Mister Tomlinson sank onto a chair, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped perspiration from his forehead. “Mrs Tarrant, I admit that if Maria had told me, I’d have been angry with her for writing indiscreet letters, but I’d not have doubted her virtue. Indeed, I would have protected her. If you tell me where my girl is, I’ll deal with Midhurst.”
“We don’t know where she is.” Helen separated each word as if she spoke to a person slow to understand even the simplest explanation.
“You befriended her, Miss Whitley. Surely you know where she might have gone?”
What could she say to make him believe neither she nor Georgianne were privy to the girl’s whereabouts? Helen opened her mouth to answer. Mister Tomlinson forestalled her by slapping his knee. “Of course, my Maria said she does not like Brussels and asked me to take her home. Although I refused, she must have returned to England.” His face creased. “Dear Lord, let her be safe.”
Before either of them could respond, the door opened. Cousin Tarrant and Langley stepped into the room, the folds of their scarlet-lined cloaks swirling elegantly around their ankles.
At the sight of Georgianne and Helen, sitting opposite Mister Tomlinson and garbed in their night attire, their eyes widened.
Langley’s gaze scorched Helen. Her cheeks so hot that she did not need to look in the mirror to know they were scarlet, Helen smoothed the ribbons of her nightcap.
“What is the meaning of this?” Cousin Tarrant demanded.
Mister Tomlinson, seemingly unaware of Cousin Tarrant’s outrage, stepped forward to seize his hand. He pumped it up and down. “Congratulations, Major.”
Tarrant pulled his gloved hand free from Mister Tomlinson. “For what?”
“Your wife’s pregnancy.”
The muscles around Cousin Tarrant’s mouth twitched. His grey eyes were ice-cold. “Georgie! Is it true? Are you increasing?”
Georgianne nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Without the slightest warning, Cousin Tarrant fainted.
Georgianne rushed across the room to kneel by her husband.
Mister Tomlinson’s uproarious laugh rang out. “Stap me, I’ve never before seen a man drop unconscious to the ground when told he would be a father.”
Helen looked at him with intense dislike. She tugged the bell rope. “Simon,” she commenced when the footman answered the summons, “ask Pringle to bring my sal volatile as fast as she can.”
Langley chuckled. “Who would have imagined my friend would be felled by such news?”
Georgianne’s anxious expression reproached him.
“Please accept my apology for laughing,” Langley said hastily, “and please accept my felicitations.” He stepped toward Mister Tomlinson. “I suggest you take your leave.”
“The letters? Have you got Maria’s letters to Mister Midhurst?”
Langley raised an eyebrow. “Miss Whitley, if you broke Miss Tomlinson’s confidence, an explanation is due.”
“When Maria confided in Georgianne, she did not swear her to secrecy, so my sister told her father she is being blackmailed.”
“Ah,” Langley breathed. “One would have supposed the lady could have told her father the truth. It would have saved me a lot of trouble. To answer his question, besides Miss Tomlinson’s letters, I have those of other unfortunates whom he blackmailed.” He brushed his gloved hands together as though he removed dirt.
“I know you are almost penniless, how much do you want for them?” Mister Tomlinson asked.
Langley’s hand shot out to throttle the man. At the last moment, he lowered it. “Mr Tomlinson! How dare you? Get out.”
“Nay, lad, I didn’t mean to insult you. I only intended to recompense you for the trouble you’ve been to on Maria’s account.”
“Out!” Langley exclaimed, his face a mask of fury.
Tomlinson stood. “Good day, Mrs Tarrant, Miss Whitley.” He ignored Langley.
Pringle hurried into the ante-room and gave a tiny flask to Georgianne, who sat with her inert husband’s head on her lap.
Georgianne removed the stopper. She wafted the flask beneath Cousin Tarrant’s nostrils. Within seconds, he opened his eyes.
Langley held out his arm. “Come, Miss Whitley, I am sure my friend and his wife have much to say to each other.”
She wanted to protest, to say she wanted to help Georgianne and Cousin Tarrant.
