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

by Rosemary Morris

  Before he could comment, the front door opened and his sister came outside. “Lady Castleton,” Gwenifer greeted her with a smile. “How good of you to call. I was about to tell Dominic nuncheon is ready. Please join us.”

  Their guest looked from him to his sister. “I don’t want to take advantage of your hospitality.”

  “You could not. I am delighted to see you.” Gwenifer held the door wide open. “Come in. Lady Castleton, may I put your hat, gloves and riding crop on the table in the hall? Dominic, what are you thinking of? Carry that package of papers for her ladyship.”

  “Lady Gwenifer, please call me Harriet, for I hope we shall become close friends.”

  When Lady Castleton stripped off her gloves, once again Dominic admired her small white hands with long fingers and oval nails with white half-moons at their base. In his opinion, her appearance was perfect. She might never become a toast of the town - in fact he had never heard of a widow being one - yet her grace, her feminine curves, oval face and those incredible eyes made him forget she was not a conventional beauty.

  “Thank you, I shall call you by your Christian name. Please call me Gwenifer.” His sister gestured to the apron she wore over a plain, lilac muslin gown. “What must you think of me? Instead of sewing a fine seam I have been tidying the garden at the rear of the rectory.”

  Harriet sighed. “Something I would enjoy, but my father-in-law’s gardeners don’t like it if I cut a single rose or pick herbs.

  “As I told Mister Markham, I followed the drum for most of my life, so there was never time to cultivate a garden.

  “Mamma loved flowers. In winter quarters we tried to grow them in pots indoors.” Lost in the memory of her bitter-sweet past, she pressed a hand over her heart. “Unfortunately, we were always obliged to leave our plants behind when the next campaign began.”

  Dominic fervently wished she could have been spared so many horrors and so much grief.

  Gwenifer slipped her hand through the crook of Lady Castleton’s elbow. “What an exciting life you have led, Harriet. I fear mine has been too dull to relate. Now, please follow me to the dining room.”

  To Dominic, a shadow seemed to cross Lady Castleton’s face before she spoke.

  “Excitement is not always pleasant. The losses and severe injuries after each battle are heart-breaking. Knowing one will never again see particular friends, and to be conscious of others dying, cuts one to pieces.” She stepped into the room where nuncheon was laid out on a table spread with a linen cloth and silver flatware. “I apologise; such matters should not be spoken of in polite society.”

  “If we are to be friends I hope you will always feel free to say whatever you wish to us.” Dominic tried to imagine Harriet when she was a child. He wished she had been as carefree as his sisters while they grew up, instead of a little girl burdened with hardships.

  Gwenifer removed her hand from Harriet’s arm. “Now you are comfortably settled in England, maybe my brother can help you to lay your sad memories to rest.”

  Harriet shook her head. “I doubt anyone can.”

  “Perhaps, with time, they will become less painful,” Dominic suggested.

  Her eyes darkened. “I don’t want to put all my tragic memories behind me. There are so many splendid men who must never be forgotten.”

  What could he say? To gain time before he spoke, he put her papers on a sideboard, turned around and pulled out a shabby dining room chair. “Lady Castleton, please sit yourself down,” he said, unable to think of words that would comfort her.

  His sister clutched his arm, her eyes misty. While Lady Castleton spoke, more than likely Gwenifer was remembering their brothers, who numbered among the dead.

  Lady Castleton gazed at them. “Those who either gave their lives for us or were crippled to uphold the Rule of Law, and prevent Napoleon sweeping away the old regime must never be forgotten.”

  How he admired her. Few ladies of his acquaintance would know what the Rule of Law was. “Perhaps, you should write a book describing your experiences. I am sure there are many people who would like to read it.”

  Gwenifer nodded her agreement. “I would,” she declared.

  Harriet sat. “An excellent idea. I never thought of writing one. I could base a book on my journals.” She unfolded her napkin. “Thank you for the suggestion, Mister Markham.”

  * * *

  Harriet chose a ham sandwich from a plate her hostess offered her.

