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

by Rosemary Morris

  At the mention of her husband-to-be, the glow in Maria’s eyes and the tender smile curving her mouth softened her face in a manner Helen could not put into words. She hoped to capture Maria’s expression in a painting.

  “Father would say Philippe—”

  “The man you love is a Roman Catholic? A Frenchman?”

  “No, his family are Huguenots who fled France and settled in England a century or more ago. Father would say Philippe wants to marry me for my fortune. It is not true. He owns a small but beautiful estate, and his business prospers.” Some colour returned to her cheeks. “I never knew my mother, and know little about her other than Grandmere never forgave her for making a mésalliance. Father still mourns her loss, so it is too painful for him to speak of her. Yet I know one thing, Mamma married for love in spite of grandmere’s fierce opposition. I believe Mamma would have sympathised with me and been happy for me.”

  Helen swallowed. Maria’s love for Philippe shone in her eyes and the tender expression on her face. Unbidden, unwelcome jealousy bubbled up from within because fortune had smiled on Maria.

  “Miss Whitley…”

  “No need for such formality.” Helen forced herself to smile. “We agreed to address each other by our Christian names.”

  “You are very kind and—” she broke off when Pringle entered the parlour, followed by a maid carrying a tray.

  Helen decided to ask Tarrant if Maria could stay with them until Philippe arrived in Brussels, but then changed her mind. The servants would be sure to gossip. News of Maria’s presence in Cousin Tarrant’s house might reach either Mister Tomlinson or his mother-in-law.

  Helen dismissed Pringle and the other servants and poured coffee for Maria from the silver coffee pot.

  “We must decide what to do. I think it would be unwise for you to stay here for more than a night, because your father might find out where you are.”

  Maria’s hand trembled. Coffee spilled onto her gown. “Oh, no, Grandmere will be furious with me. She often chastises me for my clumsiness. “’Pon my word, I doubt the stain can be removed.” Her forehead creased. “Let me think. Maybe, it should be sponged with the finest laundry soap, dissolved with spirit of wine and potash, then spread on grass and sprinkled with alum water. After three or four days it should be washed again with soap and fuller’s earth, or maybe—”

  “Why fret over the stain or your grandmother’s temper and unkindness now that you are on the verge of marriage?” Helen interrupted. She was surprised by Maria’s knowledge of how to launder clothes, something with which she had never concerned herself. She frowned.

  Maria clapped her hands. “How foolish of me, within the week I shall be wed and free from Grandmere’s criticisms.” She stood and shook out her skirt. “Mind you, Miss…I mean, Helen, I should thank her for one thing. I wonder what Philippe will think of my improved appearance.”

  “I am sure he will admire you,” Helen murmured. “Your figure has improved; you have beautiful hair, which I think waves without resort to artifice.” She smiled. “I am sure many ladies envy your large eyes and long eyelashes and your perfect complexion.”

  “Thank you. At home my skin was not so fair. Although Father did not consider gardening a proper occupation for a lady, I enjoyed sowing seeds and tending plants. However, I took Grandmere’s advice to wash my face with milk before applying cucumber pomade” Her eyes widened. “That does not matter now, for by birth, I am not a lady, so I am sure Philippe does not care if my complexion is a little darkened by the sun. And I am sure he will allow me to garden and have a glass house, for he is interested in horticulture.”

  Again jealousy, combined with pity, warred within Helen. According to Maria’s description of Philippe, it seemed she would be happy with him. As for Mister Tomlinson, he was convinced his opinions were always right. Although he provided a luxurious cage for his daughter, Maria’s wish to break the lock did not surprise Helen. She stilled her mind, which envisioned a painting of a beautiful young woman surrounded by luxury, with a key in her hand, staring at a prison door. “Maria, please sit down, while we decide what to do.

  “I shall pen a note to Mister Barnet, an elderly friend of mine. With your permission, I will explain your circumstances and ask him to put you up until Monsieur Philippe arrives. If he sends his carriage for you, none of Cousin Tarrant’s servants will know where you have gone.”