“Come,” Langley repeated, this time in an authoritative tone of voice.
With uncharacteristic meekness, Helen allowed him to guide her to the salon where she sat. Still frightened because Cousin Tarrant fainted without the least warning, she did not pause to consider her words. “I neither understand why my sister refused to tell Cousin Tarrant she is with child, nor why he fainted.”
“It is a long story which someone else should tell you.” Langley smiled down at her. “A glass of wine, I think, or perhaps brandy to calm you.” He opened a panel, papered to make it seem part of the wall, and selected a bottle from one of the concealed shelves. “Ah, cherry brandy for you, Miss Whitley. No, no, don’t protest, I promise it will restore you.”
She frowned. “Thank you, but I don’t need it.” Her eyes widened. “I want to know why Cousin Tarrant fainted.”
“Yes, I know, there is no need for repetition.” Langley closed her hand around the barley-twist stem of a glass.
The touch of his strong hand, with its long, slender fingers and well-shaped nails, sent quivers through her as she looked down; quivers almost as strong as those she experienced at the first sight of Langley when she considered him more handsome than the much admired Lord Byron. Now, when he removed his hand, she wanted to clutch it and ask him if he loved her.
“Drink up like a good little girl.”
Her hand shook. Although brandy spilled onto the expensive Brussels lace, which edged her sleeve, she paid no attention to the stain. “Don’t insult me! I am not a small child.”
* * * *
Langley eyed Helen from the tips of her slippers to the button at the throat of her nightgown. Although her nightclothes revealed far less of her than any of her fashionable gowns worn at balls, against his will, he imagined their marriage bed, in which he divested her of them and introduced her to the pleasures of the flesh. “I am well aware that you are not a small child. May I suggest you finish your brandy then attend to your déshabillé.
They stared into each other’s eyes until Langley shook his head and looked away.
“I must go, Miss Whitley.”
“Please stay for a moment, my lord. I want to know why Cousin Tarrant fainted,” she repeated.
“Yes, but it is not for me to tell you.”
For the second time that day loud knocks sounded.
“Have we not had enough to endure today without a visitor?” Helen asked.
“If I am not mistaken, either Mister Tomlinson has returned, or Miss Tomlinson is about to seek your help.”
Her eyes widened. “I hope not, for I think her father would be prepared to commit murder if he discovered Maria in this house.”
He laughed. “Good day, to you, Miss Whitley.”
Before he could reach the door, Chivers, now attired in a black coat and pantaloons, white shirt and black waistcoat, opened it. “Miss Tomlinson apologises for calling upon Miss Whitley at such an early hour. She asks if she will receive her.” His expression blank, Chivers added, “Miss Tomlinson’s baggage is in the hall and so is her dresser. Should I have a bedchamber prepared while Mrs Tarrant is preoccupied with the Major?”
“Yes. Conduct Miss Tomlinson to my parlour, then have her luggage removed to a bedchamber.”
Langley turned around. “Miss Whitley, please give my regards to Mrs Tarrant. Good day to you.”
Chapter Twenty
25th April, 1815
Without a backward glance at the imposing mansion, Langley took the reins from the groom. The viscount mounted, settled on the saddle of his well-schooled black gelding, a
nd then patted the powerful animal’s glossy neck.
A wagon pulled by Percherons approached from the opposite direction. When it drew level, the burly driver muttered an imprecation. Presumably another French sympathiser who resented the British army of occupation. In the face of such hostility, now that Rupes knew about Georgianne’s condition, maybe he would send her back to England with Helen.
Struth, never had he found Helen more desirable than when he saw her in her night attire. He did not know why. Feminine fashion with high waistlines and low necklines revealed more of Helen’s figure than her nightgown and dressing gown. A bolt of desire shot through him at the thought of Helen’s wealth of thick brown hair, which followed the line of her spine in a sinuous plait reminiscent of the snake that tempted Eve. He longed to remove her night cap, loosen her hair and run his fingers through it. Yet he desired far more than physical contact with her.
