Tuesday's Child (Heroines Born on Each Day of the Week Book 3)

by Rosemary Morris

  Harriet closed her eyes, trying to erase the memory of the mental and physical agony of giving birth to a fatherless child in the best quarters in Lisbon, the best her father, a major in the Glory Boy could afford for her. She squeezed back involuntary tears at the recollection of the day on which she received the dreadful news of Papa’s death in the Battle of Toulouse, the final engagement in the campaign against Napoleon before his exile to Elba. Until she glimpsed her child’s frightened face when he returned from a walk with his nurse, for a week she neither ate more than a morsel nor stopped crying.

  Until her father’s died, she and Arthur enjoyed his protection. Afterward, although in desperate need of a protector, she refused several marriage proposals. Of course, out of expediency, many army widows did remarry soon after their husbands’ funerals, but Harriet rejected her suitors.

  In spite of her impoverished circumstances, she never considered replacing Edgar in her affections, and marry without love she would not.

  Now, at the age of four and twenty, at the thought of what might have been if Edgar lived, tears filled her eyes. After wiping them away with her handkerchief, she watched Arthur and Pennington dismount. Her son laughed in response to something his grandfather said.

  Harriet knew she should not be unappreciative of her father-in-law, nevertheless, she resented her separation from Arthur by the nurse appointed by Pennington, in his words “to relieve her of the tiresome task of caring for a child”. Despite hardships she never found it “tiresome” to care for Arthur. Fortunately, she approved of Bessie a young woman, whom Arthur liked, who took excellent care of him.

  * * *

  “Mamma,” Arthur shouted when he entered the breakfast parlour, “Grandpapa and I went riding.” Arms outstretched he rushed towards the table set with Wedgewood china and an array of monogrammed flatware.

  Relieved to see him safe, Harriet stood. Regardless of the risk of her starched muslin gown being crushed, she spread her arms wide to embrace him.

  Her father-in-law stepped forward. “Be good enough to remember your station, Arthur. You are not a cottager’s brat.” One hand, marred by age spots gripped the child’s shoulder to prevent him from running forward.

  Arthur looked up at his grandfather, a trace of anxiety in his large eyes, the intense blue of the sky on a summer’s day.

  Harriet’s eyebrows twitched. The earl did not have the right to insist on formality. Since Arthur’s birth she had cuddled and kissed him, and would continue to do so.

  The earl smiled down at the child. “Make your bow, to Lady Castleton.”

  Arthur’s shoulders drooped, but he obeyed.

  Her father-in-law’s eyes gleaming with unmistakeable triumph, he glanced at her over the top of Arthur’s head of shiny brown curls.

  Harriet caught her lower lip between her teeth. No matter how much the earl provoked her, she would not engage in a direct battle over Arthur.

  She released her lip. Nonsensical for her father-in-law to have said Lady Castleton instead of your mamma to Arthur, and to have prevented him from running to her for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Aware of a surge of angry colour, which heated her cheeks, Harriet made up her mind neither to allow the old man to wean her son away from his affection for her, nor to permit him to be in full control of her son.

  “Oh, Papa, what harm can it do if Arthur embraces me?” she asked, looking down to give the earl an impression of a submissive daughter-in-law. Without waiting for a reply, she continued to hold out her arms. “Come, my boy, give me my morning kiss.”

  Her son looked up at his grandfather for permission.

  “Arthur,” Pennington commenced, “Lady Castleton forgets you no longer wear skirts. You are a little man in your trousers and short jacket. In future, you must remember gentlemen are not forever hugging and kissing ladies. Take your place at the table.”

  Harriet looked up at her father-in-law. Confound it, none of her ploys to charm the earl ever succeeded. Well, in her son’s presence, she would not brangle with him like a fishwife. She checked her desire to express her indignation. Instead she smiled at Pennington, pretending to be unaware that he did not consider her to have been a suitable wife for his late son.

