Helen supposed Langley and Cousin Tarrant would be too busy to attend balls, the theatre and other enjoyable events, but they were not. Wellington expected his officers to acquit themselves well in society.
Captain Dalrymple managed to escape the demands on his time to join Helen while she rode in the Allee Vert early on the morning of the 9th of April.
“Good day, Miss Whitley. I have something particular to say to you.” He dismounted. “Would you stroll with me for a while?”
“Yes, Captain.” Apprehensive, she allowed him to help her out of the saddle.
Helen walked by his side, appreciating the fresh, early morning air and the greenery on either side of a broad path. Mindful of the proprieties, she did not allow him to guide her out of her groom’s sight.
At first, he seemed somewhat hesitant to speak, but after several minutes, he began. “Miss Whitley, I am kept so busy by Major Makelyn, perhaps this is not the best time to broach the subject of another possible engagement.” He ran a finger between his neck and his stiffly starched shirt collar, as though it suddenly had become too tight. “I hardly dare ask if Major Tarrant received the letter which your guardian referred to when he wrote to me.”
Helen stared down at the path riddled with tree roots. “Not yet; he is away from home.”
“Miss Whitley, if the major had read it, I daresay he would have told you that provided my parents have no objection to our marriage, he gives us his blessings.”
Helen peeped up at him, glad that unlike so many gentlemen, he was taller than she, yet still unsure whether or not she would accept his proposal.
The captain’s smile seemed to light up his face. “I have mentioned you several times in my correspondence with my parents, so I believe Papa will write to assure your guardian that he approves.”
With the tip of her toe, Helen traced a pattern on the ground between two exposed roots which resembled hands reaching out to grab her.
“I have not forgotten you told me you have a tendresse for another gentleman,” the captain continued, his voice gentle. “By now, if he reciprocated, I think you would be betrothed to him. So please be frank. Tell me if you could ever care for me?”
“It would be improper for me to say more than that I like you.” She looked down again. Never had she imagined she would employ the proprieties like some milk and water miss.
The captain’s boyish laughter rang out before he spoke. “Despite my best efforts, I could not compose an ode to you which fully expressed my admiration. To be honest, I have few talents, but I am full of praise for yours.”
She permitted Dalrymple to tuck her hand into the crook of his arm. At ease with her ardent beau, she allowed him to lead her forward.
“You are a talented artist.” He looked at her with honest pleasure. “If you become my wife, I shall encourage you to continue painting. If you wish, maybe your finest work could be displayed anonymously by the Royal Academy.”
She glowed at the suggestion of some of her paintings being viewed amongst those displayed from floor to ceiling at the exhibition.
The captain smiled. “I shall make enquiries when the business with Napoleon is finished.”
Her eyes widened as she remembered Mister Barnet’s opinion. If he and Dalrymple considered her talented, maybe, just maybe, she was. Helen warmed even more to her suitor.
“How good of you, sir.”
Dalrymple patted her gloved hand. “Nothing is too good for you, Miss Whitley.”
She did not deserve such a commendable beau? Her hand trembled due to the dangers the captain and so many other fine young men, including Langley and Tarrant, faced with insouciance. Intrepid officers, who took their duties seriously, rode magnificently on and off the battlefield, were efficient, and as Wellington demanded, accomplished in society.
Helen turned her head to look at him full in the face. He swung round to stand before her, his head inclined. A flutter in her chest! Would he kiss her? They were only inches apart. Her groom cleared his throat loudly.
“Time to go home to have breakfast,” Helen remarked with reluctance. “The morning air has given me a sharp appetite. I expect it has whetted yours.”
“You could say so,” Dalrymple replied, as if he were thinking of something other than breakfast.
* * * *
Langley turned Miss Tomlinson’s letter around. Why did she want him to meet her in Parc Royale so early in the morning, at a time when he would prefer to ride in the Allee Vert where he might encounter Helen? Well, even if it meant he would not have time to breakfast, he must be quick before finding out if he had new orders.