Langley wanted Helen’s daily companionship. He wanted to ride with her and sit before a fire on long winter evenings where they could read aloud to each other. He wanted to converse, flirt, and with pride, introduce her to friends and neighbours. Curse his situation which prevented him from asking her to be his wife. His bitter laugh rang out in the quiet street. What accounted for an experienced soldier of his age losing his heart to a lady so much younger? Even if Papa had not squandered his fortune, he would still consider her an unsuitable wife for a viscount.
He clicked his teeth as he rode toward headquarters. Should he have answered Helen’s questions? Did she know Rupes had been betrothed to Dolores, a modest Spanish lady, who was raped by French soldiers? Nine months later, when Tarrant seized an opportunity to visit her, he listened to Dolores’ anguished screams until death silenced her after she delivered a stillborn baby.
Despite Tarrant’s happy marriage to Georgianne, and although he had only spoken once about the ordeal, Langley did not doubt gentle Dolores’ agony still haunted Tarrant. No, it was not for him to explain to Helen, an innocent young lady, why Tarrant had collapsed when he found out Georgianne was with child. Uncomfortable with his thoughts, he spurred his horse forward.
* * * *
“I should have been the first to know,” Tarrant said. His back turned to Georgianne, he stared out of the window of the small ante-room. “It is beyond tolerance for Tomlinson to have informed me you are with child.”
Georgianne’s slippers made almost no sound on the carpet as she hurried to him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her head against his back. What should she say to her furious husband? She understood both his humiliation—because he had fainted—and his outrage at Tomlinson’s unintentional blunder.
Their marriage had not been consummated for a long time due to Tarrant’s fear that, like Dolores, she might lose her life during childbirth. Only when he realised her mother, his late mother, and his step-mother had delivered healthy children, had he shared Georgianne’s bed. Now, with the news of her pregnancy, his horror of childbirth had returned.
“Let go of me.” Tarrant turned around. The expression in his eyes hard, he stared down at her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Although he had never before spoken to her in such a harsh tone or looked at her with such coldness, she would not allow him to intimidate her. “I did not tell you for two reasons. The first is because Dolores’ death scarred you. The second is because a confrontation with Napoleon is inevitable, and I did not want your judgement to be impaired.”
Tarrant’s jaw tightened. “You consider me a coward.” He accused her, through tight, almost bloodless lips.
“You know that is not true.” Vexed by his wilful misinterpretation of her words, Georgianne almost lost her temper. “I know you are a courageous officer.” She took a deep breath to calm herself. “We all have fears we think we have buried, but they re-emerge when something brings them back to mind. Then we realise our worst apprehensions are foolish because nothing may come of them.”
Her husband stared at some point past her head. “So?”
“You are too busy to be burdened with worry about me. I am in the best of health and no longer retch every morning.” She was glad his duties had kept him away from her too often for him to have become aware of that. “There is no reason why you should not meet your son or daughter in November.” A tremor ran through her, for no reason other than the danger of childbirth for even the healthiest women.
He transferred his gaze to her. “Don’t humour me. I am not a child.”
Tears filled her eyes. Even if he did not mean it, why could he not congratulate her; tell her he looked forward to their baby’s arrival? “I am not ‘humouring’ you by saying I am well. Even if you don’t want our child, I hope to have a son with your kind heart who looks like you.”
On the rare occasions when he realised she would cry, Tarrant was always shocked and comforted her. Today, absorbed by his reaction to her condition, he continued to glare down at her.
He should be pleased. An unexpected rush of love, mingled with pity, seized her. She reached up to cradle his cheeks with her hands. “God has given us the gift of a child. Can you not be happy? Imagine the joy of being parents, of meeting our baby?”
He shook his head. “I can only envisage the pain of losing you.”
Her patience seemed futile. “Don’t you know I am terrified of losing you, either in a skirmish or on the battlefield? Do I burden you with my fears? No, I don’t. How can you be so selfish? Do you think I want to die, want our child to die? You should congratulate me and take pride in the knowledge that we will have a child to love as much as we love each other.”
