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

by Rosemary Morris

  Georgianne stared at the jewellery in amazement. “Tarrant, are you sure they are diamonds?”

  Helen sank onto the nearest chair. “I never thought.”

  Cousin Tarrant glared at her. “That is the problem. You did not think. You helped this Mister Barnet, called at his house, and did not return here until almost dark, after which you accepted this token of his gratitude. You must return it and never visit him again.”

  Of course, if she had realised the stones were diamonds, she would not have accepted the gift. However, having done so, she could not be cruel enough to give them back. Moreover, she really liked Mister Barnet. “No, Cousin Tarrant, I cannot return them.”

  Her cousin’s shoulders stiffened beneath the fine cloth of his uniform.

  “I beg your pardon?” His glare intensified with each word.

  “I shall continue to call on the gentleman.”

  “We have not met him in polite society, so it seems he is not a gentleman,” Georgianne said, as though she explained matters to a defiant child.

  In return, Helen wanted to stamp her feet like an angry child in the nursery. “His manners are better than some so-called gentlemen born, whom I have met.”

  Her cousin strode backward and forward across the carpet before he halted in front of her. “No more arguments, Helen. You shall return the diamonds and may not visit him again.”

  Her temper rose. “I appreciate your generosity. Please remember that although you are the master in this house, you are neither one of my parents nor my guardian. You don’t have the right to dictate to me. I am not a junior officer from whom you expect instant obedience.”

  Tarrant stepped toward her. He halted no more than a foot away. “Look at me.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, she gazed up at him, noting the dark shadows under his eyes. No matter how demanding his duties were, he always found time for Georgianne. Grudgingly, she admitted he was good-natured and generous. She pressed her lips into a mutinous line. She would not obey his order.

  If only Papa were alive, her life would be so different. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “Helen, you are crying!” Cousin Tarrant sounded horrified. “Please understand I became responsible for you when I married your sister. It is my duty to look after you.”

  She wiped her face with the back of her hands. “Mister Barnet means no harm.” She sniffed. “You don’t need to protect me from him. I am going to sketch him. I shall ask him to come here so you may assure yourselves he is perfectly respectable. As for the diamonds, only he and the three of us know how I came by them.”

  “Poor dear, Papa,” she thought. A few more tears spilled out of her eyes.

  Cousin Tarrant withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket. “Dry your face with this.” He faced his wife. “Georgie,” he appealed.

  Georgianne swung her feet onto the floor. She patted the seat of the chaise longue. “Sit beside me, dearest. When Mister Barnet visits us, you shall return the diamonds without offending him,” Georgianne said gently.

  Helen sank down next to her sister. “No, it would insult him. I shall keep them, not because of their value, but because they were given out of the goodness of an old gentleman’s heart. I shall wear them tomorrow to the Omerod’s soiree.” No matter how understanding Tarrant and Georgianne were, on this occasion, she would not allow them to impose their will upon her. She retrieved the box from her sister. “Please excuse me. It is time to change my gown before we dine.”

  * * * *

  After the door closed behind Helen, careless of his deceptively casual hairstyle, Tarrant ran a hand through his hair. “The sooner your sister is married, the better. Let us hope her guardian consents to Dalrymple’s courtship and she marries him.”

  “I am not sure she will. I think her heart is with Langley.”

  Tarrant poured another glass of excellent French wine. It was unpatriotic to buy it, but if he did not, someone else would.

  “A green girl’s fancy.” He sat down, dismissing his wife’s words.

  “Maybe, but you married a green girl, and you are not a mere fancy.”

  She moved restlessly on her chair.

  “What is wrong? Are you unwell?” he asked, always perceptive where she was concerned.

  Georgianne’s dimples deepened. She shook her head, the little ringlets on either side of her face dancing and gleaming in the candlelight.

  “Should I send your sister back to England?”

  His wife looked at him with some alarm expressed in her eyes. “The state of the country,” she murmured. “Would it be safe for her to travel?”

  “Yes, unless you wish her to stay.”

