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

by Rosemary Morris

  From the hall, she looked back at Langley who stood on the doorstep. “Are you sure you don’t wish to come in to partake of a glass of wine?”

  He shook his head. “No, thank you, I regret time does not allow it. Good day to you, Miss Whitley.” He turned around, his pelisse swirling, and marched in military style up the street toward his headquarters.

  The butler stepped forward. “Mrs Tarrant instructed me to ask you to join her when you returned, Miss.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In her parlour.”

  Was all well with her sister? Helen undid the wide satin ribbons tied in a coquettish bow beneath her right ear. She removed her hat and tossed it onto the head of the marble bust of a Roman emperor placed on a rosewood table. Her fingers made clumsy by her concern for her pregnant sister, she struggled to unfasten her three-quarter length, sage-green woollen pelisse. Finally, she slipped her arms out of the sleeves, and handed it to a footman.

  Later, she would exchange her forest-green kid half-boots for slippers. Now, regardless of dirty marks made by her footsteps on either the shining wooden floors or costly carpets, she rushed to join Georgianne, who was taking her ease on a chaise longue.

  A swift glance revealed she did not need to be alarmed, so she came to an abrupt halt. “Don’t be foolish,” she chastised herself. “I daresay a healthy baby is born every minute and its mother suffers no ill effect, so there is no need for me to fuss like a watchful mother duck.”

  Georgianne put down a letter. “The mail arrived. It contains a letter, in your guardian’s handwriting, addressed to Tarrant.”

  The moment when she must make a decision which might affect the rest of her life drew near. Helen reminded herself she wanted to marry; to be free of Cousin Tarrant’s charity. She did not want to be the poor relation. Although Tarrant would add to her modest dowry, there were few beaux of the captain’s calibre who called on her.

  “Dearest?”

  Georgianne’s voice cut into her confusion. “Yes?” she forced herself to reply while thoughts rushed through her mind.

  “Your hands are trembling. There is no need to be agitated. If Captain Dalrymple asks you to marry him, you only have to say yes or no. Neither Tarrant nor I wish you to agree unless you are certain beyond all possible doubt, that you want to be his wife.”

  “Thank you. I do like him.” She enjoyed their early morning rides, his admiration of her artistic skills, his delightful gifts of flowers and books, and his consideration at balls, soirees and routs, where he catered to her every need.

  She forced herself to smile at Georgianne before changing the subject. “Mister Barnet is delighted with my portrait of him.”

  “So he should be. It is a good likeness.”

  “Thank you for the compliment.” She sighed. “I am sorry for him. Not only has the doctor confined him to bed, it seems he has no friends or relatives in Brussels to visit him.”

  “I am sorry. Is his condition serious?”

  Helen shrugged. “I hope not. Mister Barnet is confident he can return to England in the near future.”

  A knock on the door preceded the butler, who handed Helen a large parcel and a sealed letter.

  “Thank you, Chivers.” Helen broke the red wax wafer. She read the letter. “Mister Barnet is generous. He has sent illustrated books of India. I must write to thank him.”

  Later, she leafed through the volumes and marvelled at the vistas of the sub-continent, and drawings of its inhabitants dressed in clothes unfamiliar to her.

  * * * *

  Seated at a table in the ballroom before it was time to change into an evening gown, Helen added details to her sketches. At intervals between the tall windows would stand large, one dimensional painted wooden elephants or tigers. A wooden representation of the blue boy—as she thought of Krishna—with his bluish-black complexion, and black curls decorated with a peacock feather, would be on a plinth between the centre windows. Oh, she could imagine the splendid decorations.

  Helen stood to stretch her back. Excitement possessed her at the prospect of the ball. With nimble feet, she danced the waltz with an imaginary partner. She forgot the apron which covered her muslin gown, and imagined a silk skirt and petticoat swirling at her ankles.

  The door opened. Peter stared at her in astonishment. The footman must consider her mad. Embarrassed, she waved a dismissive hand at him. “You may go.”

  Peter’s mouth twitched. Obviously hard-put to restrain his amusement, he withdrew.

  So much to do. The strains of imaginary music died away.

