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

by Rosemary Morris

  “By now, you should know that after my early morning ridden with Arthur, followed by breakfast, it is my habit to tackle various matters, which Mister Vaughan brings to my attention. It is then my custom to either confer with my bailiff or speak to my steward.”

  “I can only repeat my apology and withdraw,” she murmured, in an attempt to seem meek.

  “Since you are here you, state your business.”

  Harriet did not allow herself to indicate her father-in-law’s change of attitude towards her, so different from when he first took her into his household, unsettled her.

  She glanced at the tactful secretary, who seemed absorbed in silent contemplation of the parquet floor.

  Pennington raised his monocle. “Why do you wish to see it?”

  “To see the names of your guests, and also to ascertain you have invited Mrs Tarrant, to whom we owe so much, and her husband.”

  Her father-in-law’s magnified eye did not warm at the mention of her benefactresses’ name. “I have not invited them. The major’s leg was amputated after the Battle of Ligny, so I doubt they would wish to attend a ball.”

  Harriet forced herself to smile. “The surgery was carried out over a year ago. By now, I am sure the major is managing well with an artificial limb.

  “I am your hostess for the occasion, so, with your permission, I shall invite them.”

  She doubted her father-in-law gave his real reason for not sending an invitation to the Tarrants, whose country house, Calcutta Place, was not far from Clarencieux? The seconds during which the earl did not reply seemed long drawn out.

  ‘Shall I fetch the guest list for Lady Castleton?” Mister Vaughan ventured.

  “Yes,” Pennington replied. Thunder rolled before he spoke again, this time to her. “As my hostess at the ball held in your honour you are welcome to invite Major and Mrs Tarrant.”

  Did she imagine Mister Vaughan looked at her sympathetically? After all, it must be as obvious to him that the earl begrudged her position in the household only granted because of her son. “Mister Vaughan, please give it to me later, I must make sure my son is not frightened by the storm.”

  “Nonsense, my dear child, you must not pamper my grandson. A mere storm will not frighten Arthur. He is pluck to the bone.”

  “He is also very young and, as you have frequently stated, you do not want his spirit to be broken, so if he is frightened, I shall comfort him.” She turned her head towards the secretary. ‘Please ensure I receive the guest list.”

  “Yes, I will, it is my pleasure to serve you, Lady Castleton.”

  Harriet hurried to her son. Anxious, she flung open the door to the nursery and saw Arthur, his hand in his nurse’s, looking out of the window.

  “My, my,” Bessie began, when another clap of thunder sounded, “listen to God throwing his furniture around.” She pointed with her free hand. “And look at,” she continued, when lightning streaked the sky. “God’s making sure He’s got enough light to see what He’s doing.”

  Harriet realised, absorbed by the storm, which lashed rivulets against the windows, neither of them noticed her rush into the room. Thank goodness, Arthur was not frightened by nature’s violence. She tip-toed out of the nursery and went to her dressing room.

  During the last year, under her supervision, workmen painted the woodwork cream, and hung wallpaper patterned with blowsy pink roses. Whenever Harriet entered her luxurious sanctuary, she admired the dressing table draped in pink and cream chintz, an escritoire, ashwood cabinets filled with delicate china figurines, two comfortable arm chairs, inlaid tables, and bookshelves laden with her favourite books. Not even the earl would intrude in a lady’s dressing room with a little closet which contained a commode, a large hand-painted jug of water, a matching basin and lavender scented soap.

  Here she could be private with Arthur and, if she wished, admit Gwenifer, certain they would not be disturbed by anyone other than Plymouth or Bessie.

  Harriet sat at the escritoire, mended her quill and dipped the nib into the ink pot. In the exquisite copperplate handwriting her mother taught her despite many mistakes in her copy book, Harriet penned Major and Mrs Tarrant’s invitation to the ball. While she sealed it with a red wax wafer,

  a tap on the door announced Plymouth, who opened it, and handed her a sheet of paper.

  “With Mister Vaughan’s compliments, my lady.”

  “Thank you, you may go, Plymouth.”

