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

by Rosemary Morris

  “Congratulations on your betrothal to Miss Tomlinson.” Creevey’s smile brought a voracious crocodile to Langley’s mind.

  “I am not betrothed,” he said sharply, for he knew that in England the case for libel brought against the gentleman did not cure him of rumour mongering.

  Creevey raised his eyebrows. “You must take action to refute the rumour, for a dozen or more people asked where your supposedly affianced bride is.”

  Did he imagine that Helen now looked with particular interest at the officer in the lifeguards about to dance with her? The damned fellows always appeared ready for parade and retired if even a smudge marred the perfection of their uniform or boots. Well, this particular one would soon learn war was a bloody business in which pristine uniforms were quickly sullied. Langley returned his attention to Creevey. “Perhaps you would be good enough to scotch the misapprehension,” he said, although he did not entirely trust the gentleman to do so.

  “You may rest assured that I shall.” Creevey’s eyes glowed with palpable curiosity. “Tell me, my lord, who do you think will command the cavalry?”

  Langley shrugged. “Perhaps the Earl of Uxbridge.”

  Creevey tittered. “An appointment which could not please the Duke of Wellington.”

  “I daresay.” Langley had no wish to speak of Uxbridge’s scandalous affair with, and subsequent marriage to, the former wife of Wellington’s younger brother, Thomas Wellesley. He nodded at Creevey before walking away from him. Time for him to leave, though in order to do so he must skirt the ballroom floor and pass by Helen, who with an unfurled gold-coloured fan in one slim-fingered hand, sat gazing up at several gentlemen.

  Georgianne beckoned to him. A few steps took him to her side. Helen’s soft laughter aroused his jealousy. He stood close to her, breathing in her scent, a mixture of flowers and citrus, a blend of sweetness and sharpness that suited her personality.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” he said to Georgianne. “Miss Whitley.”

  “My lord.” Helen concealed the lower part of her face with her fan. Her beautiful eyes regarded him cautiously over its upper edge. One of her beaux spoke. She smiled at him.

  Langley bowed. “I see you are a success—without question you will be the toast of the town.”

  “Unlikely, my lord.”

  “I have no doubt you will cut your teeth on as many unfortunate hearts as possible. Perhaps you would like to wear them like a garland around your neck, for young ladies are always fickle. Good evening.” Ashamed of himself for his loss of self-discipline, he left the ballroom without a backward glance.

  * * * *

  “What,” Helen asked herself, “have I done to deserve such sarcasm?” Yet she had discerned fire in Langley’s eyes which could have scorched her most tender sensibilities. Pride would never allow her to reveal her susceptibilities in the face of his indifference. Yet, how dare he imply she was no more than a shallow flirt when he must know she would never flirt with another gentleman if he asked her to marry him.

  She turned her attention to her next partner. Feigning great interest, she paid close attention to his description of his pack of hounds brought with him from England. “They are in the peak of condition, eager to scent the quarry.” He looked down at her face. “By Jove, Miss Whitley, would you care to join a hunt?”

  “I should like to, but doubt my sister would allow it,” she said, unable to think of little she would enjoy less than staying on a side-saddle, while riding across rough country through water and over hedges, at the risk of falling and breaking her neck. “Yet”, a small inner voice said, “I would risk anything for Langley.” She could have cried. Suppose he broke his neck during a charge into battle, leaving her to mourn with no more words for her other than those which stung her this evening.

  Chapter Six

  21st March, 1815

  Followed by a footman, Fletcher entered the yellow drawing room. “Letters and newspapers from England,” he announced. “These are for you, Major.” He handed a bundle to Tarrant, gave another to Georgiana and a third to Helen, while the footman put the remaining newspapers on a marble-topped table.

  “Has The Lady’s Magazine arrived?” Georgianne asked Fletcher.

  “Ah,” said Cousin Tarrant, “that hallowed magazine, An Entertaining Companion for the Fair Sex appropriated solely to their use and amusement.”

  Georgianne regarded him demurely. “’Pon my word sir, you are overly familiar with the publication. One would think you have read it. If so, I shall look forward to perusing The Gentleman’s Magazine.”