  Helen stepped through the double doors onto the landing. Voices sounded from the entrance hall. She peeped over the banister at one side of the broad, red-carpeted stairs, at the top of which the guests at her ball would be received by Cousin Tarrant and her sister. She smiled with pleasurable anticipation of the occasion.

  Who had called so close to the hour at which they would dine? Ah! Captain Dalrymple. She watched him remove his busby ornamented with a small scarlet bag, scarlet feather and gold braid. Uniform improved the appearance of any man. Yet, she decided, the captain would be as handsome in civilian clothes as he was dressed as an officer.

  Curious, she wondered what her suitor gave to Chivers. A message for Cousin Tarrant?

  After Dalrymple left the house, she hurried to her bedchamber where Pringle had laid out fresh undergarments, together with a white silk gown with a satin ribbon around the high-waistline. About to disrobe, Helen raised her eyebrows at the sound of a knock.

  Pringle opened the door. She spoke a few words then turned around, and held out a bouquet of spring flowers and greenery. “With Captain Dalrymple’s compliments, Miss.”

  “Thank you, Pringle.”

  Helen sniffed the fragrance of narcissi and hyacinths which filled the room. “How beautiful.”

  Her dresser handed her a sealed missive.

  Helen broke the sealing wax wafer, and opened the sheet of paper.

  Flowers for the most elegant flower of all, a matchless lily. I look forward to seeing you this evening at the soiree,

  Your servant,

  Dalrymple

  Helen giggled, for she had never compared herself to a flower. She smiled, touched by her beau’s compliment. In silence, she prepared to dine.

  When would Cousin Tarrant return? Had her guardian given permission for Captain Dalrymple to do her the honour of asking her to be his wife? If so, what reason did she have to decline his proposal? She knew of two ladies, of some thirty years of age, who were now ‘on the shelf’. Did they regret refusing offers of marriage from pleasant, respectable gentlemen?

  An ivory fan dangled from a cord around her wrist, as she made her way to the parlour, in time to join her sister before Chivers announced, “Dinner is served.”

  “You are unusually quiet,” Georgianne said when they were seated at the table.

  “Oh, my mind is busy with plans for the ball.”

  “Dearest, I don’t think it is why you are so quiet.”

  Helen sighed. Georgianne knew her too well. Her thoughts drifted to the soiree. Whom would she meet there besides the captain? Langley?

  Chapter Sixteen

  5th April, 1815

  The company retired to the supper room during the interval between recitations of poetry, performances on the harp, flute and pianoforte, and renditions of favourite songs.

  Miss Tomlinson sidled up to Helen and her escort, Captain Dalrymple. “I must speak to you,” she whispered, her mouth close to Helen’s ear. Shall we sit at the table in the corner?” She grasped Helen’s arm. “Grandmere will scold me for slipping away from her but I don’t care.”

  Helen feared her arm would be bruised. “Maria, please let go of me.” Sure that—due to the sound of many voices—her beau, Captain Dalrymple, could not have overheard Maria’s whisper, she turned her head toward him. “Please, would you escort us to the table near those Roman marble busts decorated with gilt wreaths of laurel leaves?
<
br />   “A pleasure; I am always at your service.” His self-depreciating smile made him appear younger than his years. “I would be embarrassed if someone put a laurel wreath on my head after a battle.” His cheeks reddened. “Oh, I beg you not to misunderstand me. I did not mean to imply I could be a hero. I shall say no more for fear of seeming vain.”

  Helen smiled at him with genuine admiration. “Every soldier who fought in the Peninsular is a hero who deserves to be honoured.”

  He gazed into her eyes, a warm expression in his own. “You are kind.”

  Helen sat at the round table opposite Maria while Dalrymple fetched refreshments. “What is urgent enough to risk your grandmother’s displeasure?”

  Maria clasped her hands to her breast. “Father has arrived in Brussels. If Mister Midhurst publishes those foolish letters I wrote to him, Father will be outraged.” Her cheeks flamed scarlet. “He…he might believe I allowed Mister Midhurst to rob me of my virtue. As for Grandmere, I cannot bear to imagine what she would say.”