  “I do. Where would she live in England? Even if she went to our grandparents, they are too old to take her to London to be presented at the Queen’s Drawing Room. We cannot be sure Mamma will stay away from the bottle, so Helen cannot live with her.”

  “My parents?”

  “Your Papa is nice, but he does not want another female in his household.”

  “So, Helen stays here with us?”

  “Yes, and I shall visit Mister Barnet with her to find out what sort of a person he is.” A mischievous smile formed around his wife’s pretty lips. “I shall thank him for the brilliants and say we cannot allow my sister to accept the token of his esteem.”

  Almost speechless, Tarrant stared at his wife, as beautiful as an empty-headed, exquisitely fashioned china ornament, but also exceptionally kind and intelligent. As he well knew, a core of steel—which he could always depend on—ran through her. Yet, surely on this occasion he would not be cast as the villain. He accepted the inevitable.

  “If you wish to, heart of my heart, call on Mister Barnet.”

  “Thank you.” Georgianne sat on his lap and kissed his cheek. “No one could have a more amiable, more agreeable husband. I am the luckiest wife imaginable.”

  What could he do other than kiss his wife?

  * * * *

  2nd April, 1815

  Helen’s refusal had turned to reason. With great reluctance, she had allowed Georgianne to persuade her to return the diamonds. On the day after she incurred Cousin Tarrant’s wrath, she accompanied Georgianne to Mr Barnet’s house.

  The footman rapped the dragon shaped knocker on the front door.

  Helen followed her sister up the broad, shallow steps.

  Thomas opened the door. “Good day, Miss Whitley, I shall inform Mister Barnet you and another lady have called.”

  “My sister, Mrs Tarrant,” Helen said, while Georgianne withdrew her card from her reticule and gave it to Thomas, who stood aside to allow them to enter.

  Georgianne stared at the Chinese wallpaper, hand painted on a cream background. “How beautiful.” She eyed the design, a tree with branches which sprouted green leaves, fanciful pink and blue flowers, and strawberry shaped orange fruit. “I think the Prince Regent would envy this.” With a discreet wave of her hand, she indicated an ornately ornamented porcelain flower pot on a red-lacquer stand.

  Mister Barnet’s butler came forward to take the card. He opened a door. “Mrs Tarrant, Miss Whitley, please wait in the reception room while I see if Mister Barnet is at home.”

  To Helen’s amusement, her sister’s eyes opened even wider when she looked at a china pagoda that stood at least three feet higher than herself. “Extraordinary! What bright colours! I wonder if the Prince Regent has anything to compare favourably with it.”

  “This house is full of treasures. Look at the mantelpiece.”

  Her sister turned. A gasp escaped her. “How lovely!”

  “Yes, it is.” Since she first saw it, Helen delighted in the ivory replica of a Chinese boat, carved with intricate latticework, and admired the boatmen, the flagpoles, and the roofed area on the top deck, beneath which painted greenery emerged from a tiny terracotta pot.

  “The door opened. This way, ladies,” the butler said. He led them upstairs to the drawing room where Mister Barnet sat turning a jade cup around in h
is hands.

  He put it down on a black, gold lacquered, wooden table at the side of his chair, stood and bowed.

  “Mrs Tarrant, Miss Whitley, you are welcome. Please be seated. A glass of canary wine for both of you?”

  “Thank you.” Georgianne looked around, obviously amazed by the beautiful Chinoiserie.

  Helen waited for Georgianne to sit before she seated herself on the chair opposite Mister Barnet’s.

  The footman, supervised by the butler, served the wine with thin biscuits dotted with caraway seeds, then left the room in response to a gesture from Mister Barnet.

  Georgianne cleared her throat before she spoke. “My sister told my husband and myself that she wishes to paint a portrait of you. Perhaps you would allow her to do so in her…er…attic at our house where she…um…daubs.”

  Mister Barnet shook his head. “I regret I don’t have time for her to do so due to my imminent return to England with my treasures. If Napoleon attacks, I don’t want to be in a war torn country. Besides, I have no more business here.”

  Helen exchanged a glance with Georgianne. Although they were curious about his business, it would be rude to question him.

