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

by Rosemary Morris

It would be rude to imply she doubted one of his age would be a threat to her virtue, so she chose her answer carefully. “Not if my dresser accompanies me. Until tomorrow, sir.”

  “Good day, Miss Whitley.”

  She lingered until the door closed behind him. “Not a word of this to anyone, Pringle.”

  “I shan’t say anything Miss, but the lieutenant might.”

  Helen frowned. She could not ensure Calverly would not mention the matter. Oh well, if he did, she would insist it was of no consequence.

  Chapter Eight

  23rd March, 1815

  Langley sat at a table in headquarters, a sheet of writing paper before him. He picked up his quill and dipped the tip into the inkwell.

  Dear Miss Whitley.

  His hand hovered over the words. Should he write to Helen, or should he apologise in person for holding her in his arms and kissing the top of her head?

  During his years in the army, he had faced fear in all of its many guises, yet he was terrified when her horse reared and the gig came between them. After he helped her to dismount, relief overwhelmed him. He had folded his arms around her wanting to keep her safe forever. Still, he should not have done so in public and in the presence of Captain Dalrymple.

  Curse the young officer well-known for his pleasant manners and cheerful nature. Damn it! With his dark eyes and hair black and glossy as any of The Glory Boys’ treasured horses, Marcus Dalrymple seemed to be one of Helen’s most favoured beaux.

  A bitter laugh escaped him. He must not be a proverbial ‘dog in a manger’. Unable to marry Helen, he should not resent her other suitors.

  Langley put the quill down. He crumpled the paper. Mere words could not express how much he admired Helen’s steady nerve when faced with danger. She was not craven, so he should not take the coward’s path by writing to her. Instead, he must speak to her in person. Perhaps he should accept Georgianne’s invitation to dine tomorrow, and hope to have a private moment to apologise to Helen for his impropriety.

  * * * *

  24th March, 1815

  On Sunday, Langley sipped from his glass of wine in Georgianne’s salon furnished in salmon-pink and gold. He realised it would be impossible to speak in private to Helen. Langley did not begrudge Helen her popularity, but he wished he could oust two junior officers from her side. His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass. Eyes bright, she greeted him with a smile. Though he did not consider himself conceited, he sensed she reciprocated his love. His embrace probably led her to expect a marriage proposal would be forthcoming. “You are a scoundrel,” he castigated himself. For her own good, he must disappoint Helen no matter how much he dreaded the day when she would marry another man.

  Dalrymple entered the salon, as impressive as the other officers in his regiment who were gathered here. Indeed, the black and gold uniform contrasted well with the ladies’ fashionable gowns. Most of all, Langley admired Helen, who wore a cream muslin gown trimmed with sea green which emphasised the colour of her eyes.

  He turned his attention to the young captain. After greeting his host and hostess, Dalrymple, curse him, made his bow to Helen, who greeted him with a warm smile. The captain said something to her, and then they walked across the salon to a tall window which overlooked a balcony with wrought-iron railings. Langley suppressed unreasonable jealousy. He forced himself not to follow them to find out what the fellow was saying to Helen.

  “My lords, ladies and gentleman,” the butler announced, “dinner is served.”

  Langley escorted Lady Huxtable, his allotted partner, to the dining room, where, seated on his hostess’s right, he immediately searched the length of the long table for Helen. An ornate silver epergne partially obscured his sight, nevertheless, to his disgust, he saw Dalrymple seated on her left.

  “When do you think the Duke of Wellington will arrive?” asked Lady Huxtable, a pretty brunette of some thirty years or more.

  “I regret to say I don’t know.” The lady’s eyes widened. Seeing fear in them, he added. “I am not in the great man’s confidence.”

  “I am sure you know more than you admit.” The lady sniffed. “Let me tell you I am not the only one to consider Prince William is too inexperienced and too young for his command.”

  “The Prince is not only the heir to the throne, he is also the senior officer in the army of occupation,” Langley replied, too wily to give his opinion.

  The excellent meal with soup, game, fish, fowl and meat, sundry sweets and savouries progressed until Georgianne led the ladies into the salon. Not surprisingly, the gentlemen talked about Napoleon.

  No one doubted the allied forces would invade France. Everyone present hoped Wellington would arrive soon to take over command of the army from the Lieutenant General of the British Army, young Prince William.

  “Gentlemen, shall we join the ladies?” Rupes suggested at long last.

  Langley walked at a brisk pace into the salon. He made his way to Helen, who sat on a gilt legged sofa next to her sister.

  The expression in her eyes tender, Helen greeted him with a radiant smile. They faced each other as though they were under a Good Fairy’s spell until Dalrymple, who had followed close behind him, broke it.

  “Miss Whitley, tomorrow, if the weather and my duties permit, would you care to stroll with me in the park?”

  “Yes, Captain, I would. If you have no objection, perhaps we may sit for a while, so I may sketch a statue.”

  “I am yours to command, Miss Whitley. I know ladies like to practice their etching.”

  Langley smarted in response to Dalrymple’s polite reply. “It seems you are not aware Miss Whitley is a talented artist. She needs little practice. Her skill is far beyond that of many young ladies.”

  Helen blushed. “You flatter me, my lord.”

  Langley devised a plan. “It is no less than the truth,”

  “If it is convenient, I shall call for you tomorrow at eleven of the clock,” countered Dalrymple, who obviously feared he might be losing ground with Miss Whitley. He cleared his throat. “After our promenade, perhaps you would care to partake of refreshments at the pavilion.”

  “Yes, thank you, captain, I would,” Helen replied.