Accompanied by a trooper, who would look after his horse while he rendezvoused with the lady, he rode to the wrought iron gates. After he dismounted—trained to observe every detail—he scanned his surroundings while he strode along the path. Near the pavilion, he did not know if he imagined a movement by an oak tree, where sunlight kissed bluebells at its base. An errant breeze wafted their fragrant perfume, one very different to smoke-laden air on battlefields. The sight of Miss Tomlinson, seated on a bench near the pavilion, diverted his sudden thought of war. She appeared to have seen him. Langley whistled low. She must have dieted to reduce her weight.
Beneath the grey sky which threatened an April shower, Langley walked toward the manufacturer’s daughter. His sixth sense, sharpened on missions to gather information about the French during his years in the Iberian Peninsula, gave him the impression he, the spy, was being spied upon. Alert, he looked around, but saw no one.
He reached the table by which Miss Tomlinson stood. In spite of his annoyance at her request for this meeting, he noticed how well her cornflower blue pelisse, and pearl-grey hat, trimmed with artificial forget-me-nots, suited her. Perhaps most gentlemen did not observe ladies’ ensembles in such detail. However, no brother growing up with a bevy of sisters and female cousins could be oblivious to the fair sex’s turnouts. Langley chided himself for being remiss. He bowed. “Good day to you, Miss Tomlinson.”
She curtsied and spoke simultaneously. “Good day, Major. You must think it is scandalous of me to have asked you to join me here, nonetheless, my letters must be retrieved before my father finds out about them.” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
“My dear Miss Tomlinson, I have every sympathy for your predicament and am pledged to do all I can to help you,” he said in spite of his embarrassment at her tears in a public place.
“Oh, you are so kind.” She removed her hands from her face. Her beautiful eyes glistened with tears. “I don’t know who else to turn to.”
“There, there,” he said, as soothingly as he had spoken to his sisters when they were still in the nursery and full of childish woes. He patted her on the back. “Please stop crying. Tears will accomplish nothing.”
She wrapped her arms around him.
“Miss Tomlinson!” He tried to disengage himself but she clung to him as though she had tentacles.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded an outraged voice.
Chapter Seventeen
7th April, 1815
Miss Tomlinson swung around as though a swarm of bees had stung her. “Father!” She tottered.
Forced to support her, Langley tried to decide whether he or Miss Tomlinson were more shocked upon being discovered in the lady’s embrace.
“Yes, you may say ‘Father’.” Mister Tomlinson’s harsh tone made the words sound like a curse. “I’m not a so-called fine gentleman who lies in bed until the morning is half-gone. I saw you sneak out of your grandmother’s house, so I followed you. I’m shocked. I trusted that French woman to take care of you. She failed me, but you, should know better. His chin thrust forward, he glared at her. “I should disown you.”
Disentangled from Miss Tomlinson’s clutches, Langley squared his shoulders.
The young lady sat and sobbed into her handkerchief. The manufacturer glared at him, his face as red as a cockerel’s wattle.
Langley�
��s mind filled with the hideous memory of that manipulative heiress, Amelia Carstairs. Words could not describe his relief when she had realised they did not suit each other, and she had released him from their betrothal. He forced himself not to scowl at the furious man standing before him, the effect of his impeccable blue coat, cream waistcoat and biscuit coloured pantaloons, spoiled by a pin, thrust into his cravat, with a diamond head so large it was vulgar.
The hard glint in Tomlinson’s eyes softened. “Well, well, my lord, I can’t say I approve of such doings in a public place. And you, Maria, whatever your grandmother may think, you’ve been gently brought up. You should know better.”
All his senses alert, Langley regarded the top of Miss Tomlinson’s hat. Her sobs grew louder, as the manufacturer continued. “There, there, my girl, it’s all I have dreamt of. What more could you ask for, than for you to be married to a peer of the realm, and become mistress of a country estate and a grand house in London?” He scrutinised the viscount. “My lord, I felt sure you had enough sense to make a match of it with my daughter. Now she’s to be mistress of Longwood Place, I’ll be generous.”
