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

by Rosemary Morris

  Georgianne risked looking at him in the hope her mention of Lady Castleton’s situation softened the deep lines on his face. “After all, her ladyship’s late husband lost his life in the service of his king and country.”

  Had she begun a battle she could not win?

  “He died before I transferred to The Glory Boys,” Tarrant interrupted.

  “Even so, surely you will acknowledge you should ensure a Glory Boy’s widow and orphan are comfortably situated, and who could be at ease under Pennington’s roof?”

  Her husband’s face had not relaxed? No. She sighed. If she strengthened her attack, she might convince him. “Tarrant, perhaps her Lady Castleton’s personal invitation is a cry for help. Could you forgive yourself for ignoring it if a tragedy occurred? You think Pennington is a madman. Who knows how he might treat his defenceless daughter-in-law and grandson? I cannot bear the thought of it.”

  Tarrant glared at her with darkened eyes that predicted an outburst. “Damnation, sorry for swearing, Georgie, do you expect me to pretend I don’t bear a grudge, no, much more than a grudge, against the maniac when I think of what might have happened to you or your sisters?”

  With apparent artlessness she dabbed her dry eyes with a dainty handkerchief. “Yes, I do expect you to pretend, because you have a kinder heart than that of any other gentleman I know. If my kind-hearted father, had survived the war, he would tell you to do the right thing.”

  “Damn it, don’t start crying, Georgie. Oh, my apology for swearing again. I know you still grieve for your father.”

  Yes, even now she still missed her beloved father who died fighting against the French in the Iberian Peninsula. Eyes wide, she gazed at Tarrant, with the hope he would not counter-attack. “An officer of your calibre should protect the innocent.”

  “You need not repeat yourself, Madam.”

  Georgianne clasped her hands together. “Please imagine what you would expect a fellow officer to do should I and our son be in similar circumstances.”

  “How in God’s name do you so frequently manage to outmanoeuvre me?”

  Georgianne smiled, amused by his question, which she did not answer. “I knew you are too kind to refuse to attend the ball to find out if Lady Castleton needs our assistance.” Regardless of disarranging the piles of correspondence on the coverlet, Georgianne cast herself into her husband’s arms and hugged him. “I admire you more than anyone else I know.”

  He laughed, holding her close. “Are you certain you wish to accept Pennington’s hospitality?”

  “Under other circumstances I would never choose to.” Triumphant, she smiled. “However, he is already under an obligation to me for introducing him to his daughter-in-law and grandson. What better retribution can I serve him than by making him squirm when my presence reminds him of it?”

  “Heart of my heart, before I married you I never imagined being any lady’s devoted slave.” Tarrant shook his head, and waved a finger at her. “Come to think of it, I did not know you are so devious.”

  Georgianne took a deep breath. And he did not know the extent of her artfulness. Later, she would tell him they would spend two nights under the earl’s roof. Even f he erupted, spewing metaphorical lava, she would express remorse, her determination to help Harriet would not waver.

  * * *

  With Bessie in charge of the nursery, and Harriet’s resolution to wrest jurisdiction of her son from the earl, Arthur’s conduct improved. Well aware her son never wasted an opportunity to try to manipulate his grandfather, to minimise it, Harriet continued to ride with Arthur and her father-in-law before breakfast. She also supervised his lessons. However, excitement over the forthcoming ball spread from the basement to the attics. Today, Arthur plagued her with innumerable questions instead of paying attention to his book.

  “No more questions about the ball, Arthur. See if you can read these words,” Harriet said, soon after her return from the Rectory.

  Their heads bent over the book on the escritoire in her dressing room, Arthur sighed. “Mamma, I did. my sums, and now I am too tired for any more lessons.”

  “I shall tell Bessie to serve your dinner early. After you have eaten it, she will put you to bed.”

  Her son thrust his jaw out, and pressed his lips into a mutinous line.

  “You may choose whether to read or return to the nursery.”

  Arthur looked down at his favourite book the tale of Cock Robin’s marriage to Jenny Wren. “C, o, c, k, he sounded.” He frowned. “R, o, b, i, n.” He looked up at her. “Cock Robin.”

