Monday's Child (Heroines born on each day of the week. Book 2)

by Rosemary Morris

  At the bottom of the broad flight of oak stairs, a footman handed each of them a candlestick to light their way to the second floor.

  On the landing, Langley kissed his mother’s cheek. “Goodnight, Mamma.”

  She dabbed her eyes with a dainty handkerchief. “Langley, I am much moved. You have rarely kissed me since you were a small child.”

  He looked fondly at her. “After I went to Eton, I have seldom been at home to do so.” He smiled at Charlotte. “Goodnight. I hope you will sleep well”

  “Thank you.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Goodnight,”

  Langley eyed the manufacturer. He tolerated it when addressed as ‘lad’. He would not put up with the least incivility to his mother, however unintentional it might be. “Mister Tomlinson, Miss Tomlinson.”

  He strode down the corridor to his bedchamber, glad to be momentarily free of his cares.

  “My lord,” said his man, who came forward to help remove his tight-fitting coat. “I’ve unpacked. Are you going to ride before breakfast tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “Dawkins?”

  “My lord?”

  He handed the man his waistcoat. “You weary me.”

  “I am sorry, my lord,” the slender, wiry young man said, not sounding the least apologetic.

  “I don’t care to stand on ceremony. ‘Major’ instead of ‘my lord’ will suffice.”

  Dawkins’s dark eyes gleamed. Perhaps he was thinking of the adventures they experienced when he served in the Iberian Peninsula. “Thank you, Major.”

  Langley unfastened the last button of his shirt, removed the garment and gave it to Dawkins.

  The enlisted soldier, who acted as his valet, passed him his nightshirt. Langley resisted the temptation to ask him what the other servants said about the Tomlinsons. It would not be proper to discuss his parents’ guests with an underling, even trustworthy Dawkins.

  Langley settled himself in the four poster bed. “Much better than most of the billets in Spain. You, Dawkins?”

  “Quite comfortable, thank you, Major. Will that be all?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Fatigued by the long, eventful day, Langley closed his eyes. Sleep deserted him. He could not still his mind. He found the prospect of marrying anyone other than Helen repugnant. Langley punched his pillow. Due to his father’s circumstances he found no alternative to marrying a lady with a substantial dowry. He stared into darkness as oppressive as his thoughts. Tomorrow, he must discuss the possibility of auctioning silver plates, fine china, oil paintings and other treasures with Papa. On the following day, he would go to London to talk to Papa’s man of business. His plan of action brought some relief.

  14th March, 1815

  When Langley woke, his rumpled quilt, which had almost slipped to the floor, bore testament to his restless night.

  A ride would set him to rights. He pulled the bed curtains apart sufficiently to get out of bed. His feet bare, he crossed the parquet floor to the window and yanked open the curtains. Last night, dusk’s red sky forecast good weather. The frost-spangled grass, beyond the gravelled path beneath the window, lured him. He would enjoy a ride in the crisp morning air beneath a sun shining from a clear blue sky. No need for Dawkins, he could dress himself.

  Despite his efforts to leave the house without being observed, when he unbolted the front door, the sound woke the footman on duty, who sat in a wing chair upholstered in leather.

  “My lord.” The man rubbed his sleepy eyes. Before he had time to stand, Langley hastened down the front steps.

  He strode across weed-strewn gravel. What time was it in Brussels? He wondered if Helen slept, her luxuriant hair plaited. He must stop dwelling on her. Striding down the path which divided two knot gardens, surrounded by over-grown box hedges, he passed through a gate in the high brick wall and entered the kitchen garden, beyond which were the stables. To his surprise, he saw Miss Tomlinson bent over a bed of rhubarb. He cleared his throat to make her aware of his presence.

  Miss Tomlinson straightened. Hand at her throat, eyes wide in obvious surprise, she stared at him.

  Conscious he had not shaved, Langley bowed. “Good morning. A beautiful day, is it not? Did it tempt you to take the air?”

  The lady curtsied. For several moments, she seemed reluctant to speak. It seemed Charlotte was right. Miss Tomlinson was shy.