  “If you visit us again, please bring your son,” Gwenifer requested, while Mister Markham poured wine.” It would be a pleasure to meet him. I am prodigiously fond of children and wished my late husband and I had been blessed with a child.” She bent her head. “My brother would remind me, all of us must surrender to God’s will.”

  “Indeed.” Harriet believed unreasonable God had much to answer for. She could never submit to His will, which deprived her of her parents and husband. Oh dear, her thoughts really would not do in a rectory. She must guard her tongue, something she had been unaccustomed to until she and Arthur lived with the earl.

  “Judging by its appearance, Saint Michael’s and All Saints is ancient. If I am right, the building has weathered better than the one on my father-in-law’s estate. Is the interior of your church in equally good repair?”

  Mister Markham put down his coffee cup, which she noticed was similar to the new service ordered by the earl from the pottery founded by Josiah Wedgewood. Unless the cream ware was a gift, it seemed the tithes the rector received were substantial, and his annual stipend was generous. She wrinkled her forehead while she considered the matter. Maybe he also received an allowance from his father, or perhaps he had inherited money. Whatever the case, when he married, his wife would be fortunate, not only because the gentleman was well provided for.

  “Lady Castleton,” Mister Markham’s voice interrupted her thoughts, “you seem preoccupied. I offered to show you the church after nuncheon.”

  “I beg your pardon for my rude inattention, sir. My wits wandered.”

  “Would it be impolite to ask where they wandered to?” Mister Markham seemed to be on the verge of laughter.

  “Indeed, it would,” she replied aware of her blush. “To answer your first question, yes I would like to see the church.

  “In the Iberian Peninsula I enjoyed visiting many fine Roman Catholic Churches. Even the humblest contained crucifixes and statues of Christ, saints and Jesus’s mother. When I saw them, I could not help thinking they worshipped my God in a different way to me. After all, surely He is the supreme being no matter by which name he is called.” Horrified by allowing herself to voice such thoughts to an Anglican rector, who most likely shared his people’s mistrust, if not hatred, of papists, she covered her mouth with her hand.

  Dominic chuckled. “There is no need to look like a stricken child whose misdemeanour has been discovered. I have scant liking for the Church of Rome. But there is a gentleman of that persuasion, who lives in the parish. From time to time, we meet at card parties or elsewhere, where we exchange a few cautious words on the topic of our respective faiths, which we are careful not to allow to become heated. Besides, I admire your wisdom. After all, we know, there is only one God, although people give Him different names and worship Him in different ways. I daresay Hindus, Jews, Buddhists and Muslims think their religion is the only true one.”

  “So, you are not a fanatic, Mister Markham?”

  “I hope not.” He contemplated her. “Please don’t misunderstand me, I adhere to the teachings of the Anglican Church.”

  Gwenifer patted his hand. “And you are respected for it in the parish, although one of your parishioners, odious Mister Denning, thinks you dress too finely and should not gamble on the turn of a card.”

  She faced Harriet. “A piece of apple pie and some cream. The fruit is from my brother’s orchard on his glebe, which borders the Rectory on the south. The land provides well for us. The cream is from one of his cows, and the butter is made from it and
so is the cheese in some of the sandwiches.”

  Dominic laughed. He shook a finger at his sister. “I doubt Lady Castleton is interested my produce. It is insignificant compared to from the Earl of Pennington’s home farm and glass houses.”

  Heedless of good manners, Harriet propped her elbows on the table in her enthusiasm to assure him he was mistaken. “I would be pleased to exchange the magnificence of Clarencieux for a house or cottage with half an acre or more, to provide most of my food and my son’s.”

  Gwenifer stared at her with obvious astonishment. “You would prefer not to be waited on by a flock of servants?” She looked around the shabby dining room. “Can you imagine how much work you would have to do? In spite of my brother’s servants I often help in the kitchen or dairy.”

  “By choice, not because it is necessary,” Mister Markham intervened.

  His sister ignored his interruption. “And now, Harriet, we are to refurbish the Rectory. My brother insists I must not order the wallpaper with a Chinese design because it might offend some of his parishioners.” Her eyes shone. “Nevertheless, I am looking forward to choosing the material for new curtains, fresh paint and -”

  Dominic raised his eyebrows. “Gwenifer, I fear you will bore her ladyship.”

