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

by Rosemary Morris

  “Even if they put their troubled past behind them, it would be useless. There is no way to soften this news, although, I daresay a clergyman can bear it better than most men. Robert’s health has deteriorated. I am sorry to tell you that, at the most, he has no more than a year to live.” Joshua’s hand shook. A few drops of blood-red port fell onto the table.

  Did the doctor apply loathsome leeches to Robert? Dominic quaked at the thought. My older brother whom I always admired is on the verge of death! He reeled from the blow of the imaginary axe. “Are you sure, Papa, I knew Robert was ill but did not imagine his condition is fatal. What is the cause of his malady?”

  “Loose living,” Joshua explained, his voice bitter. “Don’t plague me for details, I cannot bear to speak of them.” He gulped his port as though it were a lifeline.

  “Surely a cure can be found,” Dominic protested, while he struggled to come to terms with the news.

  Elbows on the table, Joshua propped his head on his hands. “The best doctors and physicians have been consulted. They all say Robert’s case is hopeless. That is why I sent for you.” His eyes suspiciously moist, Joshua drank more port.

  The youngest son of the family, Dominic had never imagined wearing a coronet and robes of state. He had neither been trained to become the future Earl of Faucon nor to accept the responsibilities it would entail. Faced with the prospect, he did not know if he was capable of the challenges that would arise. “I might predecease both of you,” he murmured, unable to visualise himself taking a seat in The House of Lords.

  Very much the aristocrat in his blue morning coat, primrose yellow waistcoat, perfectly arranged cravat, pale pantaloons and black shoes, Joshua held up an admonitory hand. “I have nearly reached my allotted lifespan of three score years and ten. Before my seventieth birthday I hope you will have married and presented me with a grandson.”

  Dominic studied the vivid colours of the Aubusson carpet’s hexagonal pattern. Although he could neither condone nor understand the reason for the plunge into degradation, which brought his eldest brother so low, he sympathised with him. Poor Robert entered into a disastrous arranged marriage, which drove him to take ever-increasing consolation in alcohol and opera dancers. Indeed, last time he saw him, Robert looked much older than his forty-two years, and suffered cruelly from gout besides being liverish.

  “Dominic.” Again Joshua’s voice broke into his thoughts. “It is your duty to father the future Earl of Faucon. Unless you have a suitable bride in mind, your Mamma will introduce you to eligible young ladies.”

  Dominic understood why his father emphasised the word ‘suitable.’ His future wife must be a flawless diamond. Nevertheless, he would not enter an arranged marriage, which might prove as disastrous as Robert’s.

  His poor brother! He should offer him consolation. “My lord, I must visit, Robert.” He used his father’s formal term of address to stress his determination.

  Joshua shook his head. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “He refuses to see any of the family. I think it is because he is either too ashamed of his folly, or because he does not want our pity.”

  “I must see him,” Dominic repeated, tactfully pretending he had not noticed his father’s tears. “Maybe he will recover.” He clutched at an unlikely straw. “There might be a miracle.” He suppressed his grief. Shocking enough to see his proud father succumb to anguish without adding his own.

  * * *

  Three days after he left Faucon House, Dominic sat at his desk in the spacious library in the rectory at Queen’s Langley in Hertfordshire. He dipped his goose quill into the ink pot. After a moment’s thought, he added a few lines to his sermon, on the subject of “It Is Better to Give than Receive”, in elegant copperplate handwriting. He would deliver it on Sunday from the pulpit of the Church of Saint Michael and All Saints.

  He tried to concentrate and failed. The prospect of an arranged marriage did not appeal to him. Only once, soon after he graduated from Oxford, had he fallen in love. It came to nought. Afterwards, despite the lures cast at him, no other lady ever tempted him to exchange his single status with matrimony. He repressed a smile at the thought of young ladies, who pursued him. Even when chaperoned by their mothers, they tried to find an opportunity to be alone with him.

  Dominic knew females admired his good looks, which he placed little importance on. He also knew their parents would not reject a suitor with an income from three parishes, who had also inherited several legacies from relatives. On the marriage market, he was considered ‘a good catch’. The question was, did he want to be caught? No, he did not, but regrettably love for his father and duty to his family demanded the sacrifice of his comfortable bachelor existence..