  “If you please, but I doubt you will find much in it to interest you,” her husband replied, with mock meekness while he broke the wax seal on a letter.

  She maintained a dignified silence until her husband chuckled. “What amuses you, Major?”

  “A letter from my mother. Your youngest sister is in disgrace. Bab persuaded my little sisters to dress like hussars and charge down Broad Field on their ponies. After seeing them dressed in breeches, Miss Castleton, their governess, took to her bed for two days and threatened to resign.”

  “Spineless creature,” Georgianne said, torn between annoyance and amusement.

  Although Cousin Tarrant looked lovingly at his wife, he ignored her interruption. “My half-sisters, who love Miss Castleton dearly, wept when they were scolded. Bab remained unrepentant. She told my step-mamma that if she were not a female, she would join my regiment as a drummer boy.”

  “What a dreadful idea.” Georgianne turned toward Helen. “Do you know the drummer boys are targeted when the line advances because they communicate the orders?”

  “Yes, Father told me. But you and my cousin are speaking of Bab. Her behaviour is scandalous. She should be sent to a boarding school—a strict one where she will learn good conduct. Drummer boy, indeed!”

  “You are too harsh, dearest,” Georgianne said, although both of them knew their ten-year-old sister’s wild behaviour must be curbed.

  “Well,” Helen said, “at least Bab is neither enacting funerals nor burying her dolls, as she did after Father’s death.”

  Tarrant drummed the tips of his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Georgianne, perhaps you and Helen should return to England to take care of her.”

  Georgianne sprang out of her chair, her delicate needlework falling from her lap onto the carpet. “No, Tarrant, I could not bear to be separated from you.”

  “Georgie,” her husband exclaimed, his voice a little unsteady. “Please think of the danger both of you might be in if Bonaparte attacks Brussels.”

  “Surely that is unlikely because our army will invade France before Boney can do so,” Helen said.

  “Georgie, what do you want me to do?” Tarrant asked.

  “Perhaps, we should send for Bab. She is never so mischievous when she is with us, and she always obeys you.”

  Helen looked at Tarrant. “Georgianne, she behaves with Cousin Tarrant because he dotes on her, and indulges her.”

  “Georgie?” Tarrant asked.

  “It would not be fair to expose Bab to danger” she replied slowly. She bent down to pick up her sewing, a tiny white gown, from the carpet woven from brightly coloured threads of gold, cobalt blue and scarlet.

  “Although I would like to see the child, we are agreed,” Tarrant said. “I shall write a placatory letter to my mother.”

  Georgianne smiled at him. “So shall I,” she said, while her sister Helen crossed the room to leaf through the newspapers and periodicals.

  “Ah, the Hertfordshire Gazette.” Helen carried it to her chair opposite the sofa on which Georgianne and Tarrant sat.

  “I wonder what Bab would think of this room.” A wave of Cousin Tarrant’s hand encompassed curtains the colour of old gold, the primrose satin and daffodil-yellow silk-striped wallpaper, and a profusion of gilded wood. “Georgie, do you remember Bab’s derogatory comments on imitation Egyptian furniture with feet carved to look like a crocodile’s?”

  “Y
es, and what is more, I agreed with them,” Georgianne smoothed the tiny garment, which lay across the lap of her azure-blue gown.

  “What are you making?” Helen asked. “I believed you prefer riding to sewing.”

  “Yes, I do.” Georgianne’s cheeks burned. She rolled up her handiwork and put it in her sewing bag.

  A strangled sound escaped Helen. Her hands shook. The newspaper quivered.

  “Dearest! What is the matter?” Georgianne asked.

  Her sister frowned at Tarrant. “Did you know about this?”

  “What?”

  “How foolish of me, of course you don’t know what I am referring to. There is a snippet hinting the treasures of Longwood Place are to be auctioned by Christies, and the earl will sell his London house, hunting lodge and most of his horses.”

  * * * *

  Tarrant sat motionless for a long moment. So, his sister-in-law did love Langley. If she did not, why else would she be so distraught? He removed the newspaper from her tremulous hands. “Georgie, a glass of wine for your sister or, perhaps, some brandy.”