  Harriet patted his dimpled hand. “Excellent.”

  After fifteen minutes, she closed the book. “I am proud of your for reading so well.”

  Arthur stood and wound his arms around her neck. “Grandfather says I will meet some of his visitors before the ball. Please say I may.”

  So, her boy was beginning to realise, where he was concerned, the earl’s decisions were not final. Triumphant, she smiled fondly at him. “Yes, you may.”

  “Mamma. Grandfather told me I am going to meet my aunts and some of my cousins.”

  So, her father-in-law wanted to introduce his heir to relations and those guests, who would stay overnight at Clarencieux. She hoped the Tarrants would be among them.

  “Please, say yes, Mamma.”

  How could she resist the heartfelt plea? She turned sideways on her chair. “Yes.”

  Arthur clambered onto her lap. “Thank you, oh, thank you. Will my aunts like me?”

  “I am sure they will.” Again she asked herself what her sisters-in-law’s reaction to them would be.

  Her husband only mentioned his much older sisters on rare occasions. On one, he remarked. ‘They might have benefitted if our father read and put into practice, Mary Wollstonecraft’s book Thoughts on the Education of Daughters.’

  “Edgar!” she exclaimed. “I did not know you are familiar with her book.”

  Her husband shrugged. “All I shall say is when both of my sisters married, they were glad to escape from Father’s strict discipline.”

  “What of your mother?”

  “I wish I could remember her. Anyway, according to my older brother, if my father had read, and been favourably influenced by Wollstonecraft’s Vindication of the Rights of Women, my parents’ marriage might have been happier.”

  It seemed she questioned him only yesterday when she had asked. “Have you read both books?”

  “Yes, my brother interested himself in such matters. He recommended them.” With a self-depreciatory smile, he added. “I could never treat you or any children we may have with my father’s severity.as severity.”

  Her thoughtful, tender husband would have been an excellent father. Tears gathered in her eyes. She brushed them away before Arthur noticed them.

  Harriet hugged their precious son and kissed his rounded cheeks, so different to his hollow ones when they first met the earl. Every day, she thanked God for Arthur’s restored health. Perhaps, in spite of her father-in-law’s faults she should be more grateful to him.

  “Mamma, you will be the most beautiful lady at the ball.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart, but I doubt it.”

  “You will, because you have the kindest eyes in the world.”

  Sometimes he amazed her. She held him a little closer.

  A tap on the door announced Bessie’s arrival to take Arthur back to the nursery. He slid off her lap and, after she assured him she would bid him goodnight to him before he went to sleep, he left with his hand in Bessie’s.

  Time to change her gown before she dined with the earl. In her dressing room, while Plymouth unfastened buttons and ties, Harriet wondered what impression her sisters-in-law, Lady Margaret and Lady Isabel would form of her. Daughters of an earl, would they be arrogant, because they considered her almost beneath their notice? Perhaps both of them feared they and their children would be deprived if their father also bequeathed everything that was not entailed to Arthur.

  She sat
at her dressing table to allow Plymouth to arrange her hair in a knot on the crown of her head, and to coax glossy, pomaded curls into place across her forehead and around her cheeks.

  Plymouth tucked fragrant white roses into her hair. “Your pearls, my lady?”

  Harriet nodded, almost overwhelmed by the thought of meeting her sisters-in-law and other relatives by marriage. More than likely they would not welcome her into the family. She sat straighter while Plymouth fastened the pearl necklace, part of the suite her father-in-law presented to her. Well, whatever they might think of her, she would not allow them to intimidate her.

  Pearl earrings and arm clasps in place, Harriet put on her elbow length white gloves. A glance in the pier mirror between the tall windows, reflected her silk gown, the colour of cream. Not a beauty, she decided, no one could fault either her deportment or her clothes. And, she thought, aware of her blush, I know Mister Markham admires me.

  “If I may say so, my lady,” Plymouth began, “you do me credit.”

  Astonished, Harriet turned around. “I beg your pardon.”

  “It is a pleasure to serve a lady dressed in the latest fashion.”