  His thoughts returned to the sermon. What should he write next? He put his quill down.

  While Dominic sipped a glass of home brewed birch wine, to which he was partial, he stared at the vista of his well-kept garden in front of the rectory, on the border of the road to the village. Where was Robert? If only he could bring him here to be nursed in the peace and quiet of the country. On warm summer days, Robert could sit outside and, maybe, recover his health.

  Mrs Cooper opened the garden gate. What did she want? A word with Gwenifer? He wrote another line of his sermon.

  Several minutes later, his dark-haired, dark-eyed sister, still as pretty at twenty-seven as she was when she married at the age of twenty, bustled into the room. “Mrs Cooper begs for a word with you.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No, when I questioned her she shook her head, and refused to confide in me. She insists the matter is only for your ears.” She shrugged. “I must warn you she is tearful.”

  “I hope I can help her. Please ask Lottie to show her in,” he requested Gwenifer was always aware of his duty to care for his flock, although women’s tears made him uncomfortable, even when they aroused his compassion.

  At the time of his ordination, with three older brothers, it had seemed unlikely he would ever become head of the Faucon family. So, although he did not have a divine calling, he accepted the career and provisions his father made for him, and entered holy orders.

  A clergyman could not participate in every pleasure available to members of the ton. Nevertheless, he enjoyed spring in his parish of Rivenden, which was near enough to the capital city to be advantageous during the London Season, the summer in Queen’s Langley, and autumn in his third parish where he joined the hunt.

  Lottie opened the door, bobbed a curtsey and stood aside to allow the visitor to enter the library.

  “Mrs Cooper,” Dominic greeted the middle-aged woman dressed in an old-fashioned brown gown.

  From the doorway, she curtsied. “Mister Markham, I’m sorry for coming to see you.” She sniffed loudly. “I don’t know anyone else who might be able to help.”

  Dominic indicated one of a pair of chairs, upholstered in faded green brocade.

  Mrs Cooper looked down at her sturdy brown leather boots. “I don’t want to dirty your fine carpet.”

  “How thoughtful of you. Don’t worry, a little dust from the lane will do no harm. Seat yourself opposite my desk, and tell me what your problem is.”

  She perched on the edge of a chair. “It’s my daughter, Bessie. Wicked he is, and she’s a God fearing girl.”

  Dominic rested his elbows on the desk, and made a steeple with his fingers on which he propped his chin. He supposed Bessie, a rosy cheeked young woman, was with child. Presumably, Mrs Cooper wanted him to persuade the seducer to marry her daughter. “Who is wicked?”

  His parishioner withdrew a large cotton handkerchief from her pocket. She dabbed her eyes and blew her nose before she answered his question. “His lordship.”

  Surely Mrs Cooper was not so naïve that she believed a member of the aristocracy would marry a country girl. For whom did Bessie work? He searched his memory and recalled the name of her employer. “A relative of Lord Beringford?” he asked.

  “No, sir, she worked for him
until his youngest son left the nursery. Next she worked for Lord and Lady Woolsey. Recently, the Earl of Pennington employed her to look after his grandson.”

  Dominic frowned, aware of unpleasant rumours, which circulated with reference to the so called gentleman. One of them even hinted there was little Pennington would not have done to father a son, who would become his heir instead of his nephew. His frown deepened. Surely, even Pennington would not want to try to father the next in line to an earldom on a servant, whom he would marry if she became pregnant. He sighed. “I think the best we can do for your daughter’s child is to persuade the earl to provide for it.”

  Mrs Cooper’s eyes opened wide. “I am shocked to the bone, sir! My Bessie is a good Christian girl. Surely you don’t think she would….would-” flustered, she broke off, colour flooding into her weather beaten cheeks.

  Somewhat embarrassed by his assumption that Bessie was increasing, he looked at Mrs Cooper. “I beg your pardon for my false assumption. Please explain your daughter’s problem.”

