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

by Rosemary Morris

  Father looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup. “Maria, I don’t have the words to explain how disappointed I am.”

  “I know, but you don’t need to repeat yourself.” Sorry for him because she could neither fulfil his ambition nor accept his rigid beliefs, she reached out to clasp his hand.

  He scowled and tugged his hand away. “I know what’s fitting for you, my girl. It is improper for you to be in any gentleman’s arms in public, or private, before you’re married. Until I wed your mother, I respected her too much to take advantage of her innocence by so much as a kiss. It’s wrong of the viscount to take advantage of you.”

  “There is nothing I can say,” Maria thought, “for he will deliberately misunderstand me unless I tell him the odious Mister Midhurst is blackmailing me. If only Father had remarried, he would not be a lonely, well-meaning man, who showers me with love, and places the burden of his expectations upon me.” Maria shut her eyes. She would welcome a kind step-mother; one she could turn to for advice.

  “Look at me, Maria.”

  Apprehensive, she glanced across the small table for a few moments.

  “If you ever shame me again with wanton conduct, I’ll disinherit you and disown you.”

  Now, she knew she could never tell him about Mister Midhurst. Maria sighed.

  “I mean it.” He shook his clenched fist at her. “I would cast you out of my house with only the clothes on your back.”

  Maria gasped. Would he really do so? Could he be so hard-hearted? She covered her face with her hands. Suppose he meant it. How would he react if those letters were published? With extreme care, she put down her cup. From somewhere deep within, she summoned previously unsuspected strength. “I love you, so I would never deliberately do anything to make you ashamed of me. You misjudged what you witnessed. For once and for all, please understand, the viscount and I are not romantically attached. I flung myself into his arms because I am miserable.”

  She knew what she must do in order to be happy. So be it if Father cut her off without a penny.

  Chapter Eighteen

  20th April, 1815

  Helen broke the wax seal on a letter from England written in an unfamiliar hand. Before she could read it, two of the gentlemen who had danced with her on the previous evening, arrived to pay their respects.

  Seated with Georgianne in the spacious salon, Helen forced herself to ignore the letter while she conversed with Lord Omerod’s younger son and Captain, Lord Avery, both of them well-turned out in rifleman’s green. They bowed after the fifteen minutes customary for morning calls.

  “Must forgive me, ladies, if I am too engaged to call on you in the near future,” Lord Avery said.

  Helen shuddered, unable to imagine these fresh-faced young men, who were untried on the battlefield, marching with great enthusiasm to confront the Corsican monster’s army. “You are forgiven. I look forward to dancing with both of you again when time permits.” She forced herself to speak cheerfully in spite of her dry mouth. Not for a moment did she believe war might be averted.

  After they left the salon, Chivers entered. He held out a silver salver to Helen on which there were a number of cards and a letter. Most of the officers she danced with at the ball were too busy to pay morning calls so, in accordance with protocol, they sent their cards. Not to do so would have been considered a breach of courtesy. Helen fingered them. Society’s unwritten rules seemed trivial while the Duke made preparations for confrontation with his opponent on the battlefield.

  She laid the cards aside and opened the letter.

  “Who is it from?” Georgianne asked.

  “A moment, if you please, while I decipher the signature.”

  She scanned the closely written lines. Hesitant, she looked up. “It is from Captain Dalrymple’s mother. How nice she is. Mrs Dalrymple writes that because her son wants to marry me, she is sure she will love me. She also assures me that she looks forward to welcoming me into her family. Oh, it seems she takes it for granted that I will wed the captain.”

  Somewhat flustered, Helen looked at Georgianne, who put down her sewing, a tiny white muslin gown. She turned her attention back to the letter. “Mrs Dalrymple has also written to her son.” She sighed. “At the moment, he is not in Brussels.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “When he returns, do you think he will propose?”

  “Yes, dearest.”

  “He is not my only suitor,” Helen murmured. She still wished Langley would court her. Somehow or other she could not imagine marrying anyone else, yet she needed to be a wife instead of an unmarried girl dependent on relatives.

  Georgianne smoothed the little garment over her knee.

