She must tread a new path if she did not wish to remain the recipient of Cousin Tarrant’s generosity. Oh, she appreciated it, but she wanted a home of her own. Her troubled mind strayed to Marcus Dalrymple, whom she liked more than any of her other beaux.
Chapter Seven
22nd March, 1815
Helen enjoyed her early morning canter when the Allee Vert was not thronged with those wishing to see or be seen, who were either riding thoroughbred horses or driving splendid vehicles. On her way home, she checked her mare by the bridge over the River Seine. When she dismounted, Collins, the groom, who followed her at a discreet distance, came forward to take Silk’s reins. She peered around while Collins walked the horses.
No sign of dashing Dalrymple this morning. Doubtless, military duties prevented him from joining her.
The paving stones beneath her feet were slick with overnight rain. She slipped. For a horrifying moment, she realised she would fall if she lost her footing. In the next instant, strong hands steadied her.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Whitley. I feared you might take a tumble.” A gentleman’s voice resonated in her ear.
Helen recognised the voice. She could neither move nor speak. Her heart beat faster. To calm herself, she took deep breaths until she recovered her composure sufficiently to force herself to turn around. She stared at Langley’s black cape open down the front and revealing gold buttons which shone by the light of the pale sun breaking through the pearl-grey clouds. Langley stood so close that she could smell his pomade. “Thank you, my lord.” She took more deep breaths. Her legs a little unsteady, she made a small curtsey.
“There is no need for formality between friends.”
Had he emphasised the word friends?
Langley scrutinised her. “Miss Whitley you are shivering. Are you cold?” He wrapped his cape around her.
When they were alone in England he had called her Helen. An awkward silence ensued, during which she admired him. The magnificence of his expertly-cut hussar service uniform, and his busby and boots with gold tassels almost stole her breath.
Langley frowned. “Your face is pale. Are you unwell? May I escort you home?”
Hooves clattered toward them. “There you are, Miss Whitley,” Captain Dalrymple interjected, his cheerful face in sharp contrast to Major Langley’s concerned one. “Sir,” he continued, saluting from the saddle.
For a moment the officers eyed each other as though they would like to snarl. Then, the captain smiled at her before he spoke. “My apologies, Miss Whitley, duty detained me.” He eyed Langley’s cape. “It is cold this morning. I daresay the fresh air has given you an appetite for breakfast. May I escort you home, Miss Whitley?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Do I not have a prior claim?” Langley asked, while she returned his cape.
She looked uncertainly from one officer to the other, aware of her ghost of a smile. “No, my lord, you don’t have any claim on me. Nonetheless, there is no reason why both of you should not accompany me.”
Dalrymple nodded. “Thank you, it will be my pleasure.”
Helen beckoned to Collins, who led her mare to her.
“I like your grey, Miss Whitley” Langley said. “Allow me to help you up.” He laced his hands together to receive her foot.
Conscious of her flushed cheeks, Helen settled into the saddle, reins in her hand.
Dalrymple raised an eyebrow, “Shall I see you this evening at Lady Verulam’s soiree?”
“Perhaps. I am not sure whether my sister accepted the invitation.”
Dalrymple pressed his free hand over his heart. “I hope to see you there.”
Helen liked the cheerful Captain, and she knew nothing about him which would displease even the most exacting young lady.
Suddenly, at risk of its life from Silk’s hooves, a small terrier dashed across the narrow road in pursuit of an alley cat.
The mare shied. Regardless of danger, a plump matron wearing a fluttering white headdress pursued the yapping dog. “Bebe! Bebe!” she shrieked.
Silk reared. Helen lost control of the mare. Langley flung himself out of his saddle. A gig approached quickly from the opposite direction. It drew parallel to them, preventing Langley from coming to her assistance.
Langley dodged another vehicle with mere inches to spare. He grabbed the curb rein of Helen’s horse, and then helped her to dismount. “My sweet girl!” He cradled her in his arms.
