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

by Rosemary Morris

  “Miss Whitley,” Fletcher murmured in protest.

  “Take these.” Mister Tomlinson handed a supercilious footman his tall, felted beaver hat, yellow pigskin gloves and cane. He followed Miss Whitley up the stairs to a large drawing room in which a dainty, exquisitely gowned, black-haired beauty sat on a chaise longue, perusing a broadsheet.

  “Georgianne, here is Mister Tomlinson, bearer of news about Langley.”

  “Good day, Mister Tomlinson, please be seated,” said the lady, who appeared to be more than a head shorter than Miss Whitley.

  He sat on the edge of a chair.

  “Have you seen the viscount recently?” Miss Whitley asked.

  Her cheeks flowered pink as the roses his daughter loved so much in the ornamental garden at their mansion on the outskirts of Manchester.

  “I had the pleasure of seeing his lordship at Longwood Place, which I and my daughter visited at the earl’s request.”

  A crease formed between Miss Whitley’s eyebrows. “I see.”

  He leaned forward. “Maybe you’re asking yourself why we were the earl’s guests.”

  Mrs Tarrant’s gaze flickered to her sister. “I confess I am curious. But how remiss of me, I have not offered you a glass of wine. Helen, dearest, summon Fletcher.”

  After Georgianne ordered wine, her butler returned within minutes and served Mister Tomlinson.

  “Thank you, my good man,” Mister Tomlinson began, “although a mug of ale is more to my taste.”

  His face expressionless and his back straight enough to satisfy any sergeant whose men were on parade, Chivers left the room.

  Helen clasped her hands together. “You spoke of Lord Langley, Mister Tomlinson.”

  “Yes, I said you must be wondering why my girl and I stayed at Longwood Place. Well, I’ll tell you. My daughter is to make a match with the viscount. It’s not been announced but there’s no need to keep it a secret. When my future son-in-law arrives, most probably in a few days, I daresay he’ll break the good news to you.” He finished his wine.

  Mrs Tarrant stood. “Thank you for bringing the news. Please excuse us. My sister is going out.”

  Tomlinson heaved himself out of the chair. “Then I’ll take my leave of you. I look forward to seeing you when I bring my daughter to call on you.”

  * * * *

  “Dearest, it cannot be true. I don’t believe Langley would marry that man’s daughter,” Georgianne said, palpably shocked but also sympathetic.

  “Dreadful, odious, ill-bred man!” Helen exclaimed. She snatched up a porcelain vase filled with daffodils from one of the tall wooden stands on either side of the door, and hurled it into the fireplace.

  “That vase did not belong to us. This is a rented house,” Georgianne protested.

  Helen put down the second vase. “That horrid man would not have dared to make a false assertion about Langley and his daughter,” she snapped.

  She marched out of the drawing room and hurried downstairs to the hall where Pringle, her elderly dresser, waited for her. Helen strode into the street without saying a word to the woman. Her breathing slowed to normal on her way toward the haberdashers where she intended to purchase rosettes for her dancing slippers. Several acquaintances impeded their progress. Helen greeted them cheerfully. Nothing would induce her to betray her broken heart to the world.

  She decided to be the epitome of a well-bred young lady, careful neither to display her emotion in public nor laugh immoderately in polite society. She would speak, sit and walk elegantly with the utmost propriety. To avoid gossip, she would never dance more than twice with the same partner. Above all, she would not set out to attract any gentleman’s notice. At all times she would behave with serene dignity. As for the nouveau riche of Mister and Miss Tomlinson’s ilk, she would treat them with frigid courtesy.

  Helen clenched her jaw. In future, if the viscount compared Maria Tomlinson to her, she hoped he would bitterly repent his choice of wife. She would not, as the saying went, ‘wear her heart on her sleeve’. Inwardly, she wanted to swathe herself in deepest black for the loss of the man she adored. Outwardly, she would dress in the height of fashion and behave too prettily for either the most critical match-making mamma or the most severe dowager to find fault with her.

  God willing, she would succeed in securing a well-born husband. When she married, she hoped Viscount Langley would suffer.