  Maria finished her coffee. “Do you think your friend will agree to your request?”

  Helen nodded. “Yes, he is very kind-hearted.”

  “How can I thank you for your help?”

  “There is no need,” Helen replied, ashamed of her jealousy. On Sunday, at the English Church, acceptance of whatever situation the Almighty placed His servants in had been the subject of the vicar’s sermon. Her envy made it almost impossible to speak. She found it intolerable to submit to the end of her dream of marrying Langley.

  A knock on the door heralded Pringle’s return.

  The woman bobbed a curtsey. “Lord Langley is waiting for you and Miss Tomlinson in the salon.”

  If only he had not arrived at the moment when her conscience strangled her.

  Maria glanced down at her skirt. “I must change my gown.”

  “Yes, of course, Pringle can show you the way to your bedchamber. In the meantime, I shall wait with Lord Langley for you to join us.” The rare opportunity to be alone with him delighted her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  25th April, 1815

  Helen entered the salon where Langley stood in front of the fireplace, a glass of ruby-red wine in his hand.

  “My lord, I did not expect to see you so soon.”

  Langley bowed. “I should not be here. My excuse is, before I carry out my orders to go to Courtrai with a troop of Glory Boys, I want to be rid of the sorry business of Miss Tomlinson’s letters to Mister Midhurst.”

  “Take care,” she said with more depth of emotion than she intended.

  “I shall. Don’t be concerned for me. Enjoy all that society in Brussels has to offer a young lady.”

  She would think of him while he was away.

  “May I see Miss Tomlinson? I have little time to spare.”

  Alarm fluttered in her throat. “It seems your mission is urgent.” The daughter, sister, and sister-in-law of military men, she knew better than to question him about it.

  “I would neither describe it as a mission nor as urgent, however General Makelyn is not a patient man. He expects his aide de camps to carry out his orders without even the slightest delay.”

  “Yes, of course,” she murmured, “but I think it will take her some time to change her gown.”

  “Then I must bid you good day. I shall leave her letters to Midhurst with you.” He held out a small package tied with string.

  “She will be so grateful. Please tell me how you obtained them?”

  “Part of The Glory Boys duty is to gather information. After my sergeant found out where the blackmailer lived, we broke into his lodgings. Midhurst must have been certain no one would discover his whereabouts, as the letters were not well-hidden. My sergeant smashed the lock on a trunk and there they were.”

  Helen laughed.

  “What is funny?”

  “I can imagine the look on abominable Midhurst’s face when he realises someone has stolen the letters. Are you sure you cannot wait to give them to Miss Tomlinson yourself?” She held out the package but he did not take it back.

  “Before I go, please tell me why she came here.”

  “She plans to elope.”

  Langley raised his eyebrows. “What! Good Lord, how improper. I should inform her father.”

  “No.” She prepared to launch into an explanation of Maria’s reason before she realised Langley seemed amused.

  “Miss Whitley, the young lady continues to amaze me, but I confess I am grateful not to be obliged to have any further dealings with her.”

  “I daresay you are, but Miss Tomlinson still n
eeds my help. She does not want her father to know she is here while waiting for her betrothed to arrive in Brussels. Yet, if she remains in this house the servants are sure to gossip, so in all probability, Mister Tomlinson will return once again to pound on the front door.”

  “I hope you will not ask me to house her elsewhere. The idea terrifies me. If her father found out, I fear he would either hold a gun to my head, or suffer a fatal seizure.”

  Helen stamped her foot. Alas, her slipper did not make a satisfactory sound on the carpet. “Please be serious, my lord. Such an idea never entered my mind. Mister Barnet’s health has improved, so I shall ask him to put her up for a few days. What do you think of my plan?”

  Langley stepped toward her. “I think anyone who has you for a friend is fortunate.” His hands closed around her upper arms. “Despite everything which lies between us, I hope we shall always be friends.”

