Monday's Child (Heroines born on each day of the week. Book 2)

by Rosemary Morris

  Georgianne smoothed her gown over her stomach. “Promise to keep it.”

  “I cannot swear not to tell Cousin Tarrant until you tell me what you are hiding from him.”

  Georgianne toyed with a gold tassel which ornamented a plump cushion. “Very well.” A smile illuminated her beautiful face. “God willing, you will be an aunt.”

  Helen’s eyes rounded. “You are with child.”

  “Yes.”

  Helen hurried to embrace her. “Congratulations. This is wonderful news,” she said before fear clutched her. So many women died in or after childbirth. So did their babes. Yet, last year Georgianne had reassured their little sister that their mother and aunt survived many births and their children survived. She squinted at Georgianne. “Why don’t you want Cousin Tarrant to know?”

  “Before he met me, a lady he knew died in childbirth. When he married me, he did not want to have a child for fear I would also die.”

  Helen hesitated. “Unless there are grave concerns for your well-being, I promise I will not tell him you are increasing.” She spoke as though her words were dragged out of her.

  She saw the glint of tears in Georgianne’s eyes. How fortunate her sister and brother-in-law were to love each other unselfishly. She believed he would do anything in his power for Georgianne which would not compromise his honour.

  Well, sitting here, indulging in sentimental thoughts and maudlin fears, served no purpose. “This morning I shall purchase James Powders. I will also buy anything else you require.” She forced herself to smile. “If you are well enough to chaperone me, we shall attend the Greville’s ball. If not, you must put your well-being and your baby’s before me.”

  “Don’t fuss, dearest. I cannot remain at home until the baby introduces itself to us. Besides, I am only indisposed in the early mornings. Dawson assures me the nausea will end soon. In the meantime, she suggests I drink a cold ginger infusion to mitigate the vomiting. Enough of that. I am looking forward to this evening. What are you going to wear?”

  Helen ignored the question. “You fainted. Are you sure you would not prefer to stay at home?”

  “Yes.”

  Helen frowned. Could marriage and motherhood ever be worthwhile? Yet, what were the alternatives for a lady? Those who loved, like Georgianne and Cousin Tarrant, reaped the rewards. But marriage without love? Such whims! In her milieu, love was not a requirement for marriage—although the goal of many men and women was to wed and have a happy home. For now, even if Langley considered her a cruel flirt, she would enjoy the company of Dalrymple and other gentlemen.

  Chapter Ten

  26th March, 1815

  Gowned in gleaming white silk, Helen stood next to Georgianne halfway up the stairs. Above them on the landing stood Sir Hugh and Lady Greville greeting their guests as they were announced.

  Helen looked sideways at her sister. “Are you sure you don’t want to dance this evening?”

  “Yes, but please don’t fuss. I am well.”

  From the ballroom came the sound of a minuet, the first dance executed by individual couples at some balls. Did her sister, who excelled in its intricate steps, not want to participate this evening because of her condition, or because Cousin Tarrant could not accompany them? Helen could not dismiss the subject from her mind. “Why have you decided not to dance?” she whispered in Georgianne’s ear.

  “I am not sure if it is wise. I must think of the baby,” her sister whispered back.

  “I see.” Helen looked around. She gestured discreetly with her fan. “Georgianne, look! Miss Tomlinson is making her curtsy to our host and hostess.”

  Her sister raised her eyebrows. “Lud! I am surprised to see her here. Despite hearing her name mentioned by gossips, I did not know she moved in the first circles. Who is the lady with her?”

  “Madame la Comptesse de Beaulieu,” Helen replied. “When I saw them in Parc Royale, I wondered why such a high stickler accompanied Miss Tomlinson.”

  “How do you know she is a ‘high stickler’?”

  “Madame, our grandmother’s friend, often visits her. Last year, when I stayed with our grandparents, Madame never mentioned Miss Tomlinson.”

  Georgianne watched the young lady. “It is said the heiress is well spoken and has pretty manners.”

