Monday’s Child
By Rosemary Morris
Digital ISBNs
EPUB 978-1-77299-189-5
Kindle 978-1-77299-188-8
Print ISBN
Print 978-1-77299-190-1
Copyright 2nd Edition 2016 Rosemary Morris
Cover Art 2016 by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Dedication
To my grandson Ketan, who is very kind and helpful, and achieves excellent results when he competed at swimming competitions and has won bronze, silver and gold medals in.
Chapter One
12th March, 1815
Rue Royale, Brussels
Helen Whitley frowned at her reflection in the full-length mirror of her luxurious bedchamber in her brother-in-law’s rented house. Pringle, her middle-aged dresser, bent to tweak one of the frills above the hem of the new, cream gown into place, and Helen sighed with pleasure at the sight of soft silk that flowed from beneath her breasts.
Once more, she scrutinised the low-cut bodice, ornamented with tiny seed pearls. Although, in her own opinion, she was too tall for beauty, she was the epitome of a well-dressed young lady ready to attend a ball.
The expression in the green eyes, gazing at her from the mirror, softened. Soon her brother-in-law’s comrade in arms, Major, Viscount Langley, would arrive in Brussels and propose marriage to her. She would accept and insist they loved each other too dearly to delay their wedding. Afterward, she would be free from her brother-in-law’s charity, which, to be just, the gallant Major Tarrant never seemed to begrudge.
Another long sigh escaped Helen when she coaxed a pomaded curl into place on her forehead. Perhaps she was an ungrateful wretch to find it so difficult to be dependent on her older sister, Georgianne, and her husband. After all, through marriage to Tarrant, their cousin-in-law, Georgianne saved her and their younger sister Barbara from their mother, who imbibed excessive amounts of alcohol and wine.
Helen shuddered at the memory of Mother whipping Georgianne with a riding crop.
After the viscount and Tarrant rescued her, Langley made it obvious he had fallen in love with her.
“Miss?”
Her head filled with thoughts of Langley, Helen allowed Pringle to enfold her in a rose-pink velvet cloak which would keep her warm on her way to the ball with Georgianne and Cousin Tarrant. Once, she looked forward to entering society. Now she was part of it, her enjoyment was diminished by Langley’s absence. The evening would be perfect if he were present. She longed for the day when they would be husband and wife.
Chapter Two
Hertfordshire
12th March, 1815
Major, Lord Langley rode toward his ancestral home, Longwood Place, for the first time in five years or more. He frowned. Ruts and weeds marred the drive. Small saplings and brambles sprouted beneath the plane trees on either side of the once magnificent approach.
Troubled, he guided his horse through a pair of tall wrought iron gates. At first sight of the lawns sweeping up to the house, he caught his breath. They should have been scythed. They looked more like meadows than green swards which befitted a nobleman’s estate. Although his father, the earl, rarely visited the property due to an irrational dislike of it, he should maintain the house and grounds.
Langley dismounted in the forecourt. He looped his horse’s bridle around one of a pair of grimy urns devoid of plants. What could be amiss? He ascended the broad steps. Before he applied the knocker, a footman admitted him.
“Send for a groom. Tell him to walk my horse until he has cooled, and then water and feed him.”
Immaculate in a black coat and trousers, every white hair on his head in place, Chivers, the butler, stepped toward him. “Welcome home, my lord.” His faded blue eyes shone with obvious pleasure.
Langley smiled. He had sent advance notice of his arrival, so no doubt Chivers had been waiting for him.
His quick gaze around the oak-panelled hall confirmed his conviction something was wrong. The oak panels needed to be polished and the red damask curtains were faded.
No matter. Soon he would bring his bride, Helen, daughter of the late Major Whitley, who gave his life fighting against Napoleon’s soldiers in the Iberian Peninsula, to Longwood Place. Helen would help Mamma set all to rights. A vision of his intended bride, tall and shapely, with a wealth of chestnut-brown hair, filled his mind. Yes, she was young, eighteen to his twenty-eight years, but with an aura of calm which suited him after so many battles during which he saw friends killed or maimed. Now, curse it, Napoleon had escaped from Elba. Langley did not doubt he and his best friend, Helen’s brother-in-law, must fight again. If he had not been granted a brief furlough, he would be in Brussels with their hussar regiment, The Glory Boys, part of the army of occupation.
Chivers cleared his throat. “My lord, the earl awaits you in the library. The countess is in the morning room with your older sisters.”
“My brothers?”
“My lord, have you forgotten Mister Julian is at Oxford and Master Giles is at Eton.”
“Yes, how remiss of me.”
Chivers inclined his head. “May I take your hat?”
Langley handed the man his hat, to which his valet had attached an officer’s cockade. He indicated his dusty boots. “I cannot join the earl until I have mended my appearance. My man will arrive soon with my baggage.”
Chivers cleared his throat. “The earl left instructions for you to join him when you arrived.”
Langley pointed at the dusty chandelier. “Have the cobwebs removed.”
“Yes, my lord, I apologise. There are too few servants to do all the work.”
“I am sorry to hear that.” It would not be proper to question his father’s butler. “Chivers,” he added.