  He inclined his head to Georgianne. “If you and Major Tarrant permit, Miss Whitley may come here to sketch me on any morning of the week.”

  Georgianne seemed indecisive. Helen caught her breath while she waited. Her sister had accepted Mister Barnet’s hospitality so it would be ungracious to refuse.

  Georgianne inclined her head. “Very well.”

  “Shall we agree on Wednesday morning?”

  “Yes.” Helen nodded her head, eager to sketch him, for, in his old-fashioned clothes and wig, he represented a bygone age. “I shall breakfast early and arrive at ten o’clock.”

  “I look forward to seeing you,” Mister Barnet replied.

  “There is another matter,” Georgianne spoke again. “Please take this back. It is far too valuable for my sister to accept.”

  “Nonsense! She probably saved my life, which is more valuable than anything I could give her.”

  Georgianne looked around the room for a few seconds, seeming to search for inspiration. “Nevertheless—” she began.

  “Nevertheless,” the old gentleman repeated, “I wish you and your husband to allow Miss Whitley to accept the suite.”

  Before Georgianne could protest, Mister Barnet shook his head. “Please say nothing, Mrs Tarrant, unless you wish to distress an old man who is thinking of the young lady who departed this world before he could give her the jewellery. Knowing Miss Whitley wears it, will give me great pleasure.”

  It seemed Georgianne could think of nothing to say in response to their host’s words.

  Helen stood. “I look forward to sketching you, but for now I don’t wish to tire you so it is time for us to take our leave.”

  Before Georgianne rallied and could forbid her to accept the diamonds, Helen retrieved the box from her sister.

  Mister Barnet bowed. “Miss Whitley, I hope you will forgive me if my house is in a state of upheaval when you come to sketch me. My treasures are to be packed in crates.”

  “I hope none of them will be damaged during transport.”

  “I have already brought many of them here intact from China while padded in straw. There is no reason why they should not travel well by barge, ship and wagon.”

  He grasped his cane, stood with visible effort, and then walked slowly across the room with the ladies.

  With her sister at her side, Helen returned to the carriage. When they were settled, Georgianne shook her head, obviously bemused. “’Pon my word, the man must be a nabob. I daresay he either served the East India Company or traded independently in Canton.”

  Helen knew Georgianne read the broadsheets from beginning to end so she was remarkably well informed.

  Georgianne shook her head. “How he persuaded me to allow you to keep the diamonds I cannot imagine. Now, no matter what Tarrant might say, it would be impossible to insist on returning them.”

  * * * *

  That night, Georgianne lay in bed with her head on her husband’s shoulder. “I tell you, Tarrant, I am sure if I had said ‘open sesame’ the walls would have swung open to reveal a treasure cave. To Mister Barnet, the value of the diamonds must be almost insignificant. Please don’t be cross with me. He spoke so movingly about someone they were intended for—someone who is no longer of this world—that I could not insist on returning them.”

  “When am I ever cross with you?” he asked, his eyes soft by firelight.

  “Every day,” she teased.

  “Ow,” she exclaimed when he pinched her bottom, but not hard enough to hurt. “Brute!”

  “Not a brute, a slave to your charms.”

  Georgianne giggled and snuggled a little closer.

  “I hope Major Walton will approve of Dalrymple.”

  She sighed. “So do I, but only if Helen wants to marry the captain.” She spoke in a small voice. “I love you so much and am so content that I want Helen to be equally happy.” Georgianne stroked her stomach, thinking of the new life within. She hoped if she gave birth to a son, he would be like his father in every way.

  Tarrant stroked her cheek. “Heart of my heart,” he murmured.

  She lay in silence while sleep evaded her and considered her sister.

  “Georgie?”

  “Yes.”

  I think we should hold a ball for Helen. After all, she has already entered society. A ball would be her formal introduction to it.”

  “How considerate of you. It is an excellent idea.” Full of enthusiasm, she sat up, trying to see his beloved face in the darkness. “It must be exceptional. The decorations, the refreshments, the music, everything, and we must invite the cream of society.” She lay down, yawned and her eyelids closed. “I love you, Tarrant.”