  They reached the top of the stairs. Sir Hugh inclined his head to them while his wife spoke to Georgianne. “Mrs Tarrant, it is good to see you. How charming you look. Your gown is almost the exact colour of your eyes.”

  The colour in Georgianne’s cheeks bloomed. “Thank you for the compliment.”

  “I trust you and your husband are well.”

  “How kind of you to ask. We are in good health. I regret the Major is unable to accompany us this evening. Duty has called him to the border.”

  “Ah! How unfortunate; I hoped to speak to him. Our son, our only son, is in Major Tarrant’s regiment. He is the reason for our being in Brussels.” She cleared her throat. “Forgive me. This is not the moment to speak of such matters.” Her ladyship inclined her head. “Miss Whitley.”

  Helen made her curtsy, her sympathy with the anxious mother—even as she tried to commit the fear in her ladyship’s eyes to memory, in order to capture it in a sketch.

  * * * *

  With Georgianne at her side, Helen entered the ballroom which was festooned with evergreen garlands and swags brightened with colourful berries. Lit by numerous chandeliers, their crystal pendants glittering, the decorations were beautiful.

  “It is hot,” Helen said in response to both the fragrant beeswax candles, and the large company of officers in dress uniforms laced with gold or silver, alongside fashionably dressed gentlemen and modish ladies.

  “Yes, it is.” Georgianne unfurled her ostrich feather fan and looked at the doors which were open to admit cool night air and led onto the long balcony.

  Helen gestured to a row of chairs on the opposite side of the ballroom for the use of chaperones and their charges. “Do sit down, Georgianne.” She gazed anxiously at her sister. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home?”

  “Quite sure dearest; I shall enjoy meeting my friends.”

  She and her sister edged their way around the crowd at the side of the ballroom.

  Madame la Comptesse tapped Helen on her arm. “Miss Whitley,” she said in a voice loud enough to be heard above the hub-bub of conversation and music, “’Ow do you go on. ’Ow is your grandmother?”

  Helen curtsied. “I am very well, thank you, Madame. Grandmother is in good health. By the way, have you met my sister, Mrs Tarrant?”

  “No I ‘ave not ‘ad ze pleasure.”

  “Please allow me to introduce her? Madame, Mrs Tarrant.” Georgianne curtsied. “Mrs Tarrant, la Comptesse de Beaulieu.”

  “You are a beauty, Mrs Tarrant. ’Ave you met my granddaughter, Mademoiselle Tomlinson?”

  Astonished, Helen stared at the elderly lady. Her granddaughter!

  “No, Madame, although I have met Mister Tomlinson.”

  The Comptesse pressed her hand to her flat bosom. “’Ave you indeed?” She sounded displeased. More than likely because she considered her late daughter made a mésalliance.

  An awkward silence ensued before Madame spoke again. “Miss Whitley, I think both you and Maria ’ave eighteen years. I daresay you ’ave much in common so you may become friends. Mrs Tarrant, we shall call on you tomorrow.”

  “Indeed,” thought Helen, “for all Madame knows, we might not have any mutual interests—other than Langley, who I am sure is important to both of us.”

  She eyed Maria, resplendent in a white silk gown, ornamented with tiny, pale pink artificial roses on her puff sleeves and at the hem; a ball gown so well cut that it flattered her large figure. As an artist, she admired Miss Tomlinson’s wealth of glossy brown hair. Yet her large hazel eyes seemed haunted. Did the gentlemen she saw her with this morning in Parc Royale, cause it?

  Georgianne curtsied to the Comptesse. “Please excuse us, Madame.�
�

  Helen made her curtsy to the French lady before following her sister to the row of upholstered chairs. Yet due to the number of people who greeted them, and the necessity of conversing, a half hour or more passed before Georgianne sank onto a seat. “Sit down, dearest, before your beaux solicit your hand.”

  “Half of the dances are already spoken for, including the supper dance which I granted to Captain Dalrymple.”

  “I like him,” Georgianne remarked.

  The minuet ended to the sound of polite applause. “Look” Georgianne gestured toward the ballroom floor, “Mister Colchester is leading Lady—oh, I did not hear her name. What is it?”