Tall for a woman, Helen dwarfed most men, but Langley stood almost a head taller. In his embrace, she could find no words to describe the sense of security his superior height gave her.
Langley kissed the top of her head. “Thank God you are not injured, but you must be shaken.”
“Somewhat,” she admitted, overwhelmed by the joy of being in his arms.
He held her a little tighter.
For a few moments, bubbles of happiness swirled within. They dispersed when she caught sight of Dalrymple’s frown and widened eyes. Whether the danger she had faced or Langley holding her so close shocked him more, she did not know. “Please, forgive us for ignoring you, Captain.” She freed herself from Langley’s embrace. “The Major is a close friend of my family. My sister regards him as an honorary brother.”
“Ah, he is fortunate.” Dalrymple dismounted, looking with intense dislike at the Belgian lady, who ran across the road, her little dog clasped in her arms.
Helen shook out her full skirt. Dalrymple picked up her hat and handed it to her. She fingered the plume. “Alas, it is ruined.” She beckoned to Collins, who held her mare’s reins and those of the Major and Captain’s horses.
Langley frowned. “Are you sure you are fit to ride?”
“I must for fear of losing my courage.”
Dalrymple’s eyes shone. “Upon my word, I cannot tell you how much I admire you, Miss Whitley. Some young ladies would have hysterics or palpitations after such an experience.”
She smiled in response. “You forget I am the daughter and sister of cavalry officers, although I fear they would have scolded me for not acquitting myself well.”
“No such thing, you kept your seat.” The captain helped her mount Silk once again.
“Will you come in to have breakfast?” Helen asked when the three of them reached Rue Royale.
“No, thank you,” Dalrymple replied “You must rest after such a shock.”
“No, no, I don’t need to.” She looked up at Langley. “My lord, I am sure Cousin Tarrant and my sister would be pleased to see you.”
Langley shook his head, his dark eyes inscrutable. “Please forgive me for not accepting your invitation. I must hurry to headquarters. Without doubt, Makelyn will rebuke me for being so tardy.”
* * * *
A spring in her step, Helen almost danced up the stairs on her way to change from her riding habit into a morning gown. Delight flooded through her at the memory of his embrace and calling her his sweet girl.
The intoxicating scent of horse leather combined with his spicy toilet water seemed to linger. The tenderness in his voice echoed in her ears. Of course, after taking such a shocking liberty he should have proposed marriage. No matter, she was sure he would do so in the near future. Soon, she would be choosing her trousseau and bridal gown.
Pringle blinked when she entered the bedchamber. “You enjoyed your ride, Miss Whitley?”
“Oh, yes, I did.” Helen tossed her damaged hat onto a chair.
“Which gown do you wish to wear?”
“My pea-green kerseymere,” she replied, well-aware, green—her favourite shade—intensified the colour of her eyes.
“Very good, Miss.”
Helen stripped off her riding gloves and handed them to Pringle, before going behind a screen, where she poured rose-fragranced water from a jug into a basin. “Langley loves me,” she thought, while washing her hands and face. “I shall be his lifelong companion.”
An ice-cold shiver ran down her spine. “Dear God, suppose neither the Fr
ench Republicans nor the Royalists oust Napoleon.” Langley might be killed if France invaded. “No,” she told herself, “I shall not think of it. He will live to see our children.” Lost in a dream of a happy future, she emerged from behind the screen imagining her unborn children with their father’s dark eyes and hair. She sighed with satisfaction. Langley would be a tolerant husband and father. His sons would be equally honourable. His daughters, whom he would protect and indulge, would adore him.
“Do you want to take off your habit?” Pringle’s voice jerked Helen out of her vision of the imaginary future.
“Yes, please.”
With her usual efficiency, Pringle helped her to dress in warm kerseymere suited to the chilly weather.
Helen regarded herself in the mirror. She adjusted one of the pomaded ringlets bunched on either side of her oval face. “Vanity,” she reminded herself, “is one of the seven deadly sins. But is it a sin to know I look my best? Surely not.”