  “And I you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  3rd April, 1815

  Conscious of her diamond suite sparkling with rainbow hues, Helen made her way through the throng with Cousin Tarrant and her sister, toward the salon where the soiree was being held. However, many people greeted them which considerably slowed their progress. Due to the rumour that Wellington would soon be on his way to Brussels to join the Army of Occupation, Cousin Tarrant was forced to field many questions, which delayed them even more.

  Near the door to the spacious salon, they were greeted by Madame la Comptesse de Beaulieu and Miss Tomlinson.

  “A zouzand apologies, Madame Tarrant, I did not keep my promise to call on you with my granddaughter. Please excuse me. Maria has been unwell.”

  To have lost so much weight, Miss Tomlinson must have been very ill. What would Langley think of Miss Tomlinson when he next saw her?’ Annoyed with herself, she caught her lower lip between her teeth. Langley, always Langley. She wished for a magic medicine to remove him from her mind.

  “Magnificent diamonds, Miss Whitley,” the Comptesse commented “Ze setting is so simple zat zey are suitable for a young lady.”

  Helen curtsied. “I am glad you approve, Madame.” With an artist’s eyes she noted the pearls nestling in Miss Tomlinson’s hair, in her ears, and at her throat. The young woman looked attractive in an ivory-coloured silk gown. The deceptively simple design relied on an expert cut to minimise the lady’s shapely, but still generous figure.

  “Come, Maria, we must not be late for your performance on the harp.”

  Colour flooded Miss Tomlinson’s cheeks. “Please, Grandmere, I don’t wish to—”

  Madame rapped the unfortunate young lady on the arm with her ebony fan. “Don’t make yourself ridiculous, child, it is arranged for you to delight us.”

  “Unfortunate,” thought Helen, “why do I also think of her thus?” The image of Miss Tomlinson weeping in Parc Royale returned.

  At that moment, Captain Dalrymple greeted her and then whispered. “The harp! Another amateur fumbling her way through the music!”

  “Miss Tomlinson might
be an excellent musician. Let us hope you will enjoy her performance,” she whispered back.

  They followed Cousin Tarrant and Georgianne into the salon, in which gold brocade curtains were drawn to exclude the night air that some still believed injured their health.

  Georgianne looked back. “Good evening, Captain Dalrymple.”

  The press of other guests was too great for him to bow, and so he inclined his head politely.

  Her sister beckoned to her. “Come, Helen.”

  With the captain on one side and her sister on the other, Helen settled on a chair in the centre of a row, from where she had a good view of a temporary stage concealed by more gold-coloured curtains.

  The buzz of conversation ceased when Lord Ormerod appeared. “Welcome to my house.” He beamed at his audience. “I look forward to the entertainment my dear wife has arranged for our pleasure. Pray, silence for Major Lord Langley and my daughter who will perform the minuet.”

  His lordship stepped aside. The curtains drew apart to reveal Langley, smart in his dress uniform, and Miss Ormerod, a young lady considered one of the best amateur dancers in Brussels. An unseen orchestra played. Langley’s passes were perfect. Miss Ormerod did not falter. Although Helen did not want to perform the minuet in public, her jealousy of the young lady’s opportunity to dance a solo with Langley consumed her.

  “Will you entertain us?” Dalrymple whispered in Helen’s ear.

  She shook her head, aware that one of her short, pomaded ringlets brushed his face.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t possess sufficient talents.”

  Dalrymple’s eyes glinted. “Nonsense, you dance beautifully. I would be happy to take the stage with you.”

  “Shush,” Helen scolded. Her fingers itched to sketch Langley and Miss Ormerod, who wore a gown in fashion before the French Revolution. From her dainty shoes with large silver rosettes, to the top of her white-powdered wig, adorned with flowers and feathers, Miss Ormerod looked exquisite.

  Helen’s stomach tightened. Had Lady Ormerod asked Langley to dance with her daughter? If Langley had offered be her partner was it of particular significance? Miss Ormerod’s dowry would probably be as large if not equal to Miss Tomlinson’s. Did Langley intend to marry Miss Ormerod? She must stop tormenting herself with such speculations.