  Helen’s habitual calm deserted her. She stood, heedless of the letter which fell to the floor. Agitated, she stalked around the room. “What should I do?”

  “There can be no objection to Captain Dalrymple who, it seems, loves you.”

  “Yes, I think he does.” Helen flung herself down onto the chaise longue so hard the gilt legs creaked.

  Georgianne threaded a needle. “Did Mrs Dalrymple mention her husband in the letter?”

  Helen picked up the letter and perused it. “Yes, she writes that he is looking forward to meeting me. She also explains my marriage settlement is generous. Oh dear, what has Captain Dalrymple told them? They really do assume we shall marry.”

  “Is there any reason why you should not?”

  “Yes. I don’t love him.”

  “Believe me,” Georgianne said, her eyes soft, “it is possible to learn to love a husband after marriage.”

  “Even if one loves someone else?”

  Georgianne cut the thread with scissors. “I am sure widows learn to love again. If they can, so can you.”

  The word ‘widows’ seemed to hang in the still air. Georgianne must be afraid Cousin Tarrant would not survive. Helen decided it would be tactless to acknowledge her sister’s fear. She stood. “Thank you for your good advice.”

  “Where are you going, dearest?”

  “I don’t think any more visitors will call this morning, so I shall see how the work for the ball is progressing. Everything needs to be ready in good time.”

  * * * *

  Accompanied by Pringle, Helen descended the stairs to the basement where artists were busy painting the backdrop, wooden shapes of elephants, tigers, peacocks and Krishna, the blue boy.

  She paused to watch the artists add jewel bright colour to the elephant’s painted howdahs and smiled. The effect in the ballroom would be impressive.

  Careless of her pretty sprigged muslin gown, Helen ignored Pringle’s remonstrance as she picked up a paint pot and brush, approached one of the elephants and began to edge with gold the tear-shaped decoration which extended from the forehead to the top of the trunk. Soothed by the work, she allowed Pringle to help her into an apron. The paint glinted in the light of many candles. Only a few more brush strokes before this elephant would be finished. She stepped back to view it. Magnificent. She hoped the guests at the ball would be swept into the mysterious world of India.

  A footman stepped into the cellar. “Nuncheon is served,” he announced.

  Helen passed the brush to one of the artists. “Please clean this.” She turned to allow Pringle to untie the apron strings. Conscious of hunger, she hurried to the small dining room to sit opposite Georgianne.

  A footman entered the room and spoke to Chivers. “I beg your pardon, Madam,” the butler began, “Miss Tomlinson begs for a word with Miss Whitley.”

  “You may ask her to join us,” Georgianne replied.

  Chivers inclined his head. “Please forgive my presumption, madam, but I think I should tell you that the young lady is agitated.”

  When Maria joined them, a casual admirer might have praised her beautifully cut, pale yellow pelisse, worn over a crisp white cambric gown, and her straw hat ornamented with artificial primroses. However, all too aware of the wild expression in Maria’s reddened eyes, Helen knew she w
as distraught.

  “Mrs Tarrant, Miss Whitley, I apologise for my intrusion. It is good of you to receive me. Indeed, I am sorry to disturb you but I must speak to Miss Whitley.”

  “You are welcome, Miss Tomlinson,” Georgianne gestured toward the table. “Please be seated. Some wine? A sandwich, or bread and cheese and some of Cook’s excellent pickled vegetables?”

  Maria sat next to Helen at the circular table. “A glass of wine, if it is not too much trouble.”

  “Are you well?” Georgianne asked. “Your cheeks are flushed. I hope you are not feverish.”

  Her guest fidgeted on the chair. “Yes, yes, quite well, thank you.”

  Helen picked up the plate of ham sandwiches. She held it out toward the young woman. “Some food might bring the colour back into your cheeks. Do have one.”

  “Thank you.” Maria’s eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  Helen looked at her with sympathy. “Something has upset you,”

  Maria nodded.

  “There is nothing you cannot say to either of us. We are not gossips.” Helen sighed, weary of the burden of the young woman’s secrets.