Good lord, the man’s desire for his daughter to have a great estate has obsessed him. Langley resisted the temptation to give him a set down. “You are mistaken, sir.”
Mister Tomlinson’s eyes narrowed. His daughter stood, her handkerchief, as sullied as trodden snow, fell to the ground.
Head held high, her eyes reddened by tears, she glared at her father. “You are determined for me to have a place in the ton. Neither you nor Grandmere ask what I want. Well, I’ll tell you. I’ve no desire to wed either the viscount or any other snobbish member of the ton assumed to be a gentleman; one who would accept my fortune and look down on me because I am a manufacturer’s daughter.”
Much chastened by the young lady’s words, and with the hope that she did not regard him as ‘a so called gentleman’, Langley waited with interest to hear what she would say next.
“What is more, both of you, I don’t want to attend ball after ball, or soiree after soiree, where Grandmere expects me to play the harp and—”
“You ungrateful chit!” Mister Tomlinson’s cheeks suffused with an unhealthy looking flush. “Haven’t I surrounded you in luxury and given you the best education money can buy?”
Maria sank onto a chair. “Money, money, money! Do you never think of anything other than what it can purchase, which includes—if you have your way—a husband for me? All your wealth can’t buy the happiness which you and Mamma knew.”
Langley noticed a man, whom he presumed was the owner of the pavilion, unlock its door and then look at them curiously. Embarrassed by the attention the furious parent and his indignant daughter had attracted, Langley touched his busby with the tips of his fingers. “Miss Tomlinson, if you should require my assistance in future, I remain at your service. Good day.” Tempted to tell her never to ask for another assignation, he resisted. It would be ungentlemanly to let her father know they met at her request. He nodded at the manufacturer. “Mister Tomlinson.”
Langley failed to prevent the incensed manufacturer from grabbing hold of the sleeve of his pelisse. “Not so fast, my lord. I demand an explanation of why I saw my gently-reared daughter in your arms.”
A man clattered open the shutters of the pavilion.
“Release me,” Langley commanded, acutely conscious of a small, interested audience, which had begun to gather near the pavilion. “If you want to know why your daughter needed to be comforted by an embrace that I did not instigate, I suggest you ask her.”
His expression impassive, he noted the horror in the lady’s large eyes. He did not need her to remind him of how much she feared her father would discover her indiscretion. Even more, he knew she feared the blackmailer would publish her foolish letters. Langley castigated himself. He should not have spoken in anger. Had he learned nothing from years during which he spied during the campaign in the Iberian Peninsula, when a careless action or word could have cost him his life?
Tomlinson stamped his expensively shod foot, stirring up dust, which would probably precede another verbal storm. “Why should Maria need to be comforted when she has everything to make her happy?” He let go of the pelisse.
Langley smoothed the sable fur that edged the short garment. “Mister Tomlinson, I suggest you sit with your daughter at a table, order coffee or hot chocolate, and have a private conversation.”
This time, Miss Tomlinson clutched his sleeve. “Please don’t leave, my lord.”
Judging by the alarm in her hazel eyes, she might as well have asked him not to abandon her in the proverbial lion’s den. He lowered his head slightly to speak too quietly for her father to overhear. “Under most circumstances, it is best to tell the truth.”
“What’s that, my lord, what did you say to my girl?”
Langley struggled not to reveal his dislike of Maria Tomlinson’s parent. He did not understand his attempt to force her into an unwelcome alliance. Damn it all. Arranged marriages were not as fashionable as they had been when his parents were young. Today, most ladies and gentlemen anticipated a happy marriage. Some even believed they should marry for love. Yet, he should not condemn Tomlinson. His own father had tried to make him wed without the least regard for his wishes.
“Will you not be seated, Miss Tomlinson?” he asked, aware that she shivered, and not only because the sun had retreated behind a bank of grey clouds.
Miss Tomlinson seated herself.
“Well, my lord?” the manufacturer sat opposite his daughter. “I’m still waiting for you to tell me what you said to my girl.”