  Although she was not a nobleman’s daughter, her parents had taught her how to conduct herself with decorum. Moreover, she prided herself on the good English blood she inherited from them. By birth, she had nothing to be ashamed of, even if she were ineligible to be considered to be a member of the ton – the so called upper ten thousand persons considered the cream of society - amongst whom the earl numbered.

  At the round table, her father-in-law seated himself opposite her with Arthur on his right. The elderly chaplain, good-natured Mister Rivers took his place on the earl’s left.

  Her spine stiff, Harriet sat between Arthur, whom the earl insisted should sit next to him, and the secretary, Mister Vaughan; a young man of approximately twenty-five years of age, whose eyes more often than not nursed a merry sparkle, in spite of his patron’s haughty disposition.

  No one spoke while the butler supervised the footmen, who put a silver coffee pot in front of Harriet and food on the table.

  While Mister Rivers intoned a short grace Harriet wondered what the sycophantic man of the cloth thought of the stone-pillared room decorated in the gothic style.

  Harriet’s gaze strayed beyond the arched window, through which she glimpsed the rose garden, bordered by low box hedges, basking in sunshine. “Coffee, or ale, my lord?” Harriet asked.

  “Coffee, my dear child.” Despite that gentle smile which Harriet considered artificial, his forehead creased. “On numerous occasions, I have already requested you to call me, papa.”

  Although she could not imagine him ever replacing her beloved father in her affection, his request was not unreasonable. “How foolish I am,” Harriet replied with false meekness intended to soften his heart. “I beg your pardon, Papa.” She poured the fragrant beverage into a porcelain cup, hand-painted with Wedgewood’s famous Kutani Crane design.

  A footman stepped forward to hand it to his lordship.

  “Will you partake of coffee, Mister Rivers?”

  “Yes please, Lady Castleton, you are too kind, too gracious.”

  Harriet suppressed her desire to giggle at such obsequiousness.

  “Yes,” Arthur piped up, while a footman served Mister Vaughan with ale, “Mamma is always gentle not like Nurse, who pinches me.”

  “What did you say?” Pennington asked his quiet tone at odds with the outraged expression in his eyes.

  Arthur stared down at the table.

  The wrinkles on Pennington’s face deepened. “Castleton, I expect you to answer me when I address you,” he reprimanded Arthur, his unusual severity with his heir emphasised by addressing him by his title.

  “Mamma is kind but my nurse is unkind. She won’t let me drink from my silver mug.” He scowled. “She said it is too good for a naughty boy, and I didn’t like it when she pinched my cheeks.”

  “How dare she!” Pennington exclaimed, his cheeks puce beneath the light layer of rouge. “Lady Castleton, I shall dismiss Bessie Cooper without a reference. My grandson’s pluck to the backbone. I will not allow him to be turned into a coward afraid of his own shadow. Damn the woman.”

  Mister Rivers murmured an almost inaudible protest on the subject of not swearing in a lady’s presence.

  The earl ignored his chaplain’s timid objection.

  Harriet frowned. The pleasant young nurse did not deserve such treatment. She reached out her hand to smooth the tumble of curls back from her son’s forehead. “Look at me, and tell the truth. Did Bessie pinch you hard?”

  She hoped Arthur still knew better than to lie to her.

  “No, Mamma.”

  Harriet looked at the earl. “I don’t think there is any need for concern. Children need discipline if they are not to turn into young tyrants. Perhaps you judge too quickly, Papa. Is there really any need to dismiss Nurse?”
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  Pennington, whom she knew rode roughshod over any opinion, which did not concur with his own, did not answer her.

  An uneasy silence, other than instructions to the footmen to serve them with eggs, ham, kidneys, rolls or toast, followed until Arthur broke it.

  “Grandpapa,” he said, while he pushed a piece of ham around his plate with his fork, “after breakfast I want to swim in the lake.”

  The earl swallowed a mouthful of buttered toast. “You are too young.”

  Arthur’s cheeks reddened.

  Harriet frowned. “Eat your breakfast, Arthur, and don’t speak without permission.”

  “Be good enough to allow the boy to do so,” Pennington intervened.

  Yet again, although he interfered, she forced herself to remain silent in an attempt to seem compliant and keep him in a good humour.