  The list of guests in her hand, Harriet settled in a wing chair upholstered in pretty chintz, which matched the curtains. She read the names, including those of her those of her sisters-in-law, entered according to rank. Harriet scanned it again. Mrs Tarrant’s cousin, Sarah, and Sarah’s husband, Pennington’s former heir, had also been sent invitations. She would not blame them if they did not attend. Losing the inheritance must have been a severe shock.

  Harriet put the list down. If all the guests accepted their invitations, approximately a hundred people, some of whom would be accommodated for the night, would attend the ball. Delighted, she read the names of two married officers and three unmarried ones. Gallant soldiers who still served in her father and husband’s regiment, The Glory Boys. She smiled, pleased because she would not be adrift in a sea of nameless faces. There would also be others whom she knew, Squire Clifford’s daughters, some ladies, who called on her, and also Gwenifer and Mister Markham.”

  Despite the dismal weather, warmth invaded her at the thought of the rector. She was fortunate to have made the acquaintance of such a charming, considerate gentleman. If she received favourable replies to the advertisements he placed on her behalf she would be indebted to him forever. Even if there were not, she would still be grateful to him for his attempt to trace the bank.

  The list discarded on her lap, Harriet leaned back recreating Mister Markham’s face in her mind’s eyes. No, he should visualise Edgar. Shocked, she realised it was becoming harder to remember precisely what her late husband looked like. Of course most Edgar and most officers in The Glory Boys, stood taller than most men, and Arthur had inherited his curly brown hair and regular features, but not Edgar’s grey eyes, the same shade as his father’s.

  What else? Edgar, who inherited his father’s brown, curly hair. Edgar’s face had been tanned by the hot sun which presided over summer in Spain and Portugal. What else.? Oh yes, he usually spoke decisively with the assurance of a seasoned officer. Tears formed in her eyes. Among her treasured her memories of him she could no longer capture his essence, the pleasing quality which made Edgar different from any other person and caused her to fall in love with him.

  Although she would never forget Edgar, perhaps it was time to consign him to the past. To move forward with her life and be grateful for her father-in-law’s protection. Yet she did not, indeed, could not trust the earl. Something extremely distasteful, which she occasionally caught glimpses of but could not analyse, lurked beneath his fashionable façade of powder, rouge and elegant clothes.

  Should she confide in Mister Markham? She thought of him as a friend, yet, if she were frank, what would he think? How would he judge her? With surprise, she acknowledged his opinion was important. The clock chimed. Time to partake of nuncheon with the earl, the chaplain and the secretary. Not for the first time, Harriet wished another lady, with whom she could be friends, lived at Clarencieux. Harriet hoped she would enjoy her sisters-in-law and Sarah Stanton’s company.

  Later, at the dining room table, apart from her thanks to Mister Vaughan for the information, and comments concerning the weather, little was said about the ball.

  In response to the chaplain drawing the earl’s attention to an elderly couple, in need of aid, who lived in Clarencieux Village, his eyes steel-hard, her father-in-law, regarded her. “It is for you, the lady of the house, to provide them with a basket of leftover food.”

  “I shall be pleased to, Papa.”

  Harriet turned her attention to Mister Rivers. “Perhaps you would be good enough to inform me if
there are others in need. I know what it is to suffer hunger.”

  Pennington’s fork clattered onto his plate. He scowled. “Lady Castleton, in future, you will not refer to your previous situation.”

  Embarrassed she looked across the table. Did she imagine that yet again, well-bred Mister Vaughan looked at her sympathetically?

  She finished her portion of apple tart and thick cream. “If you will excuse me, Papa,” she murmured. “Gentlemen.”

  * * *

  In her dressing room, Harriet changed into a cambric gown and, after glancing out of the window the dismal weather, a pale grey wool pelisse trimmed with blue braid.

  Ready to leave for the rectory, where she would give the rector and his sister their final dance lesson, Harriet held the tip of her umbrella while she looked out of the window trying to decide whether or not it would rain again after the thunder storm.