  The Honourable Mister Lynton, younger son of Baron Westholt, approached her and bowed.

  A pleasant young gentleman, fair-haired, with a round face and an honest expression in his blue eyes. She curtsied. “Good day, sir.”

  “Will you attend my mother’s ball this evening?”

  “Yes, I am looking forward to it.” Helen gazed with deliberate demureness at the toes of her hand-made black leather half-boots.

  “May I hope you will favour me with a dance—perhaps a waltz?” Mister Lynton asked.

  She looked up at him for a fleeting moment. “You shock me, sir; I have not yet been presented at the Queen’s Drawing Room or received tickets for Almacks. I am not permitted to waltz.” She fluttered her eyelashes, a deliberate device which only yesterday would have been foreign to her nature.

  “Your refusal wounds me.”

  Was he flirting with her? She was inexperienced in such matters. “No need to be, I have not refused to stand up with you for another dance.”

  Mister Lynton inclined his head. “I look forward to it. Good day to you.” He crossed the road to the opposite side.

  How many dances would there be, Helen wondered, after promising to dance with several well-dressed, well-heeled gentlemen. One in particular, Marcus, Captain Dalrymple, with hair as black as Viscount Langley’s, dark eyes and a sun-bronzed skin, an officer in Langley’s regiment, The Glory Boys, tore at her heart. How magnificent such courageous gentlemen looked even in their black service uniforms ablaze with gold braid, buttons and epaulettes. God protect all of them when they charged the enemy. Her breath caught in her throat. If Langley was wounded, how could she bear it?

  Chapter Five

  20th March, 1815

  Every inch the fashionable lady, Helen entered her sister’s breakfast parlour dressed in a black riding habit. One carefully modelled on the Glory Boy’s dress uniform, it was embellished with two rows of gold buttons down the front of her jacket and gold braid on the sleeves.

  “Have you already been riding so early or will you breakfast first?” Georgianne asked.

  “I have just returned from my ride in the Allee Vert with Captain Dalrymple.”

  “Ah, an officer in my regiment!” Tarrant put down his coffee cup. “I hope a groom attended you.” He opened his grey eyes wide in what seemed to be mock horror.

  “Of course, I have no wish to ruin my reputation.” Helen went to the side table. She piled a plate with buttered eggs, bacon, kidneys, and mushrooms sautéed in butter. “The fresh air has made me hungry.” She took her place at the table spread with a crisply-laundered linen cloth. “Do you like my new riding habit, Georgianne?”

  “Yes, but it is somewhat bold, dearest. It will draw attention to you.”

  Helen bent her head over her food. She wanted to be noticed—particularly by a hussar with dark eyes. Helen put her fork down. Strange that the mere memory of Langley should destroy her appetite.

  “Coffee, dearest?”

  “Yes, please, Georgianne.” The strong beverage would revive her, but not compensate her for half the night passed in futile tears. Helen’s jaw tensed. Even if she could not check her grief in private, she would present a brave face to the world. Her hand shook a little when she raised the coffee cup to her mouth.

  “You look tired,” her sister said.

  “A headache during the night. I rode to clear my head.”

  “So, dearest, you did not have an assignation with the captain?”

  “No, we met by chance.” Her gaze flicked from her sister to Tarrant. “I intend to make a splendid match which will ma
ke both of you proud.”

  “I shall wait with interest. Have you chosen your fortunate bridegroom?” Cousin Tarrant asked, the hint of a smile appearing.

  “No, nevertheless if he is a proper gentleman, he will ask you for my hand in marriage since my guardian is in England.”

  Helen blenched inwardly at the idea of marrying anyone other than Viscount Langley. Nonetheless, she could not face the alternatives. She was not cut out to be a maiden aunt living at her brother-in-law’s expense, or even worse, a governess to a brood of over-indulged, unruly children—whose mamma did not want discipline to break their spirits—or a companion to some crotchety old lady.

  “If I approve of your choice, I shall make a generous addition to your dowry.” Immaculate in his black overalls, a black coat laced with gold, and a red sash around his slim waist, Tarrant stood. He raised his wife’s hand to his lips. “I must hurry. Without doubt, General Makelyn will have new orders.”