  “Lady Cecilia,” Helen replied.

  “Ah, yes, what a pretty girl she is. Her brother serves with the Cherry Pickers.”

  Helen suppressed a vulgar chuckle remembering an Ensign in the 11th Light Dragoons, who bitterly resented his regiment’s nickname. It was the result of an attack by the French while some of the regiment raided a cherry orchard at San Martin de Trebejo in Spain.

  From the corner of her eye, Helen noticed Captain Dalrymple pace along the line of chaperones seated next to their charges. She hoped he would never ask her to perform the complicated steps of the minuet. “Of course,” she mused, “at most balls the minuet is no longer the first dance because it takes so long to complete.”

  Helen held her breath. She had never performed the minuet at so large a function. The prospect of being the only couple on the ballroom floor alarmed her. “Two passes left then two passes right,” she murmured to herself, mentally reviewing the steps.

  “Mrs Tarrant.”

  At the sound of the Langley’s familiar voice, Helen looked up. Although he bowed to Georgianne, he looked at Helen with an amused expression in his eyes. “No need to be nervous, Miss Whitley, you dance delightfully. I am sure you would excel at the minuet.”

  “Oh no, I am not sufficiently proficient,” she answered, treasuring his compliment.

  “You are too modest.”

  Helen looked down at her lap. To say ‘I am,’ would seem boastful. To say ‘I am not,’ would appear bold. She peeped up at Langley, who frowned as he observed Georgianne.

  “Mrs Tarrant, please forgive me for saying you are flushed. It is too warm. Is the heat overpowering you? Would you care for a glass of wine? Shall I fetch one?”

  Georgianne pressed a dainty handkerchief to her forehead. “How kind you are, but wine will not cool me. Perhaps some lemonade.”

  “Of course. May I also fetch one for you, Miss Whitley?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Before long, he returned and gave them two full glasses.

  If only Langley would ask her to dance, she would even throw caution to the wind by accepting his invitation to waltz—although she had not received permission to stand up for the dance from a patroness at Almacks.

  A gentleman’s voice caught her attention. “Good evening, Miss Whitley.”

  “Captain Dalrymple.”

  “If Mrs Tarrant permits, would you care to stroll on the balcony?”

  Aware of Langley watching like a dog fox prepared to pounce to protect his prey, Helen’s cheeks warmed.

  The captain bowed to Georgianne; the expression on his face serious. “It is very hot here, so may I have your permission?”

  Georgianne raised an eyebrow. “Dearest?”

  “Some fresh air would be welcome.”

  “Very well,”

  Dalrymple made way for Helen through the crowd and led her outside.

  They were not the only couple to escape the ballroom, and stroll up and down past potted orange trees and other plants well lit by lanterns.

  The captain held out his arm. Helen placed the tips of her fingers upon it. She walked by his side to the end of the balcony where a bench stood between two tall trees. Not until she sat did she realise the foliage hid them from view. “Most improper, Captain.”

  “Not at all, what harm can there be in a lady having a private conversation with a gentleman who respects her?”

  Enough light penetrated the branches for her to see the serious expression on his face.

  “Miss Whitley, you have many admirers, so please don’t think I am impertinent for asking if you would welcome a proposal of marriage from any of them.”

  Well, he certainly came to the point in swift military fashion. What should she say? She liked him very much so he deserved honesty.

  Helen chose her words with care before she spoke. “I hoped a gentleman would ask me to be his wife, but he did not and will not.”

  “Do you expect him to do so in future?” Dalrymple asked, the expression in his eyes intent.

  She shook her head.

  “If he had, would you have accepted him?”

  Helen nodded.

  “Thank you for your honesty.” Dalrymple peeled off her elbow length glove. He enfolded her hand in his warm one and raised it to his lips. Head bent, lantern light gleamed on his dark hair. His kiss on her knuckle sent a strange shiver through her.

  He replaced her hand on her lap. “Forgive me for taking the liberty which expressed my admiration. I hope it is not unwelcome.”

  She pulled on her glove. “No, but it surprised me.”