  Taken by surprise, tears filled her eyes. The proximity of battle made her bold. “Can we be no more than friends?”

  His dark eyes searched hers. Slowly, very slowly, he shook his head. “No, circumstances forbid it.” His hands slid down her arms to her wrists. He held them, oh so gently. “I shall wish you well if you marry Captain Dalrymple or some other worthy young man.”

  “How can you say so when I am sure you lo—”

  Before she could complete the word, Langley pressed one finger against her mouth.

  “Hush. There are some things we should never say to each other.”

  Why not be truthful for once? Captain Dalrymple would never cause her such pain. If she said she returned his affection, the captain would be delighted. Perhaps she did love Dalrymple in a different way to the one in which she loved Langley. Could it be possible to hold two gentlemen in equal regard? Should she fear the violence of her love for Langley and welcome the calm lagoon of Captain Dalrymple’s?

  Helen looked deep into Langley’s eyes. Pride came to her rescue. “When you marry, I shall wish you well.”

  The door opened. Miss Tomlinson glanced at them. “I beg your pardon for disturbing you.”

  “No need,” Helen answered hastily, “there is something in my eye which the Major is trying to remove.”

  Langley released her wrists and took the package. He turned around and held it out. “This is for you, Miss Tomlinson.”

  Maria hurried to him, nearly tripped over the edge of the carpet, steadied herself and seized the letters. “How can I ever thank you?”

  Langley smiled. “By not writing any more incautious letters.”

  “Never,” she promised.

  Helen looked past Maria to Langley, who bowed. “I must take my leave of you both. Miss Whitley, Miss Tomlinson, good day to you.”

  * * * *

  Helen knelt by the fireplace and struck a flint to ignite the kindling. A tiny flame flickered and spread. She added some small logs, then sat back on her heels watching them catch fire.

  Maria untied the string around the package. One by one she fed the fire with her ‘incautious’ letters.

  Helen used the poker to disperse the ash of Maria’s dreams which had turned into nightmares. If only her own dreams would turn to ash and arise like a phoenix to become reality.

  She stood looking at the rosy-cheeked bride-to-be whose eyes glowed. “So, Maria, you are free to marry your Philippe without fear of Mister Midhurst. I can imagine how relieved you must be.” She hesitated. Maria seemed so certain she and her betrothed would be happy. Nevertheless, perhaps she should put the question which troubled her to the young woman. “Are you sure you are not about to make a mistake? How can you be certain the man you intend to marry will be a good husband?”

  Maria plopped down onto a chair which creaked beneath her weight. “At school, his sister, Suzanne, and I were the best of friends. Father allowed me to visit her during the vacations so I have been acquainted with Philippe since the age of ten.”

  Helen sank onto a sofa. “Surely his family will be shocked by an elopement.”

  Maria shook her head. “His parents are dead. Suzanne is married. I think she will understand why we eloped.”

  What would it be like to run away with Langley in the whirlwind of his family’s opposition? “Maria, I shall write a letter to my friend, Mister Barnet, to ask him to permit you to stay with him for a few days.” She walked toward the door. “You must be tired. I suggest you rest until it is time to change before we dine, after which I hope Mister Barnet will send his carriage to convey you to his house.”

  * * * *

  Helen sealed her letter to Mister Barnet, confident he would help. She pulled the bell rope to summon her dresser. She suspected Pringle gossiped about her to the other servants. On this occasion, she must caution the woman.

  “Ah, Pringle,” she said when the dresser entered the parlour.

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Helen held out the letter. “Deliver this to Mister Barnet in person, immediately.”

  The woman sniffed. Slowly she put out her hand to take the letter.

  “There is no need to mention this to anyone.”

  For once, Pringle did not sniff again. However, her light blue eyes gleamed with obvious curiosity. “I’m sure I don’t know why I should speak of it, Miss.”

  “Good. And Pringle…”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Summer is nearly here, so it is time to consider my wardrobe. There are a number of items I shall not wear again which I will give to you. For example, the muslin gown sprigged with lilac, the lilac pelisse, and the hat made to match.”

