anger, Harriet made up her mind not to submit to his every demand.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After Pennington instructed the coachman to return to the abbey in the carriage in which Harriet arrived at the Rectory, with Arthur beside him, Pennington sat facing forward in the barouche, opposite his daughter-in-law, his lips pressed together in a thin line. When they entered the vehicle, his first impulse had been to upbraid her again for teaching Mister Midhurst and Lady Gwenifer how to waltz. His second was to refrain, and decide how to turn her disobedience and improper conduct to his advantage.

  Without realising it, Pennington had suspected he received a winning card from Mister Markham and Harriet. After all, he wanted them to marry and consign his grandson to his care. If they did, he decided not to repeat his past mistake. Before they went to Eton, he rarely spoke to his sons, who were cared for by a nurse, a governess and other servants in the country. Unlike them, Arthur would benefit from his personal guidance without interference from Harriet.