  He chuckled. “According to Major Tarrant, surprise is an excellent tactic, although, of course, he was not speaking of matters of the heart. So, please allow me to ask you if I may request your guardian to grant permission for me to pay my addresses to you.”

  Indeed, he had taken her by surprise.

  “I hope you are not shocked by my boldness. Your brother-in-law has no objection to my paying court to you.”

  She bent her head. What should she say? She wanted to marry, to have her own home and forget Langley. “Would your parents approve of me?”

  “Yes, they married for love and wish me to do so.”

  “Your parents might not like me.”

  “Why, are you ill-natured?” he teased.

  “I hope not.”

  “Miss Whitley, I am not asking you to decide now what your answer will be, merely for your consent to write to your guardian. While we wait for his reply, we can become better acquainted. When we are, you might dislike me.”

  “Oh, no, I cannot imagine that!”

  Dalrymple smiled as he looked deeply into her eyes. “That is all I need to know for now. I shall escort you back to your sister.”

  * * * *

  27th March, 1815

  On the following evening, as she was about to change before they dined, Helen received a request to join Cousin Tarrant.

  When she entered the study, lined with shelves containing handsomely bound books, he gazed at her from his chair behind the large mahogany desk without uttering even a single courteous word.

  Apprehensive, Helen looked into his eyes, which were grey as the sky on a cold winter’s day. “Why did you summon me?”

  “To warn you not to be careless with your reputation. I refer to your regrettable tete-a-tete with Captain Dalrymple on the balcony.”

  What right did he have to complain of her dalliance? She wanted to remind him that prior to his asking Georgianne to marry him, he had entered her bedroom while she slept at an inn. Helen glared at him, discomfited because he considered it necessary to upbraid her. Anger combined with embarrassment warred within her. She held back irate words.

  “Cousin Helen, I don’t expect you to seclude yourself with one of your beaux and allow him to kiss your hand.”

  Some wretched old cat of a woman must have observed them and spread gossip. “Georgianne gave me permission to walk on the balcony with the captain.”

  “You have condemned yourself with the word ‘walk’. Your sister did not expect you to flirt with him while seated on a secluded bench.” Cousin Tarrant’s cold expression softened a little. “Dalrymple wishes to marry you. If you refuse his proposal now, gossip will attach itself to your hitherto good name.” He cleared his throat. “Helen, I wish your mother or anot
her older lady could explain the way of the world. I am sorry because you cannot rely on anyone for advice other than Georgianne and myself. I must depend on your good sense. Confound it!” He broke off for a moment. “Sorry for swearing.” He drummed the tips of his fingers on the mahogany desk spread with maps and correspondence. “Oh, sit down, Helen.”

  Afraid he would send her back to England, she sank straight-backed onto the chair opposite him.

  “Helen, please believe I have your welfare at heart. One day, I sincerely hope you will be happily married.”

  She smiled at him, relieved by his kind words. “Thank you.”

  “From now on, I hope your good sense will prevail.” Tarrant stood. “I shall say no more.” He crossed the room to hold the door open for her to leave. “Duty at headquarters prevents me from attending the concert with you and Georgianne after we dine. I hope you will enjoy it.”

  * * * *

  29th March, 1815

  After it became known she was not an heiress, a few of Helen’s gallant beaux did not desert her, and Dalrymple sought her out at a rout, rode with her in the early mornings, and accompanied her and Georgianne to the theatre. She welcomed his presence but behaved prudently, careful not to risk a stain on her reputation by any further incautious conduct.

  Other gentlemen began to seek her out, their admiration obvious. Yet, if she were honest, Helen realised she cared little for those who ignored her after they discovered she only had a small dowry. After all, she only craved Langley’s attention. Unfortunately, she must come to terms with both the change in his attitude toward her, and his change of circumstance.

  Soon she must decide. If her guardian approved of Dalrymple, would she or would she not accept his proposal?

  * * * *

  31st March, 1815

  Pringle, neatly dressed in grey, her white apron spotless, entered the bedchamber carrying a tray. “Good morning, Miss. I hope you slept well.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Helen covered her mouth with her hand to hide a yawn.