  “I hardly know where to begin, Mister Markham. My poor girl’s in jail in St. Albans. She’s accused of theft. I swear it’s not true, sir, I know it isn’t. Bessie’s honest. Even if she were starving, which she’s never been because I’ve always laid a table with good food, she’d never steal even a crumb of bread not rightfully hers.” At the end of this somewhat muddled sentence, she sniffed several times, her work worn hands clasped tightly together on her lap.

  “Did the Earl of Pennington accuse her?”

  Mrs Cooper nodded, seeming too overcome by Bessie’s dreadful circumstance to speak.

  “What is the charge?”

  “The charge? Oh, do you mean what did he say she’s taken, sir?”

  Dominic nodded.

  “Well, it was like this. The earl’s only got one grandson whom Bessie told me he dotes on and spoils. She wasn’t allowed to punish him even if he was rude and disobedient.” Mrs Cooper leaned forward. “I tell you, Mister Markham, if any of my sons ever spoke as Lord Castleton did to Bessie, after the sting of their father’s cane, they would have been rubbing their backsides.”

  Dominic held up his hand in an attempt to halt the aggrieved housewife’s flow of words. She ignored the gesture.

  “Well sir, one day, after Bessie told the boy to drink all his milk, he threw his silver mug at her. To punish him, Bessie explained the mug was too good for him and put it away. The nasty little boy complained to his grandfather,” she spluttered. “What’s more, if any of one our sons ever threw a mug of milk at anyone Mister Cooper would have thrashed him.”

  Thoughtful, Dominic gazed at her, grateful because his father never applied the rod while he, his brothers and sisters grew up. Indeed Papa never allowed anyone else to do so, although he had his own means of punishment. The worst were gentle reproaches and expressions of disappointment concerning the culprit’s lack of conduct. On such occasions Dominic’s guilt induced him to wish the floor would open and swallow him up. Anything would have been preferable to being the cause of his dear father’s displeasure.

  Mrs Cooper broke into his thoughts. “My poor girl’s in a cell with criminals and women, who are…are no better than they should be.”

  “Lord Castleton’s father is dead, is he not?” Dominic asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Her cheeks reddened. “If he weren’t been killed by Boney’s soldier, I hope he would never have allowed his son to become a young limb of Satan.”

  ‘Young limb of Satan’! Too strong a term for a child, who lacked discipline. “What of the child’s mother, Mrs Cooper.”

  She shook her head. “Bessie says she is a sweet lady, but every time she tells the boy to behave the earl pokes his long nose in where it’s not welcome. So the child thinks he can do whatever he pleases.”

  “I see. Now, please tell me if I am wrong,” Dominic fought his way through the real meaning of his parishioner’s distressed floods of words. “Lord Castleton claimed Bessie would not allow him to drink out of his silver mug.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where did Bessie put the mug?” he asked, not immune to the plea in her tear-filled hazel eyes.

  “In the cupboard in the nursery along with the child’s silver porringer, his knife, fork and spoon, and I don’t know what else.”

  “So, where is it? Why does the earl think she stole it and not the other silver items? If Bessie were a thief, surely she would have taken all of them.”

  “I only know, sir, that four days ago, after she ate breakfast in the servants’ hall, the old limb of Satan was waiting for her when she returned to the nursery. She says the earl was in a fair taking. He ranted at her for pinching his grandson’s cheeks. Then he ordered her to fetch the mug. She couldn’t find it, so he accused her of stealing it.”

  Dominic frowned. “Surely she was not the only one who could have taken it.”

  “Yes, that’s true, Mister Markham. Bessie says the earl lost his temper when she tried to explain. Please, sir, speak to his lordship. He’ll listen to you.” Mrs Cooper burst into noisy tears and covered her face with her hands.

  Of course, he must do whatever he could to help the Coopers. Nevertheless, Dominic doubted the eccentric earl would yield to any representation he could make on Bessie’s behalf.

  Chapter Four

  Appreciative of warm sunshine and a slight breeze, Dominic considered it a perfect day on which to enjoy riding in the country. Familiar with the area in and around St Albans he approached Clarencieux Abbey from The Gallop through the woods.