  The door opened. “Major, Lord Langley has arrived,” Fletcher said.

  “Admit him,” Georgianne said, a chill in her voice.

  Although desperate to see him, Helen’s first impulse was to flee. Her second was not to play the coward’s part. Besides, even if she left the breakfast parlour, she would be sure to encounter the viscount on his way to it. In novels, the heroines were aflutter. Until now, she never believed she would ever emulate them. She speared a mushroom with her fork.

  “Good day to you, Miss Whitley, I trust you are well,” Langley said, after he greeted her sister and brother-in-law in his clear, deep tone.

  His voice held the warmth Helen became accustomed to whenever he spoke to her in England. She transferred her attention from her fork to Langley, forcing the expression on her face to remain bland, in spite of her admiration at the sight of him, so handsome in his uniform. “Good day to you, my lord. I hope you did not encounter any problems during your journey from England.”

  With a slight crease between his eyebrows, the viscount regarded her for a moment. “I encountered nothing untoward, apart from a skittish horse when we disembarked.” He looked at Cousin Tarrant. “By the way, I have brought the charger, which you asked for, from England.”

  “Thank you. How many horses did you bring for your own use? It is always advisable to have at least three remounts.”

  “Perhaps our army will not invade France,” Georgianne said.

  Tarrant rested his hand on his wife’s shoulder as though he wanted to encourage her to be brave.

  Georgianne’s mouth quivered.

  At the vision of Langley’s horses being shot under him, or of him being killed or maimed, Helen pressed her lips into a firm line. No need to be maudlin. He was an experienced soldier, who miraculously survived almost unscathed for years in the Iberian Peninsula. She pushed her plate aside. “Please excuse me, Georgianne. I have an appointment with my modiste, the one who made my riding habit. She is a genius. You should order some gowns from her.”

  “I agree!” Langley exclaimed. “Your outfit is splendid, Miss Whitley. All the ladies will be jealous.”

  “Thank you for the compliment.” Helen curtsied. “My congratulations on your betrothal to Miss Tomlinson. Good day to you, my lord.” Head held high she withdrew from the breakfast room before the viscount could say a word.

  “Good God, I am not betrothed!” Langley exclaimed.

  “According to Mister Tomlinson, his daughter is to marry you,” Georgianne said.

  Langley whistled low, understanding why Helen’s eyes were so cold when she had looked at him.

  “Georgianne,” he began, for he addressed her in private as though he was her brother, “my father ordered me to offer for Miss Tomlinson. I refused.”

  She frowned. “Why did he think you would agree?”

  “Georgie, you have not offered Langley a place at your table. Maybe the poor fellow is famished,” Tarrant intervened.

  “I am sorry. Langley, please be seated. Have you breakfasted?”

  “Yes thank you, I had a bite to eat at headquarters but would not say no to some coffee.”

  Georgianne busied herself with the silver coffee pot. “I presume you will stay with us, Langley, while you are stationed in Brussels. I must have a room prepared for you.”

  “No, please don’t, I am billeted elsewhere.” It would be intolerable torture if he saw Helen every day.

  “Nevertheless, I shall have a bedchamber readied for you. It will always be at your disposal.”

  “You are generous,” Langley said, certain he would not avail himself of her hospitality.

  “So,” Tarrant began, when he and Langley were alone, “it seems you were coerced into one unfortunate betrothal with Miss Carstairs and you will be forced into another if Mister Tomlinson can bring it off.”

  “By God he will not!” Langley glared at his friend. He picked up his coffee cup. “I regret it is my misfortune to be unable to propose marriage to the lady of my choice.”

  Tarrant frowned. “I am sorry to hear it.”

  Langley finished his coffee. “Shall I see you at headquarters?”

  “Yes, I was about to set off when you arrived. Shall we go together?”

  He agreed, much relieved because although he could not marry Helen it would not affect his friendship with Tarrant.

  * * * *

  Pringle opened the door for Georgianne to enter Helen’s bedchamber.