  The sky, mottled with grey, hinted at another downpour. Well, if she made haste, the carriage might arrive at the rectory before the heavens opened to soak the ground even more.

  The first fat drops of rain fell when the groom hurried to the rectory door to apply the brass knocker. Her umbrella protecting her from the worst of the downpour, Harriet picked her way along the water-logged gravel path.

  A young maidservant, little more than a child, whom Harriet saw for the first time, opened the door. “If you please, my lady, the rector’s waiting for you in his study.”

  Harriet stepped indoors and unfurled her umbrella, aware her heart beat a little faster than usual at the thought of seeing Mister Markham. In silence, she cursed her stays which prevented her from taking deep breaths to steady herself.

  She followed the maidservant, who led her to the study, where she tapped on the door before opening it. “Lady Castleton, sir.

  Dominic closed a large leather bound book. “Ah, good day to you, my lady, I have been waiting for you.” He rose from his chair behind the desk and bowed.

  Mister Markham straightened. Why did he frown at her? Due to bad news that would affect her?

  “Where are your wits, Mary?” Dominic asked the maidservant. “Why did you not relieve her ladyship of her umbrella, hat and gloves?”

  “Oh, I apologise, my umbrella has dripped onto the floor.” Harriet handed it to the maidservant. She unbuttoned her grey gloves, dyed to match her pelisse. “Please take these, Mary.”

  Harriet removed her hat. Rueful she examined a limp ostrich feather. “Oh dear, I hope it is not ruined.” She fingered the curls framing her face. “I daresay the damp has made my hair frizzy.”

  “Oh no, you look lovely, my lady!” Mary exclaimed.

  “You may go,” Dominic said, his voice stern.

  “Yes, sir, I’m sorry sir for speaking out of turn,” Mary gabbled, and scurried out of the library.

  “My apologies,” Dominic began, “one of our experienced maidservant’s jaw is swollen due to toothache, the other is carrying out a commission in the village for my sister. So, Mary, who has only been in service for a few weeks, was the only one available to receive you.”

  Harriet liked him all the more for not giving the girl a severe reprimand. “Lud, sir, your need not apologise, besides, although she should not have spoken, the girl paid me a compliment I cannot object to.”

  A smile banished Dominic’s gravity. “A well-deserved one.”

  “You are too kind, Mister Markham, I know I am not a beauty,” she murmured, aware of her warm blush in response to his compliment.

  “You do yourself a disservice, Lady Castleton. Plato wrote ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’?”

  Unaccustomed to such praise, Harriet knew that, by now, her cheeks must have bloomed poppy red. Flustered, she managed to reply. “When I look in my mirror it reflects an unremarkable face,” Oh no, she should not have said that. Mister Markham might think she hoped for more praise.

  “Lady Castleton, my view of you is quite different. May I suggest you purchase a more honest looking glass.”

  Was the rector flirting with her? It seemed inappropriate for a gentleman of his calling. Nonsense! Even bishops married so, although they were not expected to be profligates, there was no law against ministers of the church – what?” Harriet covered her burning cheeks with her hands.

  “I am sorry, I did not mean to embarrass you, Lady Castleton.”

  Ridiculous of a widow, who fended off many amorous officers after her husband’s death, to be put to the blush by Mister Markham’s flattering words. After all, they both knew she was not beautiful. She dismissed her thoughts.

  “Lady Castleton, please be seated on the chair in front of my desk.”

  The rector’s voice drew her out of her thoughts.

  Dominic sat opposite her and drew a piece of paper across the desk towards him. “I daresay you want to know why I instructed Mary to bring you to my library before our lesson.”

  “Yes, I am curious.”

  He picked up the paper. “This is a letter from London written by an attorney. He requests you to contact him.”

  Anticipation of good news rushed through her. “Is there no more?”

  Dominic shook his head. “If you write to him, I am sure he will explain why he contacted you.”

  “Yes, of course, I shall reply without delay.”

  “You sound reluctant.”

  “No, I am not-” she began hesitantly. Should she be frank with him?