  After much thought, he decided to try to reason with Pennington before he visited the unfortunate Bessie in gaol. Although her mother was convinced of the girl’s innocence, he could not be certain of it. Nevertheless, Bessie had not been the only person with an opportunity to steal Arthur’s mug

  At the end of The Gallop edged with oak trees, he rode his horse around the path along the perimeter of silver water lapping lazily on the edge of the lake. The immaculate lawns stretching towards Clarencieux Abbey, came into view. Dominic chuckled. Pennington’s massive country seat no more suited Hertfordshire than domes of the Prince Regent’s pavilion in Brighton, which once provoked a wit to say ‘it looks as though St Paul’s Cathedral has pupped’.

  His lips tightened. A fraction of the money spent on remodelling the earl’s Gothic mansion could alleviate much suffering. Dominic only needed to think of the pitiful state in which prisoners were incarcerated to be convinced of reform was necessary. Guilty or innocent, he did not care to contemplate the condition of the cell in which Bessie was imprisoned. If he ever took a seat in upper house he would make his voice heard, and not only on the subject of prison reform.

  Dominic did not subscribe to the common belief that since the poor were destined to either slave for a living or be servants, they did not need an education, In his opinion, every man, woman and child should learn to read the Bible. Dominic sighed, his father rarely interested himself in such matters.

  In his opinion his father should address the House on the subject of appalling London slums in which sanitation did not exist and crime flourished. Dominic condemned a society in which a substantial proportion of its capital city’s population of what? - approximately half a million people - lived in such conditions. Besides, for fear of rebellion, Britannia should not be blind to the causes of the French revolution for fear of-

  A scream ended his thoughts. Where did it come from? The lake? Dominic scanned the water. He cantered towards it, the mare’s hoofs rhythmically thudding across the grass.

  “Help,” a shrill voice cried out.

  Good Lord! A child was struggling some twenty-five yards from the shore. Dominic drew rein and dismounted. He flung his hat and riding crop onto the strand and tugged off his boots. Without pausing to tether his horse, he waded into the cold water. When it reached his chest, he swam with strong, practised strokes towards the panic stricken child.

  Due to the weight of his sodden riding habit he made
slow progress. The child, a boy identified by his jacket, sank beneath the surface. Dominic increased his effort to reach him. When the youngster bobbed up again, arms thrashing, Dominic fumbled for the back of jacket.

  He towed the limp boy towards the beach, aware that a more sensible man would have taken off his jacket before he entered the water. In the shallows, somewhat out of breath, Dominic heaved the unconscious lad into his arms and, carried him to safety.

  Two women ran across the lawn towards him.

  “’Twern”t my fault,” the first one dressed in a plain grey gown and pinafore, repeated several times in between sobs.

  “Is my son breathing!” the other woman called out, the words seeming to force themselves from her.

  Dominic nodded. He laid the boy down on the grass, turned him over and thumped his back.

  ‘Stop!” the second woman exclaimed. “You are hurting my son.”

  “For his own good. The boy is barely breathing. He needs to spew up the water he ingested,” Dominic explained.

  The child spluttered. Water trickled out of his mouth.

  “Please don’t alarm yourself, madam, he will recover soon. I suggest a warm bed and some hot milk laced with brandy.” With disfavour, he eyed the grey-clad female. “Please order that young woman to stop wailing.”

  “Jane, you heard the gentleman. Be quiet.”

  Dominic looked up into the lady’s tearful, bright-blue eyes fringed with long, thick lashes. The petite lady could not be more than some five feet tall. He seemed to miss a heartbeat. A fairy woman, crowned with a wealth of glossy dark brown hair.

  The dainty woman fluttered her small hands. Beautiful ones with long fingers graced by oval nails with white-half moons. His response struck a chord in his heart. One which he did not care to examine, although his body responded with its own urgent tune.

  The boy coughed and vomited water. Freed from the spell unconsciously cast over him by the unknown lady, Dominic turned her son over, and helped him to sit.

  “Arthur,” his mother murmured.