  Words tumbled from Maria. Helen stiffened when she described embracing Langley.

  “All I want,” the overwrought manufacturer’s daughter ended, “is to return to England. Even if Mister Midhurst publishes those wretched letters, there is someone who will understand I am only guilty of naivety.”

  Georgianne nodded. “Good.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Tarrant.”

  A small crease appeared between Georgianne’s eyebrows. “I hope Langley will retrieve them. If he does not, I advise you not to be foolish.”

  Maria looked down at her sandwich. “I assure you I shall be neither unwise nor imprudent.”

  The bright colour in Maria’s cheeks subsided. She seemed less agitated.

  Maria stood. “Mrs Tarrant, thank you for listening to my sorry tale. Miss Whitley, thank you for all your help.” She bobbed a curtsey to Georgianne. “I must go.”

  “Well!” Georgianne exclaimed, after Maria left the dining room, “who could have guessed she would be embroiled in such a horrid tangle, one into which she has dragged you?”

  Helen shook her head. “I could neither ignore her, when I found her in tears in the ladies withdrawing room, nor refuse to help her after she confided in me.”

  Georgianne chuckled. “Poor Langley, for the second time, he has been discovered with a young lady in his arms, by an outraged relative who expects him to propose marriage.”

  “You are heartless,” Helen teased, and then every trace of amusement left her. Langley’s father, the profligate earl, and Mister Tomlinson, the brash manufacturer, would be delighted if Maria married Langley.

  * * * *

  Helen reclined on a chaise longue in her small parlour, decorated in shades of pearl-grey paint and lilac wallpaper enhanced with small, gold-embossed lilies. She gazed at the wall on which hung some of her sketches, which included one of Captain Dalrymple and another of Langley. Two handsome men, the former with the bloom of youth revealed on his rounded cheeks, the other a lean, battle-hardened officer ten years her senior.

  Eyes closed, she visualised Langley, who exuded…what? Ladies were drawn to him, obviously appreciative of a gentleman who stood a head taller than most men, spoke confidently, and walked with natural grace. Helen ruffled the lilac-coloured velvet which covered the chaise longue. She longed for the right to run her fingers through Langley’s blue-black hair.

  Helen scrutinised her sketch of Langley. Had she flattered him? No, she had captured his sculpted cheekbones, square jawline and well-formed mouth. What would his kisses be like? Why did she burn to find out? Why did he disturb her dreams and much of her days?

  Did Langley want to marry her? She believed he did. Sometimes, when off guard, he watched her like a famished man. She took deep breaths. If only his pride did not stand between them. She frowned. In spite of Mister Barnet’s explanation, if Langley loved her, surely nothing should prevent him from making her his wife. If only she could marry him, she would be prepared to suffer any vicissitudes. Yet perhaps her belief that he loved her was an illusion.

  Once again, she closed her eyes for fear she would cry. Tears would not help. Her attention turned to her sketch of Captain Dalrymple, a gentleman with hair as black as Langley’s, a face in which the cheekbones were not so sharply carved, and slightly fuller lips with dimples on either side of them. She could not imagine being kissed by the young captain. Yet she really did like him, appreciated his consideration, gentle nature and kindness. When he proposed marriage to her, what would she answer?

  Chapter Nineteen

  25th April, 1815

  Thunderous knocks sounded on the front door. Startled from sleep, Helen sat up. What was so urgent? Was Cousin Tarrant safe? She swung her legs over the side of the bed, and then made her way to the window to loop back the curtain.

  Yesterday evening’s harvest moon had yielded to the sun, but was still low on the horizon framed by dawn’s delicate colours. She turned. While her eyes adjusted to the change of light, she squinted at the clock on the mantelpiece. Six o’clock. Dear God in heaven, if bad news about Cousin Tarrant had arrived, what effect would it have on Georgianne and her unborn child? She hurried across the bedchamber to snatch up her dressing gown from the end of the bed. The sleeves would not fit over her nightclothes. Fingers made clumsy by anxiety, she untied the ribbons which fastened her night jacket and slipped off the garment. Impatient, she pulled on her silk dressing gown, twitched the lavish lace trimming into place and adjusted her frilled nightcap.