“Georgie, I—”
“No, if you have nothing to say which I want to hear, please be silent.” She turned around to leave the room.
Tarrant moved swiftly to block her way. “I am sorry. Please forgive me.”
To her astonishment, he knelt. His arms around her, he pressed his forehead against her stomach. “Hello, little one, I am your father.” He looked up, his eyes moist. “There,” he said, his voice shaky, “I have introduced myself to our daughter.”
“Daughter?”
“I hope so. I would like to have a little girl who is as like you as a proverbial pea in a pod, with all of your admirable qualities.” He stood and enfolded her in his arms. “I shall not lie. Although I am still frightened, I am glad we will have a child.” He kissed the top of her head. “Perhaps I should send you and Helen to England, where you, your precious cargo and your sister, will be safe.”
“How dare you, sir, our baby is not cargo.” She smiled up at him. “As for going to England, you would have to tie me up and drag me aboard ship because I will never consent to be separated from you.”
“Heart of my heart, I admit I would be sorry to be parted from you.” His grey eyes soft, he gazed into hers for a moment before he kissed her.
* * * *
Helen entered her small parlour in which Maria sat straight-backed, her gloved hands clutching the arm of the chair. After a single glance at her guest, she rang the hand bell.
The door between the parlour and her bedchamber opened. Pringle bobbed a curtsey. “You rang, Miss?”
Helen nodded at her dresser while addressing Maria. “I think you need a restorative. Would you prefer coffee or tea, or perhaps a glass of wine or cherry brandy?”
“Thank you, some coffee would be welcome.” Maria’s eyes seemed larger than usual in her pale face.
“I think you would be more comfortable if you take off your hat and pelisse. Pringle, please assist Miss Tomlinson.”
Maria remained seated. “No, I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”
Helen restrained a sigh. If Maria did not want to be one, why had she come here? “Allow me.” She removed her guest’s hat and put it on the small table beside Maria’s chair. “Take off your gloves.” She spoke as patiently as she would to a stricken child.
Maria gave them to Pringle, who put the pair next to the hat. “Now, Miss,” Pringle
said, “please stand so I can help you take off your pelisse.”
As though Maria feared her legs would not support her, she gripped both arms of the chair to push herself up. Pringle eased her out of her mustard-yellow, sarcenet pelisse. She folded it neatly, put it over her arm and sniffed loudly.
Irritated, Helen frowned. Although servants were expected to be humble, they found ways to express their disapproval.
“Pringle, you may take Miss Tomlinson’s hat, gloves and pelisse to her bedchamber. Also, arrange for coffee to be served immediately.”
The dresser sniffed again before she left the parlour.
Helen glared at the closed door. Did the woman’s nose never become sore? Later she would order her to stop the habit.
“Miss Whitley,” Maria began in a soft tone of voice, “I cannot imagine what you must think of me.”
Helen sympathised with Maria, and her father’s total lack of consideration for his daughter’s wishes.
“Miss Whitley, you are my only friend, so I could not think of where else I could claim sanctuary.”
Sanctuary? Should she explain she was dependant on Cousin Tarrant, and she did not know if he would object to Maria’s arrival with the expectation of being accommodated?
“Miss Whitley, I hope you don’t despise me because I could not tolerate my situation.”
“No I do not. I think you are brave, but don’t you have some regrets?”
Maria stood, this time without the assistance of the arms of the chair. She paced backward and forward. “Yes, of course I do. I love Father, although his mind is so fixed on what he desires for me that he is incapable of accepting the idea that it would make me miserable.” She stood still and faced Helen. “I have tried to make him understand. He cannot. So I dare not name the gentleman I love, who asked me to marry him. I have accepted his offer. In two or three days, I shall meet him at the pavilion in the Parc Royale. We shall elope. In the meantime, I don’t want Father to know where I am.”
Monday's Child (Heroines born on each day of the week. Book 2) Page 18