  “Yes, it is a nice day. Up north I am accustomed to being up at dawn. At this time of day, it is as peaceful in our garden as it is here.” She indicated the bed of rhubarb. “I am admiring the new growth. You must have an abundant supply. Does the countess make use of its curative properties?”

  Langley noticed her shyness evaporated while she spoke of the subject which interested her.

  “My herbal informs me the leaves are poisonous, but the roots and stalks are efficacious when used for digestive problems,” Miss Tomlinson continued. “I dose my father with it when he suffers from gripes after indulging in too much rich food.”

  His lips twitched. Langley could not imagine Mamma concerning herself with the medicinal properties of rhubarb. He could imagine her horror if Miss Tomlinson mentioned digestive problems and gripes.

  Aware of Miss Tomlinson’s eyes, more green than brown in the clear light, and regarding him anxiously, he spoke. “Your father is fortunate to have so able a daughter,”

  He must go. If her father discovered them without anyone else present, he would expect him to make an immediate proposal of marriage. Langley wondered if Dawkins mentioned he would ride early in the morning. If so, through servants’ chitter-chatter Mister Tomlinson might have found out and instructed his daughter to waylay him.

  Why, Langley asked himself, was he the unfortunate victim of the manufacturer’s determination to see his daughter settled in life? Well, he would not be snared. He swished his riding crop against his boot. “Miss Tomlinson, I presume I shall see you later at the breakfast table.” He marched away at a brisk pace down the mossy brick path between the vegetable beds.

  “My lord?”

  Good manners dictated he should not ignore a lady. He turned around. “Yes.”

  His irritation must have shown, for Miss Tomlinson blushed. She retreated into shyness by shaking her head, before hurrying toward the house. Poor girl, the situation must be no less uncomfortable for her than for him. He pressed his lips together. No one could force a grown man to marry. More than likely, after he went to Brussels, he would never again meet the manufacturer’s daughter.

  * * * *

  Langley returned to his bedchamber, invigorated by his early morning ride in countryside not ravaged by Napoleon’s troops. When the victorious English army entered France, its citizens, accustomed to soldiers grabbing whatever they wanted, were impressed when those in Wellington’s army paid for food, drink and other commodities.

  With Dawkin’s assistance, Langley shaved in preparation to meet the demands of the day, but first he needed to eat.

  He made his way to the breakfast room where Charlotte sat alone at a circular table, a cup of steaming coffee on her right.

  “Good morning, Charlotte.”

  “Good morning, Langley. I hope you slept well, although I doubt it because you have so much to consider.”

  Langley went to the side table laden with silver dishes. He piled a plate with steak, kidneys, ham, eggs and two slices of freshly-baked bread.

  “You are hungry.”

  “I rose early to ride across our land.” His mouth watered as he looked at his plate.

  “It is fortunate I ordered breakfast to be served at nine o’clock instead of ten.”

  “To escape from Papa and his guests?”

  “It will not affect their comfort. Breakfast is served until eleven. Shall I pour some coffee for you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He cut a bite-sized morsel of steak.

  “So,” his sister put a full cup of coffee on his right, “what a
re you going to do?”

  Between mouthfuls of food he shared his plan to rescue Longwood. “I hope Papa will agree,” he concluded.

  “Have you decided not to marry that crude man’s daughter?”

  At the sound of a startled exclamation, they looked across the breakfast room. Neither of them had heard the door open nor noticed Miss Tomlinson enter the room.

  Langley crossed the space between them, the heels of his boots clicking on the wooden floor. “You must be sharp-set. Please join us at the table.”

  A little colour rose in Miss Tomlinson’s cheeks. “You reprimanded my father for calling the countess Missus.” She trembled. “I am sure you will agree Lady Charlotte should not speak of him in a derogatory manner.”

  “I agree,” his sister said before he could reply. “I am in the wrong. Please forgive me. Our parents are vexatious, are they not? However, your father was kind to give Margaret the parrot.”