  Arthur pouted. “I want to go swimming, Grandpapa.”

  “No, the lake is too dangerous. You might sink underwater and be caught in the weeds.”

  Arthur drummed his heels against the chair rails. “Grandpapa, you said I may have anything I want.”

  The earl’s plucked eyebrows drew together. “I did not mean you may always please yourself.”

  Harriet wanted to cheer. For the first time, her father-in-law thwarted Arthur’s wishes.

  Her son grabbed his solid silver fork and hurled it at his grandfather. “I will go swimming, I will, I will, I will,” he screamed, pounding his small fists on the table.

  Horrified, Harriet stood. “Apologise to your grandfather.”

  “No.”

  “I am ashamed of you. Get up. I shall take you to the nursery where you will stay until you apologise to your grandfather.”

  “Shan’t get up, Mamma. Shan’t say sorry. My clothes are too hot. I shall go swimming in nice, cold water.”

  On such a warm day, even if Arthur’s skeleton suit, with trouser buttons fastened to a shirt beneath a short-waisted jacket, was unbearably hot, it was not an excuse for ill manners. Harriet pulled back Arthur’s chair and turned it around.

  “Don’t interfere, Lady Castleton,” Pennington ordered her. “I admire my grandson’s strength of mind.”

  Interfere! How dare he say that, to me?” Papa, please remember that in spite of Arthur’s … er …in your own words, ‘strength of mind’, he should not be rude.” She spoke softly in an attempt to appease him.

  Without undue force, Harriet seized her son’s upper arms to raise him to his feet. When she managed to haul him out of his chair, she released him. ”Look at me,” she ordered. Instead, Arthur sank to the floor and drummed his heels on the flagstones.

  Harriet noticed Mister Rivers appalled expression, and heard him murmur something which concerned sparing the rod and spoiling the child. She glanced disapprovingly at him, for she never smacked Arthur and would never beat him.

  Pennington, not a hair out of place in spite of his early morning ride, stood. “Arthur, I shall employ someone to teach you to swim, until then, you may not bathe in the lake.” He walked around the table. “Now get up and behave like a gentleman.”

  Her son quietened. His delightful smile appeared. He sat and wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hands. “Thank you, Grandpapa.”

  Infuriated, Harriet stood still. “To the nursery, Arthur.” She took deep breaths to calm herself.

  “But I am hungry.”

  “That is your misfortune. In future, unless you promise to behave, you will have your breakfast in the nursery. “ She rarely spoke so firmly. When she did, Arthur knew better than to argue.

  “My dear child, I must protest-” the earl commenced.

  “Please excuse me, Papa. I fear Arthur has a fever after such shocking histrionics.”

  Pennington inclined his head towards her. “You may withdraw.

  “Thank you.” Without a backward glance at either her father-in-law, Mister Rivers or Mister Vaughan, Arthur’s hand in hers, she marched him out of the breakfast parlour.

  Satisfied that she had acquitted herself well, Harriet pressed her lips into a firm line. Pennington would ruin her son if she did not find a way to escape from their dependency on him.

  * * *

  Displeased with his daughter-in-law, Pennington looked at the arched door, which a footman closed after she left the breakfast parlour with Arthur. Although his grandson should not have thrown a fork at him, Lady Castleton should appreciate that when the boy knew what he wanted he went after it with admirable, single-minded determination so like his own. Well, at least his son’s widow deferred to him. Furthermore, she seemed grateful for her maintenance.

  In his opinion ladies should be dutiful and obedient. Their families expected them to marry well, defer to their husbands, organise their households, participate in society and amuse themselves with feminine pursuits. Lady Castleton should obey him without either argument or reluctance. Whatever the cost, regardless of the circumstances, he would not allow Edgar’s widow to interfere with Arthur’s upbringing.

  Not for the first time, Pennington asked himself why his son married a woman of unequal birth without a dowry. Oh, he supposed, her charm would appeal to some men, for although she was only some five foot two inches in height, she kept her back straight and moved gracefully. After a moment or two’s thought, he conceded she had some good features – thick brown hair, bright blue eyes, which Arthur inherited from her, besides a good complexion. Yet, he concluded, she was not remarkable.