“My lord?”
“You need not continually address me as my lord. Major will suffice.”
“Yes, my…I mean Major.”
Langley strode to the library.
Inside the large room, ornamented with marble busts and a handsome globe, he inclined his head toward his tall thin father, whose hair, once black, was now white.
The earl looked up from a table piled with papers. “So, you are home, my boy, soon to embark for Brussels. Supposed you were back in England for good, when you sold your last army commission.”
“Rupes and I could not desert Wellington, now that it is certain he must invade France to put a stop to Napoleon’s pretensions.”
“Rupes? Oh, you mean Major Tarrant, who married a nobody. Mind you, the Major is only a baronet’s son so he is of little consequence.”
What would his father say when he informed him he intended to marry Helen? “May I be seated, sir?” He did not wait for permission to sit on a wing-chair opposite the desk. “How is Mamma?”
“In a sad-to-do.”
“Why?”
“Problems, my boy, vile ones. If this damned palsy were cured, I would make good my losses in London where my luck would be sure to change.”
Langley caught his breath. “Cards?”
“Yes.” The earl looked down at his tremulous hands with disgust. “Lady Luck did not favour me. Now my hands are too unsteady for me to play. I am done up, my boy. Forced to dismiss half the indoor servants, garden
ers and grooms. My confounded man of business says I must retrench even further.” Papa waved a document at him. “Longwood is mortgaged.”
“The house in Brighton?”
“Lost it on the turn of an accursed card.”
“The manor in Hertfordshire which you prefer to here?”
“Sold to pay my most pressing debts. Why else would I be in this damned mausoleum?”
No wonder his mother was in a ‘sad-to-do’. Langley pressed his lips into a thin line, a habit acquired in the army when he wanted to check his anger.
“Well, you know your duty, my boy.” Papa reached for the brandy bottle. “Pity you did not marry Amelia Carstairs. Rumour says she will inherit her grandmother’s fortune. You must marry another heiress.”
“Impossible!” he exclaimed, furious at the idea of marriage to meet his father’s gambling debts. “I shall marry Rupes’s sister-in-law.”
“What! An almost penniless girl?”
Langley nodded.
Papa’s cheeks became an alarming shade of scarlet. “I forbid it.”
“With all due respect, sir, you cannot. I don’t need your permission to wed. Moreover, I have sufficient funds to support myself and a wife.”
“Enough to provide for your mother and sisters when I am dead and buried?”
“Once it becomes known you are almost bankrupt, my marriage prospects will be negligible.”
“Are you a numbskull?”
No, he was not.
The earl thumped his fist on the desk. The goose quill fell from the inkpot onto a sheaf of papers, spattering ink over them. “Plenty of rich merchants would be pleased if one of their daughters married you in exchange for a title and a fine estate.” Papa’s blue-tinged lips tightened.
“Longwood is no longer a fine estate.”
“Bah, money would restore it. With regard to your marriage, there is a fellow, a manufacturer called Mister Tomlinson, who made a fortune. He would be glad to have you for a son-in-law.”
Langley stood. With difficulty he refrained from upbraiding his father for recklessness. He strode to the pair of tall windows, which overlooked the grounds at the rear of the house. More unkempt lawns stretched toward a stand of trees in front of a high brick wall. If only the grass still resembled a tranquil sea as it did during his grandfather’s lifetime.
He could not understand the earl’s aversion to Longwood Place. Once it was a centre of political power and now—
Papa’s voice broke into his thoughts. “We must lose no time, my boy.”
In spite of his inner wrath, he did not remind the earl he was no longer a boy.
“You shall meet Miss Tomlinson before you embark for Brussels. Two or three days later you may propose marriage to her. We shall find some pretext or other for you to wed her before your departure for the Low Countries.”
“Miss Tomlinson might reject my proposal.”
“Nonsense!”
Langley turned slowly. Perhaps Papa exaggerated. Maybe his situation was better than he claimed. His man of business in charge of the family’s affairs might be able to offer another solution.
The notion of wedding anyone other than Helen disgusted him. Yet, one thing his papa said was true. He knew his duty.
“What have you to say, Langley?”
“That there is much to consider, sir.”
This morning he set out from London to inform his parents he would wed Helen. Now, he stood in a library that smelled stale. The windows should be opened to admit fresh air and sunlight. The sights and unpleasant odours all around him tarnished the happy news he had intended to share.
“Excuse me, sir; I must wash and change before I greet Mamma and my sisters.” Without waiting for permission, he left the room.
“My lord.” Chivers caught him off guard.
The old man must have been waiting outside the library, curious to know what he and Papa spoke of.
“Her ladyship ordered me to have the green bedroom prepared for you instead of your old room near the nursery. Your valet is unpacking your baggage. Shall I have hot water sent up for you to wash and shave?”
Langley nodded.
Some thirty minutes later, dressed in his uniform, he went to join the countess and two of his sisters, eighteen-year-old Charlotte and fifteen-year-old Margaret.
He opened the morning room door quietly. For a few moments, he stood at the threshold observing them. The three fair-haired ladies—her ladyship gowned in pale green silk and his sisters in sprigged muslin—made a charming picture.