  With a pang of remorse, Langley realised it took courage for one of Miss Tomlinson’s disposition to correct them.

  “Come,” he said, gently, “please don’t allow my sister’s unfortunate choice of words to prevent you from eating your breakfast.”

  The young lady stepped toward the table. A ray of sunshine spread across the room, enhancing the rich colour of her hair, drawn into a knot high on the back of her head and allowed to form ringlets on either side of her face. Were it not for her excess weight, she would be attractive. In addition to a flawless skin, she possessed a fine pair of eyes and an exceptionally musical voice.

  Chapter Four

  15th March, 1815

  “Good morning,” Langley said to his father, who sat propped up in bed against a bank of pillows.

  The earl replaced the coffee cup on his tray. “How can it be good? I have told you I have not a penny to call my own.”

  Testy! Papa was definitely out of humour. “Well, sir, even if you had a penny or more I am sure you would not want to venture into one of the new-fangled hot air balloons.”

  “Don’t try to make me laugh or cozen me, Langley. You always tried to do so when guilty of childish misdemeanours.”

  Langley repressed an amused smile. His father had never chastised his children with a rod. Instead he gave them verbal lashings.

  Papa stared at his unsteady hands. “Was ever a gentleman so plagued?”

  Langley maintained a prudent silence.

  The earl glared down into the empty coffee cup. “I look to you, Langley, to set all to rights.”

  “If you are referring to a match with Miss Tomlinson it will not do.”

  The earl transferred his glare to Langley. “Not do? Of course it will. You know your duty.”

  Langley’s back tensed. Although Charlotte’s darned sleeve came to mind, he loved Helen too much to sacrifice himself to Miss Tomlinson at the altar of matrimony. He took a deep breath in preparation for a cannonade from his father. “I shall not disgrace you and the family, yet nothing you say will persuade me to marry that man’s daughter. I am convinced our temperaments don’t suit.” Langley admired the lady’s interest in horticulture but knew he could never bring himself to share her enthusiasm for rhubarb. He checked a grin, visualising the scene if she launched into a lecture on the plant’s medicinal properties in polite society. “Besides, her position would be uncomfortable. As my wife, although she would gain entry to the ton, she would be unwelcome. I shall not marry her.”

  For a moment, Langley believed Papa would throw the coffee pot at him. He prepared to duck.

  “Will not marry her?” The earl gazed around the bedchamber from the commodious wardrobe to a looking glass appearing to seek advice from his reflection.

  Langley steeled himself to speak frankly. “Your impoverished situation is not my fault. However, it is possible for you to bring yourself around if, to begin with, you sell those manors which are not entailed.”

  “I have already done so.”

  “You must sell the hunting lodge and half of the horses.”

  The earl picked up the coffee pot.

  Once more, Langley prepared to duck. To his relief, Papa poured a cup of coffee to which he added brandy from his silver flask.

  He hoped Papa would not be stubborn. “Longwood is filled with treasures. I suggest an auction. When I go to London I shall consult Mister Christie at his place of business in Pall Mall to find out how we should proceed. Afterward, I shall send word to you.”

  “The shame of it.” The earl swigged some of his drink. “You should marry Tomlinson’s daughter. Do you care nothing for your brothers and sisters?”

  “Yes, sufficiently to fund a London Season for Charlotte, after which I shall rent a house in Brighton for her and Mamma to occupy in the summer, while you remain here to co-operate with Mister Christie. Please excuse me, for I must tell Mamma to prepare to go to London in April.”

  For all of his mother’s languishing airs, Langley knew a practical core underlay them. He strode down the corridor to have a private conversation with her.

  When he entered her bedchamber, he saw her sitting up in bed looking down at a jumble of letters, ladies’ magazines and a newspaper or two spread out on her pretty rose-pink counterpane.

  “You may go,” his mother said to her dresser.

  After Mamma adjusted her fine linen nightcap trimmed with lace, she looked at him with a hint of alarm in her large grey eyes. “Good morning, dearest boy, how nice of you to spare time for me.” She patted the edge of the bed. “Will you not sit here?”