  The rector’s smile removed a possible sting from his rebuke.

  “I am not bored, Mister Markham. You cannot imagine how often Mamma and I wanted to redecorate our quarters. Alas, we never settled in one place for long enough to make it worthwhile. I also helped in the kitchen. Even now, I know how to make a Portuguese soup called caldo verde, with potatoes, kale, and spicy sausage. I also know how to cook salted cod, which is a favourite in Portugal, and a delicious desert, arroz doce, rice pudding sprinkled with powdered cinnamon.” She leaned forward. “I have not milked a cow. I have milked many goats. So please disabuse yourself of the notion that I am a fine lady.”

  Gwenifer’s jaw gaped for a moment. “Your life in foreign lands was quite different to my life in England. I suppose there were many ladies obliged to-” she broke off, obviously unable to think of something tactful.

  Dominic’s shoulders heaved. “Be careful, Gwenifer, you are floundering in a quagmire from which there is no escape.”

  Gwenifer tapped her brother’s knuckles with the end of her spoon. “Well, Harriet, if you will not take offence –”

  “Ouch!” he exclaimed, pretending she hurt him. “My dear sister, be careful, not to end what seems to be the beginning of a new friendship with imprudent words.”

  “Do be quiet, Dominic.” Gwenifer rapped him across the knuckles again, this time a little harder. “Harriet, at the risk of offending you, may I advise you not to mention cooking and milking at the ball Dominic told me your father-in-law will hold.”

  ‘Thank you for your advice.” Harriet replied, although she was not in the habit of mentioning such subjects. She had only mentioned them in response to Gwenifer’s admission.

  Her hostess clasped her hands together, her eyes and cheeks glowing. “I hope Pennington will invite us, it seems so long since I danced.”

  “I shall make sure your names are on the list of guests to be invited. If they are not, I will ask the earl for permission to include them.” Harriet glanced at Mister Markham. She would be delighted if he asked her to dance.

  Like a child, her hostess clapped her hands, stilled them and smiled at her. “Harriet, are you sure I cannot tempt you to have another piece of pie?”

  Harriet shook her head. “It is delicious, but I have eaten more than enough.”

  Gwenifer glanced at her brother. “Some more, Dominic?”

  “No thank you, but please compliment Cook on an excellent nuncheon.” He stood. “Lady Castleton shall we visit the church?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Before we go, would you like me to put your papers in my library?”

  She nodded.

  Bright-eyed, Gwenifer looked at her. “Afterward, perhaps you would like to help me choose one of the three wallpapers I like for the drawing room.”

  “I came to consult Mister Markham, so I doubt I will have time to do so today. But I would be delighted to visit you again, and help you choose.”

  “I shall look forward to it.” The door opened. “Ah there is my brother, his hat in hand, ready to conduct you to the church.”

  Harriet stood. “How kind of you Mister Markham.”

  After Harriet arranged her hat, and pulled on her gloves, Gwenifer opened the front door. “While you admire St Michael’s and All Saints, I shall busy myself with the herb bed. No, no, Dominic don’t say it isn’t a task for a lady. You know I enjoy gardening.”

  “Don’t forget to wear your wide brimmed straw, your skin burns easily,” he cautioned his sister, all brotherly concern. “Besides, Mamma will scold me if the sun darkens your complexion.”

  Goodness, what would Mister Markham have thought of her sun tanned when she was in Portugal and Spain? She peered into a mirror on the wall, grateful to the abigail, whom the earl engaged for her, who suggested various creams and lotions to lighten her complexion and her hands.

  Mister Markham settled his round black hat on his head of slightly disordered hair. “Shall we go, Lady Castleton? It is only a short distance to the church.”

  Harriet nodded and ignored her urge to smooth back the curls on his forehead.

  Chapter Nine

  Side by side Harriet and Dominic walked along the neatly raked gravel path to the garden gate, which he opened for her. In the lane, which separated the Rectory from the sun-baked one leading to Queens Langley Village, they followed the line of the flint stone wall that enclosed the front garden.