  While his wife busied herself with the decanter, Tarrant read the snippet. The author had taken care to word it so that an action for libel could not be brought. He sighed. The rumours that the earl could not meet his gambling debts were probably true. It was not unusual for a gentleman to be in debt to tradesmen to the tune of thousands of pounds. In the case of the reckless Prince Regent, tens of thousands, but it was a point of honour to meet losses at the gaming tables with promptitude.

  Langley could not be held accountable for his father’s folly. How could he help his friend? Well, thanks to the fortune inherited from his childless godfather, the nabob, he could afford to help Langley.

  He cracked his knuckles. Of course, the earl must have attempted to arrange for Langley to marry Miss Tomlinson for her substantial dowry and future inheritance. Yet, although Langley refused the proposal, it seemed Mister Tomlinson remained determined to arrange the match. What a coil. He must return to headquarters where he would offer Langley financial assistance with the hope his friend would accept it.

  * * * *

  Outside headquarters, Tarrant dismounted and handed the reins to a hussar. The heels of his boots resounded on a short flight of broad stone steps. At the top, he acknowledged another hussar’s salute. “Major Langley?”

  “Upstairs, sir.”

  Tarrant hurried to the first floor where several officers took their ease in an ante-room while they awaited orders. He greeted them, then glanced at Langley, who stood with his back toward one of a pair of tall windows. With swift steps he crossed the parquet floor. “A word with you, if it is convenient.” Tarrant indicated the door to a small room, in which private conversations often took place.

  Langley raised his eyebrows. “Why so serious? Have you received bad news?”

  “None other than my mother is in despair over Bab’s naughtiness.”

  Langley’s eyes gleamed with obvious amusement. “Bab is a mischievous kitten, albeit an endearing one.”

  “Yes, I confess I am fond of her although she is a red-haired imp of a child.” He glanced at his friend. “Enough of her. Come.” He crossed the spacious room, once part of a wealthy Dutch manufacturer’s house, and opened a panelled door. After they entered, Langley shut the door and Tarrant perched on the edge of a desk.

  Langley frowned. “I take it you have something important to say.”

  “The Hertfordshire Gazette arrived.” Tarrant cleared his throat, embarrassed by the necessity to mention the report.

  His dark eyes wary, Langley sat behind the desk. “Is there anything in it of particular interest?”

  Tarrant decided it would be best to come straight to the point. “Perhaps to you. It is claimed Mister Christie will auction Longwood’s treasures.”

  “Only those which are not entailed,” his friend said quickly. Perhaps too quickly.

  “I would like to help.”

  “It is unnecessary.”

  Tarrant stood. “It is vulgar to speak of money, but we have been friends for—how long—more than twenty years? Nothing should stand between us. Due to my inheritance I can lend you whatever you need.” Tarrant waved an admonitory finger to prevent Langley interrupting him. “If our situations were reversed, I know you would make the same offer. Don’t be too proud to accept mine,” he concluded, although in Langley’s situation he would refuse.

  Langley’s eyes smouldered. “So far I am not reduced to a state of poverty in which I must accept crumbs. During our years in the Peninsular, I saved more than sufficient for my needs. I can also provide for my mother and sisters, so please don’t say anything else.”

  “Very well.” Tarrant visualised Helen. “Make sure you don’t, as the saying goes, cut off your nose to spite your face.”

  “I shall not but thank you for your offer.” He frowned. “Gambling is a curse. It is like a fever in many a man’s blood. Have you heard Symonds lost everything? He blew his brains out because he could not meet his debts.” His nostrils flared. “I have decided never to be in debt to anyone.”

  Tarrant knew Langley was too much the gentleman to criticise his father and that he would say no more on the subject.

  A sharp rat-a-tat-tat sounded on the door. A fresh-faced young ensign entered the room. “General Makelyn’s compliments. He has orders for both of you.”

  Tarrant returned the ensign’s salute. “Thank you, Mister Garston.”

  After he and Langley exchanged a glance, they hurried into Makelyn’s den where several maps were spread out on a large table.