Mamma looked up from her embroidery. “Langley, my dear son, how fine you look. Your uniform becomes you. But you are as dark-skinned as a gypsy.”
“The effect of sun and harsh weather, Mamma.”
Margaret stood quickly, spilling a basket of embroidery silks from her lap onto the floor. “You are here!”
“So you see.”
His lively sister flung herself into his arms, almost knocking the breath from his body. He frowned, surprised because he had imagined she might be shy. After all, he had spent many years on campaign with only two brief furloughs. During the last year, since his return to England, he had seen little of her.
“I am glad. Now you are here, Papa will stop raging and Mamma will stop crying. Of course, you will agree,” Margaret gabbled.
“To what?”
“To marrying the vulgar manufacturer’s daughter so we can have some new gowns and Charlotte can have a London season.”
Across the top of her head, Langley looked into Charlotte’s calm grey eyes. What did she think of the proposed match to a woman of inferior birth, who would be looked down on by the ton? “You look well, Charlotte.”
“Thank you. It is good to see you, although I fear your home-coming is a sorry one.”
“You will marry Miss Tomlinson, won’t you, Langley?” Mamma asked. “Although it was not quite to my liking, I obeyed my dear Papa when he ordered me to marry your father.”
Langley pitied his mother but could not repress a surge of resentment. Why should he wed to rescue his family from financial disaster?
Mamma pressed a small bottle of smelling salts to her nose before continuing. “Thank goodness your older sisters are married.” She sighed. “What is to become of my poor Charlotte, Margaret and your little sisters? I don’t know. I doubt they will have dowries to match those of their older sisters.” Her hands fluttered. “Those wicked men who robbed your father at cards are—”
“Mamma,” Charlotte interrupted, “they did not rob him. Papa nearly bankrupted himself at the gaming tables. It is unfair to expect Langley to marry only to restore Papa’s squandered fortune.”
The countess sank back against the chaise longue. “Langley, I am all heart. Charlotte is not.”
“To the contrary, Mamma,” Charlotte said, her voice cool, “I have too much heart to wish my brother to be sacrificed to vulgar Mister Tomlinson’s elephant of a daughter.”
“A reducing diet will much improve her,” the countess murmured, “and I don’t doubt I might grow fond of her in time.”
“Will you marry her?” Margaret asked. “Her father is nice. He has lots of money. I told him I wanted a parrot more than anything else. After his previous visit, he sent me a grey one in a gilded cage.”
Even if she was too young to understand the full implications of such a marriage, Margaret shared his parents’ selfishness.
Mamma wafted her fan to and fro. “A dreadful, squawking bird with a…a shocking vocabulary. Of course we cannot be rid of it for fear of offending Mister Tomlinson when he visits us today.”
Today! His parents wasted no time. With difficulty he managed not to scowl.
Chivers entered the morning room. “Some wine, my lord?”
Langley nodded, grateful for the timely interruption.
“Cook regrets your favourite, salmon, is not available to fortify you before the dinner hour. She enquires whether you would care to partake of lamb sandwiches.”
“Yes, I would. I have not eaten since I left London. Please thank her.”
Charlotte stood. “Chivers, there is no need to serve my brother in the dining room. You may bring a tray to the blue parlour.” She crossed the parquet floor and held Langley’s arm. “No need to disturb yourself, Mamma. Margaret, stay here in case our mother requires anything. Come, Langley.”
Chapter Three
13th March, 1815
Langley stood aside to allow Charlotte to precede him into the parlour. A quick glance around the room revealed pale blue wallpaper with encroaching mould, and chipped white paintwork. Heavy-hearted, he gestured to a pair of chairs on either side of a sash window.
He sat opposite Charlotte. “Grandfather would not have tolerated such decay.”
“Would he not? I rarely saw him, and don’t remember much about him. I was only five years-old when he died.”
“A pity, he was a magnificent old man—not a gambler like our spendthrift father. He never neglected the house and estate. He valued the orchards, the wood from the forest, farmland and fish from the lake. The good Lord alone knows why Papa has never liked the property.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to speak. She refrained when Chivers ushered in a footman.
Solid silver cutlery, china painted with fanciful bucolic scenes, sandwiches and a bowl of pickled walnuts were put on the table between their chairs.
A second footman placed a tray loaded with a decanter of wine and some glasses on a high table which stood against the wall.
“Some wine, my lord?” Chivers asked.
Langley nodded.
While the butler served him, Langley noticed a darn on one of Charlotte’s puff sleeves. Disgraceful for her to wear a shabby gown!
“Some wine, Lady Charlotte?”
“No thank you, Chivers. That will be all.”
With stately tread, the butler led his underlings out of the room.
What, Langley wondered, should he say to this sister, eleven years his junior? To gain time, he tasted a lamb sandwich. “Delicious! It is far superior to most of our army food while on the march.” He sipped some wine. “By the way, I appreciated the many letters you sent me over the years. They were a breath of England. When I read them, I imagined my homeland while I bivouacked in flea-ridden quarters.”
Monday's Child (Heroines born on each day of the week. Book 2) Page 1