“Oh dear, what’s happened Miss?” Pringle held up Helen’s riding hat. “The plume is ruined, it will have to be replaced.”
Helen frowned. Must the woman forever be interrupting her thoughts? “Yes, I shall buy a new one. If my sister has no plans for us this morning, you may accompany me to the haberdashers.”
Without a backward glance at Pringle, she left her bedchamber. A spring in her step, she went downstairs to the breakfast parlour where Georgianne presided over the coffee pot.
“Good morning.” Helen pressed a kiss on her sister’s cheek.
Georgianne kissed her in return. “Delicious, Helen, you smell of fresh air.”
Helen examined the silver dishes on the marble-topped buffet. Hungry, she helped herself to bacon, kidney, a poached egg, and bread and butter.
Georgianne eyed her plate. “You are hungry, Helen. Coffee?”
“Yes please.”
“Did you ride with Captain Dalrymple?”
Helen laughed. “No, I rode alone in the Allee Vert.”
Georgianne raised her eyebrows. “Alone!”
“Collins attended me.” Helen hesitated. Better to describe what had happened during her ride, in case the groom blabbed to the other servants and word of her mishap reached Cousin Tarrant and Georgianne. However, she would neither mention Langley’s embrace nor his kiss on the top of her head. Moreover, she would not tell Georgianne he called her his sweet girl. That was a private treasure; one to keep in her heart.
“Thank God you were not hurt!” Georgianna exclaimed, after Helen explained how she was nearly thrown from her horse.
“I have Langley to thank.” Helen wanted to sing for joy at the sound of his name.
“I am grateful to him for rescuing you, dearest. He is so gallant and, poor Langley, the financial predicament caused by his father is regrettable. I understand why Mister Tomlinson proposed a match between his daughter and Langley.”
No longer hungry, Helen pushed her plate away. “Langley loves you. Surely he means to marry you,” her inner voice whispered in her ear.
“Unfortunately,” Georgianne rattled on, “as the saying goes, although Langley rejected Tomlinson’s offer, he needs to marry money.”
“When Silk plunged, my hat fell to the ground.” Helen deliberately changed the subject of the conversation. “The plume is damaged, so if you have no plans for us this morning, I shall go to the haberdashers to buy a new one.”
“Why not purchase another hat?”
“I could, although my old one matches my riding habit. Will you come with me?”
“No thank you, I have too many letters to write.”
Helen dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin. “Do you want me to buy anything for you?”
“Yes, please; two yards of the finest inch-wide Brussels lace.”
Perplexed, Helen stared at Georgianne. “How you have changed. Before you married, you loathed sewing.”
Georgianne flushed. “Now that I am no longer forced to sew in the schoolroom, I enjoy it.”
Helen fingered one of her pearl earrings. Since her sister married, both of them had changed.
* * * *
Her purchases from the haberdashers carried by Pringle, Helen gazed into a milliner’s shop at a charming high-crowned straw hat, trimmed with a broad lace frill on the inner edge of the brim. A commotion from behind drew her attention as she was on the verge of entering the shop to try it on. She turned around. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of a group of young Belgian soldiers surrounding an elderly gentleman dressed in clothes fashionable in the previous century.
“Please leave me alone,” the old man said in English.
“Dance for us, old man! Let us see your coat skirts swirl.” The soldier’s companions laughed raucously.
The old man turned slowly. He looked from one mocking face to another.
The soldier drew his sword from its scabbard. “Dance,” he repeated. “Perhaps the tip of my sword will encourage you.”
“How dare they?” Helen stepped onto the road.
“Don’t interfere, Miss,” Pringle pleaded.
Helen hurried forward. Without hesitation she addressed the unmannerly men in French. “I am Major Tarrant’s sister-in-law. You may be sure your commanding officer will hear of this outrage. What are your names?”
“Be careful, this isn’t your business,” Pringle cried out.