  Like most dressers, Pringle regarded cast-off clothes as one of her perquisites, which she could keep or sell.

  “Thank you, Miss Whitley. You may be sure I shall not mention your letter to anyone.”

  “I am pleased to hear it. You may go,” Helen spoke without the slightest sense of guilt for bribery. Sometimes she wished for Georgianne’s permission to dismiss Pringle. Yet, it would be unfair to dispense with her dresser’s service for no better reason than her sniffing when she disapproved of something, and her gossiping, a tendency common to most servants.

  She gazed out the window. A troop of Glory Boys rode past the house, their horses curried until they gleamed like the finest satin. By now, Langley would be on his way to the border with France. Hot colour flooded her cheeks. After she had made it quite clear to Langley that she wanted to marry him, he had rejected her. Did he despise her forwardness? No, she would not think of him. It was too painful. She would go to the cellar to see whether some of the wooden figures were ready for her to add the last details.

  Helen fetched a paint-spattered smock from her dressing room. With an image in mind of the blue boy, flute in hand, and a peacock feather in his thick, black, curly hair, she descended the narrow flight of stairs. “Splendid,” she said to the three artists, “the elephants look so lifelike and Krishna is beautiful. Perhaps his eyes should be a little larger. In the book a friend lent me, they are described as shaped like lotus buds.” She stepped closer to examine the blue boy’s figure. “I think his lips should be redder.”

  In her imagination, Langley’s gypsy-like eyes laughed and hovered at the back of her mind, yet somehow or other the blue boy almost eclipsed them, although she could not account for her fascination with him.

  Helen began to paint the peacock feather. To grace Krishna’s hair, she felt it must be perfect. She hummed until, within the hour, Pringle entered the cellar and held out a sealed letter.

  “For you, Miss.”

  “Thank you. Please wait for a moment.”

  Helen laid aside her paint brush and stepped back. A perfect peacock feather. The colours glowed against the sheen of Krishna’s painted black hair. She cleaned her hands and then read the letter. Mister Barnet had not failed her. He would be pleased to accommodate her friend and her friend’s maid until alternative arrangements could be made for them. Helen smiled, for she had not considered it wise to tell him Maria planned to elope. His carriage would c
all for the lady this evening at nine of the clock. She went to her sister’s parlour to tell her Maria would be leaving.

  * * * *

  “May I come in?” Helen asked Georgianne, who appeared comfortable on her chaise longue.

  “Of course.” Georgianne put a book on her lap.

  “What are you reading?”

  “I am re-reading Pride and Prejudice by an unknown lady. I wonder who the author is. For all we know, we may have met her and never guessed the sly creature wrote such an entertaining novel.”

  “Sly?”

  “Yes, for I cannot imagine the characters are fabrications. Surely they are founded on people the lady is well-acquainted with. What do you think, dearest?”

  Helen gazed at the realistic watercolours she had painted of her parents and sisters which hung on the walls. Yet some of her other portraits were born of her imagination. What had Shakespeare written in The Merchant of Venice? Ah, yes. “Tell me where is fancy bred? Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished.” A question she could not answer. She only knew something within drove her to express both reality and imagination.

  “Dearest?”

  “I beg your pardon, Georgianne. Perhaps the lady’s observations in her novel are merely based on the pride and prejudice she observes in society.”

  Georgianne clapped her hands. “How clever you are. Now, do sit down instead of towering above me.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Helen sat by the window, in the clear daylight which intensified the colour of the aquamarine wallpaper echoed in the curtains and upholstery.

  “I must say,” Georgianne continued, “the characters seem to be alive. As for Mister Darcy, I had no patience with him until his true nature was revealed.” She laughed. The expression on her face sobered. “I have found my own Mister Darcy, although my dear husband is nothing like him. I hope you will find yours and be as happy as I am, in spite of the threat which Bonaparte poses.” She sighed. “If only one knew what the odious little man intends.”