  “You took your time,” the general grumbled, as he looked them up and down as though trying to fault their immaculate uniforms. He scowled. “I am not a shepherd who must send his collie to round up his sheep.”

  Makelyn is crusty today, Tarrant thought, avoiding the amused look in a young lieutenant’s eyes. Well, the old man had more than enough to irritate him with the uncooperative King of the Netherlands—who objected to almost every suggestion made by the British—and his heir, the inexperienced Commander in Chief of the occupying forces and Dutch-Belgian army.

  Thank God he was not one of the Prince William of Orange’s staff officers. Twenty-three-year-old Slender Billy, nick-named because of his long neck, did not inspire confidence in either the army or those civilians who eagerly anticipated the Duke of Wellington’s arrival. Nevertheless, he and Langley were well aware their Dutch counterparts had served the French. They also knew former French officials, who wanted the British to leave the Netherlands, influenced King William. Tarrant exchanged a rueful look with Langley. Any hussar sent to gather intelligence in areas of the Netherlands—where Roman Catholics favoured the French—would need the utmost tact and skill.

  After several wasted hours with the General while the blood red sun sank toward the horizon, Tarrant rode home deep in thoughts of Helen and Langley. Before he wed Georgianne, he assumed love was not a necessity for marriage. Due to his harrowing experience in Spain, when French soldiers raped his betrothed, who subsequently died in childbirth, he had not wished to marry and father an heir. However, conscious of his duty, he knew he must tie the knot to please his family. At that time, like many gentlemen, he saw no reason why he should not have both a wife and a mistress.

  Tarrant laughed at his former self. How could he have been so foolish? Since he fell in love with Georgie, he had never wished to stray from her bed. If only Langley and Helen could enjoy equal happiness.

  During the next few days, army matters kept him too occupied to think about Helen. Then in the space of several hours, four gentlemen requested permission to court her.

  “Deuced odd, I cannot account for Helen being so much sought after,” he said later in the evening when he lay in bed, his wife’s head snuggled against his chest.

  “Why?” Georgie asked indignantly. “Helen is fair of face, a talented artist, a—”

  “You need not praise your sister to me,” Tarrant brok
e in. “I am puzzled because three of the gentlemen are known fortune-hunters. I shall let it be known that Helen does not have a fortune.”

  “I see.” Georgianne traced a pattern on his nightshirt with the tip of her finger. “It is, as you put it, deuced odd.”

  “Georgie!”

  “Don’t worry; I shall not repeat such unladylike words in public.” She propped herself up on her elbow, looking at him by dim firelight. “Who is the fourth gentleman?”

  “Marcus Dalrymple, with whom she sometimes rides in the Allee Vert before breakfast.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That I have no objection to him courting Helen, provided he applies to her guardian, Major Walton, for permission to marry her.” Tarrant suppressed a yawn. It had been a long day during which he rode to Voord and back on General Makelyn’s orders to gather information.

  “Good. Dalrymple is the eldest son of a wealthy baronet who owns a large property in Essex. There can be no objection to him courting Helen if she likes him, only—”

  “What?”

  “Do you think she favours him because he looks a little like Langley?”

  “Even if she does, don’t worry. Go to sleep. If you stay awake fretting about Helen, you will lose the roses in your cheeks.”

  “Sleep? Are you sure you want to sleep?” Georgianne asked, her voice deepening.

  Suddenly wide awake, he faced her, murmuring, “Heart of my heart.”

  * * * *

  In the stillness of the quiet night, Helen sought oblivion in sleep but it eluded her. Even her toes were cold because the flannel-wrapped hot brick at her feet had long since cooled. Outside, the first spring flowers poked their heads above the ground, and even when the sun shone, the days were chilly. Helen shivered again in spite of the flames leaping in the grate and casting shadows on the walls.

  She had no close friends, and since her father died several years ago, Mamma had grown dependent on the bottle, gradually becoming unfit to care for her daughters. Her mind turned to Georgianne. Since her sister’s marriage, although they still loved each other, a rift had opened between them. Perhaps it would widen even more when she married.