  Dominic paused by the lych-gate beyond which stood the large, solid church with a tower faced with flint. “Look up at the inscription, Lady Castleton.”

  Harriet gazed at the weathered, wooden roof shaped like an inverted V, and read the carved words below it. “This is the Gate to Heaven.”

  She looked at the graveyard in front of the church. The sight reminded her of Edgar, her father, friends and many soldiers. A shiver down her spine unsettled her. Many fine men lay buried, not in alien soil instead of their homeland, often with little more than a hastily made wooden cross to mark the place.

  Harriet gestured to the nearest tombstone. Another shiver ran down her spine. “I hope everyone, who once worshipped in St Michael and All Saints and are now interred here, passed through the Gate to Heaven.

  “Amen.” Dominic gestured to the church door. “This way.”

  She stepped along the wide flag-stoned path. A posy of blood red roses on a child’s small grave tore at her heart. Never, ever, could she repay the rector for saving her son. If Arthur had drowned she doubted she would have found the strength to live.

  Dominic pushed open the door. Inside the church, he led her through a large vestibule to the nave.

  Harriet gazed up at a stained glass window above the chancel, which depicted the archangel Michael, the leader of heavenly hosts, a golden halo around his head, and a flaming sword in his hand. ‘It is glorious.”

  “Yes, my lady, it is exquisite. The colours glow. Whenever I see it, I can only thank God for a miracle.” He shrugged. “Papists believe Saint Michael is the protector of the church. Perhaps, he intervened to prevent Cromwell’s soldiers from desecrating this church. Anyway, I am grateful because the window is intact. I am also thankful because they spared the angels overhead.”

  Harriet tilted her head to look up at twelve life-sized wooden carvings of plump-cheeked, curly-haired angels, each of which played a different musical instrument. Arranged opposite each other, one pair’s hands were folded in prayer, four others inclined their sculpted heads towards the soaring roof, while two, seemed to gaze at her compassionately, as though they understood how sorry she was for herself.

  She took a deep breath. My parents disapproved of self-pity. I should be grateful for what I have and not to complain about whatever I lack. After all Arth
ur and I have a roof over our heads, fine clothes, enough to eat and much more. If only my father-in-law-”

  “You seem sad. May I be of service to you?”

  The Rector’s voice brought her back to the present. She forced herself to smile before she chose her words carefully. “You have already offered to help me. I don’t intend to impose on you by asking you do more.”

  “Please don’t consider me impertinent for saying that although the Earl of Pennington provides for you and your son, I understand that, apart from your son, you feel alone in the world.” He gestured towards the altar. “Perhaps prayer would help.”

  “Maybe.” Harriet looked down at the flagstones made uneven by those who walked along the aisle for centuries. She should have made a more gracious reply, but, previously, she had prayed on her knees for hours in the hope God would help her? And when He did, nothing could have prepared her for her autocratic father-in-law.

  “Lady Castleton. If you wish to pray I shall wait outside for you.”

  “No, thank you, at the moment I don’t wish to,” she replied, somewhat flustered because he might condemn her lack of piety. “I might pray later at Clarencieux.” As she spoke she had resisted the temptation to cross her fingers behind her back. “Now, please tell me about Saint Michael and All Saints. Is it very old?”

  “Yes, it is, according to Reverend Jamieson, the previous incumbent of the parish, who interested himself in its history. The tower, which is flint-faced, was built by Anglo Saxons. The font is Norman and there is a medieval monument to one of my ancestresses, who died at the age of twenty giving birth to her son. Apart from that memorial, there are two seventeenth century black and white marble tombs in which the sixth Earl of Faucon and his wife are interred.

  “Deaths and more deaths.” Harriet muttered, unable to conceal her bitterness.

  “Which are inevitable, Lady Castleton. We should not grieve for departed Christian souls. Before he laid his head on the block, the first King Charles said he would go from a corruptible world to an incorruptible one? Let us comfort ourselves with his words.”