  “We must hope Langley retrieves the letters and ensures Mister Midhurst receives the thrashing he deserves.”

  Maria’s shoulders shook. “And if he does not? If Father finds out, what shall I do?”

  “Calm yourself; you will attract unwelcome attention.” Helen glanced around and saw the Comptesse approaching like an unwelcome brisk breeze. “Shush, your grandmother and my sister are coming toward us.”

  “Ah, zere you are, Maria,” the Comptesse said, her displeasure revealed by the hard glint in her dark eyes.

  “I am sorry, Grandmere, I lost sight of you in the crush, so Miss Whitley suggested I join her while she waited for her sister,” Maria gabbled.

  The Comptesse frowned. “Come, we shall join Monsieur le Baron de Montpellier.”

  Maria stood. “It would be improper for me to leave you, Miss Whitley,” the Comptesse continued. “Young ladies should always be chaperoned.”

  “I am; my sister is only a few feet away engaged in conversation with Miss Omerod.” In an effort to mollify the old lady, she added. “Now there is a lady who is mistress of the minuet, and dear Maria is an accomplished harpist.”

  Madame’s eyes softened. “Yes, my granddaughter plays well enough.” She sighed. “Oh, you should have seen my queen, poor, poor, Marie Antoinette, perform ze minuet; she was incomparable. Ah, zere you are Mrs Tarrant. Only a moment ago I remarked zat young ladies must be chaperoned at all times.”

  “Just so,” Georgianne murmured politely. “Madame, will you join us?”

  Before the lady could reply, Captain Dalrymple arrived, carrying a tray loaded with glasses of white wine, tiny sandwiches, little patties and other delicacies.

  Madame glared at the food instead of replying to Georgianne. “Maria, I hope zat if I ’ad not found you in zis crush of people, you would not have been tempted to abandon your reducing diet.”

  A brief, awkward silence ensued during which Helen sympathised with Maria, who stared mournfully at the delicious selections.

  “No, Grandmere.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Come, child, it is rude to keep the Baron waiting. Good evening Mrs Tarrant, Miss Whitley, Captain Dalrymple.”

  The captain watched Madame retreat. “If Napoleon’s troops were of her calibre, we might have been defeated in the Peninsular.”

  Georgianne sat at the small table, “Oh, you forget the Comptesse is a Royalist. She would have fought on our side.”

  Dalrymple’s boyish laugh rang out. “True, ma’am.”

  Helen craned her neck in an attempt to see Langley’s tall figure in the throng. She wanted to inform him of Mister Tomlinson’s arrival in Brussels and Maria’s fear that Mister Midhurst would publish those letters.

  * * * *

  5th April, 1815

  Yearning for a taste of the succulent fish, Maria looked at her serving of salad leaves dressed with lemon juice. She sighed, well aware of Grandmere’s impotent fury when her son-in-law joined them at luncheon in the commodious house he had rented for their stay in Brussels.

  “Well, Countess.” He poked his portion of trout—dressed in a cream sauce—with his fork; for he preferred plain food. “What of Viscount Langley? Has he shown a marked interest in Maria?”

  Grandmere’s lips thinned.

  “Comptesse, Father, not countess,” Maria murmured.

  As usual, her grandmother did not speak to him unless she was forced to. Grandmere shook her head.

  Maria sighed before she spoke to her parent. “It would be best for you to accept that Viscount Langley does not wish to marry me.”

  “The fool! I can afford to set Longwood Place to rights. What reason does he have to reject a beautiful, well-educated prospective bride?”

  Although she loved him dearly, she was not blind to his imperfections, but it seemed he did not notice hers. Maria sighed, well-aware that she did need to reduce her weight, and with reluctance, admitted she should be grateful to Grandmere.

  If Mister Midhurst published her letters, it would break Father’s heart. Whatever the cost, it must never happen. No longer hungry, she stared down at her plate.

  Maria decided to write to Viscount Langley asking him to meet her in Parc Royale. She hoped he would keep the appointment. However, The Duke of Wellington had arrived in the early hours of the morning, so General Makelyn might not be able to spare the viscount. Maria shrugged. What did she care for army matters provided they did not prevent Lord Langley from refusing to meet her? If it was unpatriotic, so be it, for she could only think of her own predicament.