“Messieurs, Madame. May I have your order?” a boy asked.
The Tomlinsons ignored him so Langley ordered a pot of coffee.
“Father.” The unfortunate girl did not look at her angry parent. “I am unhappy. Please take me back to England.”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand you, Maria. You have more than most young ladies ever dream of. Whether you like it or not, I’ve the right to demand an explanation. You can’t be too careful of your reputation. If you ruin your good name, no decent man—let alone a peer of the realm—will wed you. If the gossips spread the word that you and Viscount Langley embraced in the park, I’ll insist the pair of you make a match.”
Langley sat between the Tomlinsons. The boy returned to ask if they wished to order croissants. “Yes,” Langley replied to be rid of the youngster. He scrutinised the manufacturer. “Mister Tomlinson, please believe me when I say I have not ruined your daughter’s reputation. No one will gossip about us, but if they did, I would do my best to ensure your daughter’s name remained unsullied.” There, he had given Miss Tomlinson an opportunity to confess to her father.
“Father, you have always been the kindest parent imaginable. Can’t you understand I am miserable living with grandmere?”
“Yes, for she’s a disagreeable woman.” Like a piece of crumpled paper, Mr Tomlinson’s face creased in a multitude of fine lines, making him appear older than his fifty or more years. “All I’ve ever wanted is the best for you. Moreover, I’m sure your mother would have wanted you to marry a born gentleman.”
“Why do you want me to? You are not a member of the ton. But Mamma married you although she knew her equals would condemn her for doing so.”
“It is why I want you to make a splendid match. I want you to have the position which would have been your ma’s had she not married me.”
“But—”
“No more, Maria,” Mister Tomlinson interrupted. He glared. “My lord, I’ll see what your commanding officer has to say when I tell him you refuse to marry my girl.”
Langley tensed. “Don’t attempt to blackmail me.”
At the word blackmail, even the plume on Miss Tomlinson’s hat quivered.
They remained silent while the boy placed their order on the table.
“Coffee, Father?”
Mr Tomlinson nodded, his face still an unnatural
shade of red.
Langley pitied the young woman, whose hands trembled too much for her to pour the drink. Yet, how dare the ill-mannered man threaten him? “Mister Tomlinson, you may say whatever you wish to my commanding officer, General Makelyn. I think you will find out that he is too preoccupied to have time to consider my conduct toward your daughter.” His sense of humour almost caused him to chuckle, as he imagined the haughty reception Tomlinson would receive from Makelyn, whose demeanour varied from affability to being extremely high in the instep.
The manufacturer’s eyes narrowed. “Makelyn, eh, I’ll see what he has to say. For now, all I can think is that your father must regret the day your mother gave birth to so disobedient a son.”
Langley ignored the insult. “You must excuse me, Miss Tomlinson, Mister Tomlinson. Duty beckons.” While he marched away, he castigated himself for having agreed to rendezvous with Miss Tomlinson.
* * * *
Maria spilled some coffee onto the table before her hands stilled enough for her to fill a cup for her father, who glowered as he watched Langley march out of sight.
Father was much angrier with her than he had ever been before. If only she dared to confide in him. Tears welled up in her eyes. Nauseous at the prospect of his outraged reaction if she mentioned those foolish letters, she quailed. His suspicious mind would refuse to accept she was only guilty of folly. He would suspect she allowed Midhurst to take liberties with her person. To father, black was black, and white was white. To him, grey did not exist. Without doubt, he would not believe she was not guilty of impropriety. He would never pardon her. His interpretation of Christianity was an unforgiving one.
Her head ached. What a wretched situation. She should be able to confide in the father who loved her more than anyone or anything else in the world. Thank God for Miss Whitley and Lord Langley’s tolerance. They neither ranted nor raved, as Father would if he knew about the sorry business with Mister Midhurst. The sun emerged from behind the bank of clouds and cast a ray of brilliant light over the wooden table. No matter how shocking, she could only do one thing regardless of the consequences.
Monday's Child (Heroines born on each day of the week. Book 2) Page 16