  “Thank you,” Harriet replied, unable to think of anything else to say.

  While Plymouth busied herself putting away discarded articles of clothing, Harriet went to the nursery, where she said goodnight to Arthur, before she made her way to the drawing room.

  The earl inclined his head to her. “Ah, my child, a word before we dine. You are to oversee the arrangements for my guests’ accommodation, and other matters such as ensuring there are fresh flowers throughout the abbey. Also, pay particular attention to the ballroom, around which I have arranged for ornamental plants in pots besides garlands of flowers and greenery on the walls.

  “I shall do attend to it, Papa.” Her cheeks burned with annoyance. She wished her father-in-law phrased his demands as requests instead of orders.

  * * *

  During the week before the ball, Harriet resented the duties the earl assigned to her, ones which his secretary, steward and butler could have undertaken. Every time she sat down to write the next chapter of her book, or decided to visit Mister Markham to find out whether he had received a reply from the attorney, she received another instruction from the earl.

  With reluctance, she was forced to give less time to Arthur, who rode without her.

  At breakfast, on the day of the ball, Arthur’s eyes shone. “Mamma, I did not fall off when Prince jumped over a ditch.”

  Horrified, Harriet stared at her father-in-law. “You should not have allowed Arthur to take such a risk.”

  Pennington’s eyes mocked her. “You must not dote on the boy so much.”

  Tight-lipped she refrained from arguing in Arthur’s presence. Later, alone with her father-in-law, she would remonstrate.

  “The ballroom?” the earl asked.

  “Is festooned with garlands of flowers and greenery, and large urns filled with plants have been between the windows.”

  “The great hall?” he asked.

  “The housekeeper assures me it has been cleaned from top to bottom. The banners have been shaken free from dust, the shields cleaned and the table is spread with the finest linen and set with Wedgewood china, crystal glasses and silverware.”

  Her father-in-law’s smile did not warm his eyes. “The bedrooms?”

  “Everything has been done to ensure the visitors’ comfort. Your daughters have been assigned the rooms in which your butler told me they usually stay, Major and Mrs Tarrant –”

  “Enough.” Pennington waved a finger at her. “I did not ask for the details. This morning, confirm the menu with the chef.”

  He was losing patience because she had frequently discussed it with him. And who could blame him?

  “I would ask you to choose the wines with my butler if you were familiar with my cellar – or should I say vault? – in which, for many years, I have collected the finest vintages.” He indicated his cup. “More coffee.”

  Harriet filled it.

  “This evening, we shall dine later than usual,” Pennington continued. “At four o’clock, my guests will join us in the drawing room where I will introduce you to those whom you have not already met. At five o’clock, Arthur will join us so I may present him to the company.” He dissected the kidney on his plate with a sword-sharp knife, and speared a piece with the prongs of his fork. “You look fatigued, my child. It is understandable because you were not raised to be mistress of a nobleman’s country seat. I suggest you rest after nuncheon.”

  Arthur, who remained silent while he ate his eggs, ham and a buttered roll, put his knife and fork down. “I am looking forward to meeting my aunts and my cousins ’cause I never had any before.”

  “You are mistaken, Arthur. You have always had cousins, whom you will soon meet,” the earl explained, before Harriet could ask Arthur to say because instead of ’cause. “Today, you will meet my oldest daughter, your aunt, Lady Templeton, who is married to John Templeton, Viscount Buckley.

  “You will also meet my younger daughter, Lady Isabel, Lord Marriot’s widow, and –”

  “My mamma is a widow,” Arthur interrupted.

  “Just so,” his grandfather murmured. “I intended to say, you will meet her son, John, Lord Marriot, Earl of Wareham.”

  “Will he play with me?” Arthur asked.

  Pennington raised his plucked eyebrows, the question obviously surprising him. “He is eighteen years-old, so I doubt it.”