  Mister Tomlinson thumped the table with his fist. “Maria, you’ve become a little too skinny. No wonder, if you are kept on short commons. There’s not enough on your plate to keep a minnow alive. Have you lost your appetite?” He beckoned to the footman. “Serve my daughter with some trout.”

  Her grandmother shrugged with long-practiced daintiness.

  “Grandmere fears no gentleman will court me if I don’t adhere to a reducing diet,” Maria explained.

  Mister Tomlinson scowled. “She is wrong. Your fortune guarantees they will.”

  Maria bowed her head. She wanted to be married for more than that.

  With a tiny portion of trout on his fork, Mister Tomlinson looked balefully at Grandmere. “Your grandmother is mistaken. Most noblemen are in debt due to the insanity of the gaming tables. They wager on foolishness, such as which raindrop will reach the bottom of the window first. At the races, they place an outrageous sum on a horse they think is certain to win, or they bet on—” he broke off for a second. “No, it is unfit for your ears.”

  If only Grandmere would say something. Instead, straight-backed, shoulders squared, she took a sip of wine while regarding her son-in-law contemptuously.

  “Surely you don’t want me to marry a gentleman who would gamble away my fortune?”

  “Can’t say I do, but there’s ways to make sure your fortune’s safe and see you mistress of a fine estate.”

  “You could buy me one instead.”

  “How would that establish you in the ton?” He scowled. “No, no, I want the best for you, my girl.”

  Unknown to him, the man she now loved was not that scoundrel, Midhurst, but the son of another manufacturer. A man who would never blackmail her or treat her badly. Although his family’s fortune from iron works and foundries was substantial, Maria knew her stubborn parent would not consider him a suitable son-in-law. Yet, more than anything else in the world she wanted to marry her beau, who shared her exceptional interest in gardening and music. But, if she summoned the courage to explain that she had given her heart to a worthy man, who cared nothing for the ton, what would her father say? Undoubtedly he would be furious. But why was he so determined for her to marry an aristocrat? Was it because he did not want her to be looked down on by the beau monde as her mother had been after she married—as the saying went—beneath her?

  Mister Tomlinson pushed his plate aside. “Considering how much I pay your c
hef, madam, I would have expected him to provide better than this.”

  Grandmere looked at him with a distinct hint of implacable frost. She stood. “I can eat no more.” Her tone made it clear her son-in-law’s presence at the table had caused her sudden loss of appetite. “Come, Maria, we shall call on Monsieur le Baron de Loches.”

  Glad to escape from the clearly drawn battle lines, Maria dabbed her mouth with her napkin and then stood.

  Mister Tomlinson frowned. “I don’t want to see you wed to some damned Belgian, or even worse, a French royalist.”

  “No danger of that.” She kissed the top of his head. “I love you.”

  His eyes softened. “Enough sentimentality, my girl.”

  His brusque words did not deceive her. Whether she were overweight or not, she knew he would always love her.

  Maria gazed at the curd tarts topped with whipped cream and slivered almonds. Could she hide one from her grandmother in the folds of her gown? Her mouth watered. One day, she would faint from hunger if Grandmere did not increase her diet of boiled or raw vegetables, and salt meat—which was believed to encourage weight loss through perspiration.

  Grandmere paused in the doorway. “Hurry up, Maria.” She deigned to offer Father the smallest possible courtesy by nodding her head.

  She followed her grandmother, abandoning all idea of eating a tart in the privacy of her bedchamber.

  * * * *

  9th April, 1815

  When the news of Wellington’s arrival spread through Brussels, the British were optimistic. Whatever Napoleon’s plans were, Old Hooky—the soldiers’ nick-name for the Duke due to his prominent Roman nose—would defeat them, and the veterans of the Peninsular were jubilant.

  Within days of the great man’s arrival, Langley and Helen’s cousin commented on Wellington’s need for more experienced veterans. As the great man had said, on more than one occasion, no one could have more regret over the lack of those seasoned officers who had served in the Peninsular, and were now either deployed in America, or had sold out of the army.