  Thoughtful, he kept himself well in hand while he finished his breakfast. As for the nurse, his grandson was not a common boy. How dare she pinch Arthur’s soft round cheeks. What was more, she did not have the right to withhold his silver mug from him. Well, it would be ungentlemanly to chastise the child’s mother for her protest when he had announced his decision to dismiss Bessie Cooper. His daughter-in-law’s objection would not alter his decision.

  Unruffled, he ate the last morsel of kidney, dabbed his mouth with a monogrammed napkin and stood with no more effort than a young man. At the age of sixty he prided himself on his slim figure, which, unlike so many of his contemporaries, did not require stays. Congratulating himself on his own elegant appearance, he shuddered at the thought of the Prince Regent’s corpulence.

  Chapter Three

  Dominic Markham watched his elegant mother leave the dining room, followed by Gwenifer, his widowed sister, who kept house for him.

  “Well, my boy,” began his father, who sat opposite him at the table, “when you arrived, I was pleased to see you and your sister looking so well.”

  “And I am glad to see you in good health,” Dominic replied. Indeed, his father, Joshua Markham, Earl of Faucon. was in fine fettle for a sixty-eight year old man.

  “Left your curate in charge, while you visit us?”

  Dominic nodded.

  “How long can you stay? Your mother hopes you can spare us a few days.” Joshua sipped his port. To judge by his silence, before he spoke again, it seemed something pressed on his mind. “Several families you might wish to become reacquainted with have left London and come to Herefordshire for the summer months. Unfortunately, they include the Earl of Pennington, whom I would not choose for a neighbour. By the way, the latest news in the area is of his daughter-in-law, Lady Castleton, and her son - what-is-his name? - ah, yes, Arthur, of whom little is known. They are living with the earl? Your mother has decided we must call on them,” he ended, with a note of disapproval in his voice.

  Dominic knew his parent well enough to sense Pennington and his family were not the matter uppermost in his father’s mind. “I can stay until Saturday when I shall return to my parish to deliver my sermon on Sunday.”

  “Good.” The earl cleared his throat. “I must speak to you concerning a painful matter.”

  Dominic sat a little straighter. “I hope gossip apropos my ill-doings has not come to your ears,” he teased, in an attempt to lighten his father’s mood.

  “No such thing, my boy. As befits a gentl
eman in holy orders, so far as I know your behaviour is irreproachable, and your good reputation is intact.” Joshua reached out for the silver bowl of nuts on the highly polished surface of the mahogany table. “Delicate matter to discuss.” He helped himself to a walnut. “However much I wish your brothers survived, we must face facts.”

  “Yes, I know,” Dominic agreed, in a subdued tone of voice.

  After so many years, he wished he could help his father come to terms with grief. Yet, although he was a thirty year-old rector, it seemed futile to remind Papa The Lord giveth. The Lord taketh. Blessed is the name of The Lord.

  Joshua passed a hand across his eyes. “If only Denzil had not died in the Peninsular, and Pascoe at the Battle of Trafalgar, I would not have a conversation with you in which we must face the truth”

  The truth? Dominic sat a little straighter. So many fine men, including his brothers, had sacrificed their lives when they fought against France to preserve the Rule of Law. What more was there for his father to say on the subject?

  Joshua sipped some wine before he spoke. “Painful although it is, I must speak out. You already know that after twenty years of childless marriage your older brother and his milk-and-water wife are estranged.”

  Dominic opened his mouth to reply. Joshua shook his head to silence him and continued. “There is no possibility of them presenting me and your mother with a grandson.”

  After Joshua refilled his glass he slid the decanter across the table.

  Dominic poured wine into his crystal glass, sensing worse would come. If only his ancestors, whose portraits hung on walls papered in rich red, could fend off the verbal axe, which he knew hovered over his neck. “Is there no hope of my brother and sister-in-law being reconciled?”