  “No, it would discommode you.”

  He drew the bedroom chair to the side of the bed.

  “Am I to congratulate you, Langley?”

  He shook his head.

  Mamma crumpled the letter in her hand. “I did not think you would agree to marry Miss Tomlinson.”

  She gazed around, a plaintive expression in her large blue eyes. “I spent the first night of my married life in this bedchamber. Will I be able to draw my last breath in it?”

  “Yes, I think so, but hope it will not be for a long time.”

  “Your father said if you don’t agree to marry Miss Tomlinson—”

  He leaned forward. “Don’t distress yourself, Mamma. All is not lost. The hunting lodge and most of the horses are to be sold. Also, many of the family treasures will be auctioned to pay Papa’s debts. Thereafter, he must never gamble.” He did not think it wise to mention the London House would probably be sold.

  “Is there no alternative?”

  Langley shook his head. “Well, there is some good news. Father has agreed for you and Charlotte to go to London for the season after which you may spend the summer in Brighton.”

  “How good of him, I wondered how we would manage to present Charlotte to the Queen at her Drawing Room, but how will he meet the expense?”

  He patted her hand. “If you are not extravagant, I have sufficient funds to meet your needs.”

  “Thank you.” Mamma heaved a sigh. “When our circumstances become known, I fear Charlotte will not make a good match.”

  “There is time enough before anyone finds out. The auction will not take place for some months. Let us hope the news does not find its way into the broadsheets before Charlotte is betrothed.” He stood. “Please excuse me, I must return to London today.”

  She clutched his hand for a moment, then smiled with obvious difficulty. “God keep you safe.”

  * * * *

  16th March, 1815

  His bags packed, Langley made his way to the blue parlour where he partook of nuncheon with his family and the Tomlinsons. He ate the last morsel of ham, then stood, prepared to leave.

  In the hall, Papa shook his hand and wished him well. Mamma embraced him and pressed a piece of paper into his hand. “Put it in your pocket to keep it safe,” she murmured.

  Tears in their eyes, Charlotte and Margaret hugged him. To his annoyance, Mister Tomlinson not only remained, he also accompanied him to the drive.

  “Where will
you be putting up in Brussels?” the man asked.

  Langley squared his shoulders. “Until I know where I am billeted, I might stay with my friend Major Tarrant and his wife.” If he did, he must make it clear he would not make a proposal of marriage to Helen, not because he would succumb to his father’s plan for him to marry an heiress, but because his financial circumstances forbade it.

  He sighed; he doubted he would ever marry another lady. Unless he found some way to restore the family fortune, Helen would be lost to him forever.

  Come to think of it, he might as well be honest. Eventually, news of the auction would spread. The reason for not asking Helen to marry him would become obvious. Not for the world would he wish to be considered a scoundrel who had aroused a lady’s false expectations.

  “Well, lad, I daresay we’ll meet again before long.”

  Langley hoped they would not. “Good day to you, Mister Tomlinson. My regards to your daughter. I hope you will have a pleasant journey home.”

  “Not home, we’re going farther afield, much farther.”

  * * * *

  19th March, 1815

  A footman opened the door of Major Tarrant’s rented house in the Rue Royale. He raised his eyebrows. The voice, manner of speaking and somewhat flamboyant attire of the man standing at the threshold indicated the stranger should not call at the front door.

  Fletcher stepped forward eyeing the unwanted visitor.

  “Don’t look down your nose at me,” the man said before Fletcher could speak. “Inform Major Tarrant that Mister Tomlinson of Manchester brings news of Lord Langley.”

  “Fletcher,” said a female voice from inside the hall, “admit Mister Tomlinson at once.”

  The butler stepped aside to allow the man to enter the house.

  Mister Tomlinson looked at the tall young lady dressed in a jade green pelisse.

  “Good day,” she said. “My brother-in-law, Major Tarrant, will be delighted to have news of his lordship. Unfortunately, he is not at home, but my sister, Mrs Tarrant, will receive you. Follow me.”