  “Oh,” Arthur murmured, his disappointment obvious. Harriet caught her lower lip between her teeth. Was her son lonely? If his father had survived, by now, Arthur might have a younger brother or sister to play with. She decided she would invite well-born children from neighbouring families to visit him after the ball.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Harriet gazed at her reflection in the mirror with admiration for her patent gold net ball gown, worn over turquoise silk. Above the low cut bodice her white skin glowed. Set in gold, the sapphire necklace and earrings enhanced her eyes.

  “A glass of wine, my lady?” Plymouth suggested.

  Harriet shook her head. “No thank you. Tonight, so much wine will flow freely so I must be careful not to imbibe too much.”

  Plymouth adjusted the tiara set with diamonds and sapphires. “Perfect, my lady. If I may say so, you will be much admired.”

  “Thank you.” Harriet’s hands trembled. “What would her sisters-in-law think of her? She slipped the loop of her painted fan over her left wrist.

  Harriet paused for a moment. She scrutinised her mirror image in the pier glass to make sure no detail of her toilette had been neglected.

  * * *

  “You are tardy,” Pennington remarked, when Harriet entered the drawing room.”

  “My apologies, I needed to attend to one or two matters before I changed into my ball gown.”

  Harriet glanced at ladies, who wore exquisite gowns and valuable jewels, and at fashionable gentlemen.

  Her father-in-law held out his arm. Trying to force her hand encased in a white kid glove not to tremble, Harriet placed the tips of her fingers on it.

  “Come.” The earl guided her to three ladies and two gentlemen seated in a group at one side of the hearth, in which stood an enormous urn filled with greenery and scarlet roses.

  Pennington eyed the group. “Lady Castleton, the lady on the right is my daughter Lady Katherine. She is seated next to her husband, Lord Templeton, Viscount Buckley.”

  Grateful to her father-in-law’s secretary, who had added notes describing some of those on the guest list, Harriet eyed her forty-two-year-old sister-in-law. Gowned in lime green satin, the generously curved mother of two married daughters and four sons, inclined her head instead of speaking, the expression in her hazel eyes unfathomable.

  Buckley, dressed in the height of fashion, but without starched shirt points too high to turn his head, stood and bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Castleton.�
�

  Pennington cleared his throat. “My younger daughter, Lady Isabel, is seated opposite Lady Katherine.

  Isabel, a slender widow, elegant in lavender silk and diamond and amethyst jewellery, greeted Harriet with a wistful smile.

  “Lady Castleton.” The lady spoke in a faint voice. She dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief perfumed with eau-de-cologne. “The scent is so refreshing,” she murmured, then looked up at a young gentleman, who stood at one side of the fireplace. “If your dear father were alive he would have cossetted me on the journey here.”

  Her son shook his head. “Nonsense, Mamma, he was kind but not the type of gentleman to cosset anyone. Moreover, he would not have pandered to your languishing airs any more than I do.” His delightful smile, and a kiss on his melodramatic parent’s pale cheek, banished the sting of his forthright words.

  Nevertheless, for a second, irritation flickered across Lady Isabel’s face while she held out her hand to Harriet. “So, you are, my poor, dear brother Edgar’s wife,” she murmured. “Allow me to introduce you to my son, John, Lord Marriot, Earl of Wareham.”

  “I am delighted to meet you, Aunt Harriet. Please call me Jack, for the rest of the family do, and tell me when I may meet my Cousin George?”

  At first sight, Harriet liked him. “Soon, when your grandfather presents, him.”

  Pennington frowned. “Jack, I would prefer you to call your cousin Arthur.”

  “Dear Papa is so eccentric,” the widow purred, like a cat with sheathed claws.

  “No more than you Mamma,” muttered her undutiful son, causing Harriet to suppress an amused smile.

  “Your unkindness and the journey here has exhausted me,” Isabel lamented. “Where are my smelling salts?”

  “You don’t need them, Mamma, so don’t playact.”

  Although Jack spoke gently, Harriet suspected his mother wearied him beyond endurance, and that he was on the verge of losing patience with her. He inclined his head then, before she could speak, he strode out of the drawing room.

  Pennington laughed. “Well, Isabel, you must admit that although your son’s only eighteen years old, he’s got spirit. One day, if you are not careful, one day, you will regret your foolish, die away airs.”