  “I am a clergyman so you may confide in me without fear of my betraying a confidence.”

  She stared into his eyes, darker than usual in the subdued light caused by the dull weather. Every instinct told her she could trust him. “I am in a difficult situation. Furious, my father-in-law confronted me with the advertisement in The Times – the one which asked for information about my father’s bank.”

  “Ah, you may request the attorney to send further details to this address.”

  “I am very obliged to you. I don’t know what I have done to deserve such kindness.”

  “There is no need to thank me.” Dominic stood. “Gwenifer is in the drawing room. Shall we join her? After the lesson, perhaps you would like to return here to write the letter, which I shall post.”

  “I am grateful for all your help. You must allow me to reimburse you for the advertisements and the postage.”

  Dominic shook his head. “Unnecessary. Come.”

  Mister Markham cupped her elbow with his hand to guide her out of the room. Startled, she looked up into his eyes in which, for a moment, passion flared.

  An ignorant young miss would not read the rector’s unspoken message, but, all her senses aflutter, Harriet knew she had interpreted it correctly.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Good day, Harriet.” Gwenifer stood and inclined her head. “Yesterday, my brother scolded me for not dressing in modish gowns for our lessons. My only excuse is that parishioners, the garden, the stillroom and other matters leave me little time to spare.”

  “By choice,” Dominic intervened. “If my sister wished, she could do no more than sit in the parlour and sew a fine seam.”

  “I admit my brother knows me too well. Before he interrupted, I intended to ask you to observe I am wearing my twilled-silk afternoon gown in honour of our final lesson.”

  Harriet laughed at Gwenifer and Mister Markham’s raillery. “You look beautiful. Emerald green complements your eyes.”

  Gwenifer spread her skirts wide and executed a brief curtsy. “Thank you. I admit I hoped the colour would when I chose the material.” She tapped her brother on the arm. “Dominic, why did you not insist on Harriet taking off her wet pelisse?” Light-footed, Gwenifer stepped across the floor to her. “Allow me to help you.”

  When Harriet tried to fend her off with her hands, Gwenifer batted them away, and undid the silver buttons fastening the garment from neck to ankle. She clapped her hands. “How stylish, Harriet. Your hyacinth blue gown is a perfect match for the braid on the pelisse. You always dress in the heig
ht of fashion. I shall consult you before I buy my winter clothes.”

  Harriet laughed. “The credit goes to the modiste and my abigail. If you continue your flattery, I fear becoming guilty of the deadly sin of pride.”

  “No,” Dominic objected softly, “you will not, for you are too modest.”

  She lowered her eyelashes unable to think of anything to say, while Gwenifer seated herself at the pianoforte. “Shall I play so you can practice?”

  With Dominic’s left arm around Harriet’s waist and her right hand clasped in his, it seemed they were immersed in an enchanted world. The first, fast notes of a waltz sounded. She whirled around the room. Lost in the joy of dancing with a man she liked, her breath shortened, and her heart throbbed. By the time the music ended, Harriet needed to breathe evenly before she spoke, not only because of the energetic pace.

  ”You are an admirable pupil, Mister Markham – so light on your feet, unlike some gentlemen. When those clodhoppers step on the hem of a gown they tear it. When they tread on toes it is extremely painful -,” she rolled her eyes, “But I shall say no more on the subject.” She smiled at him. “If you continue to practice with your sister, both of you will acquit yourselves well.”

  Gwenifer twirled around. “I am looking forward to waltzing at your ball.”

  Harriet sank onto a chair. “I am sorry to say you will not have the opportunity because my father-in-law disapproves of the dance.”

  Dominic handed her a glass of ratafia.

  She smiled up at him. “How thoughtful, thank you.”

  “Although we cannot waltz, I hope you will reserve both the supper dance and the first cotillion for me,” Mister Markham replied, a warm glow in his expressive eyes.

  “I shall enter your name on my dance card, and you must ask your sister to enter it on her dance card.”

  “She never lacks partners, so I would be fortunate if my name found a space on it.”