  She took a moment to admire the room decorated with pale pink wallpaper sprigged with rosebuds, rose-pink velvet curtains and the palest pink muslin which hung in front of the window to protect the room from prying eyes. Except for the ball gown on the bed and Helen’s sketch pad propped against the bedhead, everything was in perfect order.

  Georgianne eyed her sister’s back which was as straight as a hussar’s at a review. “Dearest, Langley is not betrothed to Miss Tomlinson.”

  “Pooh, why should I care whether or not he is to marry the lady?” Helen asked. “If he changes his mind, I wish him the joy of having Mister Tomlinson for his father-in-law.” She gestured to the white satin ball gown. “Do you like my design? I shall wear it to the Linton’s ball this evening.” She opened her jewel box. “Do you think grandmamma’s gold and pearl parure will look well with it?” She fingered the arm clasps. “Mind you, when Mamma gave it to me, she said she would have given it to you if Cousin Tarrant had not given you magnificent pearls.”

  Georgianne winced, not fooled by Helen’s nonchalance. “Dearest, stop, you cannot deceive me with such chatter. I am sure Langley cares deeply for you.”

  “No, he is not the same toward me as before. Something has changed.” Helen took a step forward, her pretty mouth the only colour in her face other than her green eyes. “Don’t look so worried, Georgianne. I intend to be admired this evening. I have a gold sash and artificial gold rosebuds to tuck into my hair. I also have kid slippers dyed gold which I intend to wear out this evening, for I already have partners for half of the dances, and am engaged to have the supper dance with Captain Dalrymple.”

  Georgianne’s eyes narrowed. With only eleven months difference in their ages, she and Helen were not only sisters, they were best friends. A little heat stole into her cheeks. Of course, after she married Tarrant, there were personal matters it would not be proper to share with Helen. Apart from this, they always confided in each other. The gulf which now seemed to have widened between them dismayed her.

  “Please sit down, Georgianne.” Helen gestured to a chair set primly against the wall opposite her tent bed. “Don’t fret about me. I shall enjoy everything Brussels has to offer—breakfasts, parties, soirees, picnics, balls, rides in the country, charming young men and—”

  “Hush, Helen!” Georgianne exclaimed, aware of her sister’s false cheerfulness.

  * * * *

  Langley’s eyes narrowed while he observed Helen dancing with an officer in a scarlet uniform, her white satin and gold ensemble an effective contrast to it.

  Tall and elegant, ev
ery strand of her pomaded hair gleamed in the candlelight, and her feet in dainty slippers executed each graceful step of the quadrille. She caught at his heart. If only he were free of obligations and could ask her to be his wife.

  He should be pleased because, in spite of her many admirers, Helen did not seem to favour any one of them. After each dance she returned to her sister, her manner confident, but not bold. No unseemly laughter escaped her, and she could not be accused of bestowing flirtatious smiles on any gentleman. She conducted herself with such propriety that surely not even the most cantankerous dowager or avid gossip could find fault with her.

  Apart from a moment when they looked at each other across the width of the ballroom, Helen ignored him. Although in the unhappy position of being unable to stand at the altar with her, he should be pleased because she seemed happy.

  Langley caught his breath. Was she really enjoying herself? Previously, her charming smile was not forced as it now appeared to be.

  He held back a sigh to avoid an ill-bred display of the least sign of emotion in public, and made an effort not to frown. He could have sworn, by all he held sacred, that Helen loved him. Had he been mistaken? In the past, could he have misread the significance of the warmth in her eyes whenever they were together? Well, this evening, she looked at him without affection. On the contrary, her eyes were cool as green glass scoured by waves advancing and retreating on the shore. Moreover, the expression on her beautiful oval face was enigmatic when she had merely nodded at him before looking up at Captain Dalrymple.

  “Good day to you, my lord,” said Mister Creevey, who was always in search of more titbits of gossip.

  Langley inclined his head to the lively-minded Member of Parliament, who moved to Brussels to escape his debts at home, while clinging to the hope a change of air would improve his wife’s health.