  Regardless of the impropriety of appearing downstairs in her night clothes, she hurried to the hall where her sister—also attired in her nightgown and dressing gown—Chivers and several tall, strong footmen had gathered. A series of more insistent knocks sounded.

  Chivers, who seemed unconscious that his knitted nightcap shaped like a jelly bag detracted from his usual dignity, nodded at a footman, who opened the door.

  Mister Tomlinson erupted into the hall like molten lava sweeping everything before it. Hatless, hair disordered, face red as fire, he glared at them. “Where is she? Where is my girl?”

  Georgianne squared her shoulders. “Your daughter? I have no knowledge of her whereabouts.”

  Mister Tomlinson continued to glare at Georgianne. “Since she visited this house, neither her grandmother nor I have seen Maria.”

  Although he stood no more than five feet six inches tall, the high heels of the burly manufacturer’s fashionable black leather shoes made him seem taller. He towered above Georgianne, who stepped back. “I repeat, we don’t know where your daughter is.”

  Mister Tomlinson raised his fist.

  Georgianne gasped, her hands cupping her stomach.

  “How dare you threaten my sister” Helen shouted.

  “Simon, Colin, seize him,” Chivers ordered two of the footmen.

  “No need for that.” The distraught father lowered his fist, a shocked expression on his face. “Hit your sister, Miss Whitley?” He scrutinised Georgianne, whose face had turned deadly pale. “No, lass, for as long as I’ve lived, I’ve never struck a female. What’s more, I’d never strike a pregnant one.”

  The ill-bred man’s blunt description of her sister’s condition horrified Helen. Polite society delicately referred to pregnancy as ‘increasing’ or by the biblical term, ‘with child’.

  Her sister swayed. Surely Georgianne’s sensibilities were not so fine that, in response to Mister Tomlinson’s crude announcement, she would faint for the second time in her life.

  Georgianne fingered the button at the throat of her nightgown. “H…how did you…” she began.

  “Know you’re expecting a baby?” Georgianne nodded. “My dear wife, may God rest her soul in peace, cupped her belly as you did when she expected Maria.” He pulled free from the footmen. “A chair for Mrs Tarrant,” he said to Chivers.

  The butler a
nd footmen seemed to be fixed to the spot by the unexpected news.

  A smile appeared on Chivers’ face. “An heir for the Tarrant family,” he breathed.

  “A chair, at once,” Helen ordered.

  “Some brandy for your mistress,” Mister Tomlinson added

  Georgianne shook her head. “No, I am quite well, thank you.” She glanced at the manufacturer. Follow me, we shall talk in private. There is something you should know.”

  “Never tell me my Maria is with Lord Langley.” The harsh lines of Mister Tomlinson’s face relaxed.

  “I doubt it.” Georgianne led him and Helen into an ante-room situated on one side of the hall.

  As composed as she would be if she wore a morning gown, Georgianne sat and gestured to Mister Tomlinson to do so.

  Chivers instructed a footman to open the shutters and draw the curtain aside to admit daylight, while Simon fetched a candle from the hall which he used to light the kindling in the grate.

  “You may go,” Georgianne instructed her servants.

  The door closed. “There is something you should know, Mister Tomlinson.” Georgianne began. “Although my sister and Lord Langley were bound to secrecy by your daughter, I am not. To be frank, his lordship has done his utmost to rescue Miss Tomlinson from a Mister Midhurst, who is blackmailing her.”

  Mister Tomlinson’s mouth gaped, while little by little Georgianne revealed the whole, sorry tale.

  “Blackmail! By God, if that snake’s harmed a hair on her head, I’ll kill him.”

  Georgianne frowned. “Mister Tomlinson, you should be mortified.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Your daughter feared you would not believe she was innocent of anything other than writing some ill-judged letters to Mister Midhurst.” Georgianne paused to take a deep breath, as though she doubted she could make Mister Tomlinson comprehend. “Oh, what can I say to convince you that if you love your daughter, she should have been able to divulge anything to you, confident you would safeguard her?”