“Not my business! It most certainly is. I am a captain’s daughter. Like the Duke of Wellington, he would have had these men flogged for their unmannerly conduct.” She returned her attention to the soldiers. “Off with you!”
Two of the men went on their way down the street, whooping and turning frequently to jeer. The other four, including the one with the drawn sword, grinned mockingly. “Perhaps you will dance with the gentleman.”
Helen scowled. “Certainly not! Neither of us will dance.” With one hand, she reached into her huge sealskin muff, suspended to her waist from a cord looped around her neck. The soldier moved closer. His face beetroot red, he was sweating profusely. He reeked of alcohol. Helen withdrew a pocket pistol Cousin Tarrant had taught her to fire. Ever protective, he had requested her to always carry it.
“A pretty toy,” the soldier sneered.
“It is loaded. If you dare to threaten me or refuse to let this gentleman proceed in peace, you will discover it is not a child’s plaything.”
Several members of the British Light Infantry rounded the corner of the quiet street and approached.
“Well?” she said to the Belgians.
Outnumbered four to ten, after several bungled attempts, the ringleader pushed his sword back into its scabbard before he made his way up the street with his companions.
Pringle fanned herself with the package of lace, in spite of the chilly March day. “Those rascals were tipsy. Who knows what might have happened if our soldiers hadn’t arrived.”
The old gentleman bowed to Helen. “I am forever in your debt.” With one hand clutching his walking stick, he straightened.
“I am pleased to have been of help,” Helen murmured.
A smile mitigated the gravity of his wrinkled face. With his free hand, he indicated his dull yellow brocade coat. “I am too old to wear new fashions.” He laughed. “I shall not be intimidated by those ignorant young louts.” Despite his brave words his hands trembled.
Before Helen could offer him further assistance, the British soldiers reached them. “Miss Whitley, is all in order?” a young lieutenant asked.
Helen gazed at him.
“Lieutenant Calverly at your service, Miss Whitley. We were introduced during a soiree.” He bowed. “Do you remember me?”
“Of course I do.”
“I am flattered.” Calverly inclined his head. “Do you need assistance?”
“No thank you, nevertheless those soldiers should be punished.”
“I agree.” In a few well-chosen words, the old gentleman explained what had happened. “I am Mister Barnet,” he added. “Don’t hesitate to ask if I can
ever be of service to you.”
“Thank you, sir. We will follow those louts, try to apprehend them and ensure they are punished. Good day to you, Miss Whitley, Mister Barnet.”
For a moment Helen stared after him. How old was he? Her own age, eighteen or a little older? She shivered, not from cold. All too soon, he might surrender his life for king and country.
“Would you have fired Miss Whitley?” The soft voice drew her attention.
Helen faced Mister Barnet. “If necessary, for although my sister is a better shot than I am, I could not have missed at such close range.”
The gentleman chuckled. “Do you always carry a pistol?”
“Yes, when I am only accompanied by my dresser. My brother-in-law insists on it. What of you, sir? Will you allow us to escort you home after your dreadful ordeal?”
His eyes twinkled. “It is usually the gentleman who escorts the lady.” He paused for a second. “My house is only two streets away so I will accept your offer.”
“Miss…” Pringle protested.
Helen ignored her. “Were you frightened, sir?”
“No, I am old but not entirely defenceless. He raised his cane. This is a swordstick. I was once considered a master of the art of fencing.”
She looked at him doubtfully. It must have been long ago.
They turned right onto a short street of large houses with scrubbed steps and well-polished door knockers. At the end of it, they entered another street with even larger houses.
Mister Barnet halted outside a four storey mansion. “I live here.”
“Well, sir, I shall bid you goodbye for now.”
“For now?”
“Yes. Tomorrow, if you permit, I shall call to make sure you have recovered from your unfortunate experience.”
“You are kind. However, would it not be improper of you to call on an unmarried gentleman?”
Monday's Child (Heroines born on each day of the week. Book 2) Page 6