  * * * *

  25th March, 1815

  Langley arrived in Georgianne’s salon when the clock struck the hour.

  “Captain Dalrymple presents his apologies, Miss Whitley. General Makelyn’s orders prevent him from escorting you to the park. I hope you will give me that privilege.”

  “I hope you had nothing to do with those orders,” Helen said, the expression in her eyes mischievous.

  “If I did?”

  Her rosy lips curved into a smile. “Although I should reprove you, I shall not, for I am ignorant of the truth of the matter. Please be good enough to wait for a few moments while I put on my hat and pelisse.”

  “Of course.”

  Within a few minutes, Helen returned bundled up in a holly-green woollen pelisse lined with fur. “I am ready, Major.”

  “I thought you wished to draw.”

  “My dresser, who awaits us in the hall, has my sketch pad and pencils.”

  “Very well.”

  They proceeded to the front door and out into the Rue Royale.

  Helen looked up at the pale blue sky decorated with puffs of white cloud. “In spite of the sunshine, it is a little cold.”

  “Which makes the world a more cheerful place.”

  “Yes, grey days don’t enhance the spirit.”

  Side by side, they walked along the pavement, to the right were the railings enclosing rectangular Parc Royale. Inside the park, few people—other than nurses with their charges—were taking the air.

  Helen slowed her pace, turned and beckoned to her dresser. “Are you cold, Pringle?” she asked, when the woman drew near.

  “No, Miss.”

  “You need not deny that you are. Go to the pavilion. Have a hot drink to warm you. We will join you after our walk.”

/>   The dresser hesitated. Langley handed her a coin. She curtsied. “Thank you, my Lord.” Nevertheless, when he took the portfolio from her, she looked from him to Helen with a question in her eyes.

  “No need to worry,” Langley said. “Your mistress will be safe with me. Come, Miss Whitley.” He departed leaving Pringle with no option other than to obey.

  He gazed into the distance at the fourth boundary of the park—part of the wall which enclosed Brussels—before he returned his attention to Helen. “Is there anything in particular you wish to sketch?” he asked, while they strolled beneath the bare branches of trees forming an intricate pattern reminiscent of black lace.

  “There is a stone statue of a charming young girl dressed in a riding habit. It is this way.” Helen turned around toward the east, where a seat faced the equestrienne captured forever in time.

  Seated, Helen peeped sideways at him. He fancied she wanted to say something of a particular nature. While he considered how to raise the subject uppermost in his mind, she spoke, her hands idle on her lap instead of busy with a sketch. “My lord, we rarely have the opportunity to speak in private, so I hope you will not think me forward if I broach a subject I have long wished to speak of.”

  Good Lord! What did she intend to say?

  Delicate colour tinged her cheeks before she spoke again. “I have never expressed adequate thanks to you for helping Cousin Tarrant rescue me from the Earl of Pennington. The old man was quite mad, you know.”

  “Yes, definitely queer in his attic, but there is no need to thank me.” He frowned unintentionally, thinking of the old villain who had kidnapped Helen in an attempt to marry her and father a child.

  “You look fierce. Are you angry with me for mentioning the subject?”

  “No, I could never be angry with you.”

  “Judging by the expression on your face, you are enraged,” Helen persisted, “but I had to thank you properly.”

  “I am not ‘enraged’ by you, it is the memory of Pennington’s wickedness which infuriates me,” he replied, more vehemently than necessary. Langley longed to take her in his arms to reassure her. Simultaneously, he knew he must not. Langley forced himself to smile although haunted by the moment when he discovered Pennington had abducted her. “I have already said you did not need to thank me.”

  “Thank you.”

  He cleared his throat. “I am glad I helped your brother-in-law save you from the old lecher’s clutches. Rupes is my brother-in-arms, so you and Georgianne are my honorary sisters. I shall always be yours to command.”

  Helen bent her head, but not so quickly that he did not see tears before she blinked. He wished he had the right to kiss them away. Instead, he must make some sort of apology to her for raising false expectations. “Miss Whitley, since I last saw you in England, I regret the change in my circumstances. They oblige me to fulfil my obligations to my family. I hope you understand.”

  “All too well, my lord. I am sorry for your situation. No one could regret it more. I wish I could help you.” She stood. The brim of her velvet hat concealed most of her face. “Well, I have thanked you and set my conscience at ease. Shall we proceed to the pavilion? The breeze is too chilly for me to remain here. I shall sketch the statue on another occasion.” She squared her shoulders before hurrying away.

  Both of them were suffering from unrequited love. He could do nothing to alleviate it. With no wish to examine the state of his heart, he quickened his pace to catch up with Helen.

  To his surprise, Langley noticed Miss Tomlinson accompanied by the high-stickler Madame la Comptesse de Beaulieu in the distance. “Why,” he asked himself, “would Miss Tomlinson be in her company?” He whistled low. Judging by the way the old lady’s head inclined toward the manufacturer’s daughter, she seemed familiar with the heiress.

  * * * *

  At the sound of fast footsteps crunching on the gravelled path, Helen looked back. By the time Langley reached her, she had gathered sufficient composure to speak calmly. “Good day to you, my lord.”

  “I must see you safely home.”

  Helen gazed at him wistfully, committing his face to her memory. If she spent more time with him, he would tear at her heartstrings. “There is no need for you to do so; my dresser is waiting for me. Please go.”

  His dark eyes sober, the viscount hesitated, seeming to debate with himself before he spoke. “Very well. Good day to you, Miss Whitley.”

  Grief-stricken, Helen turned away. She had been so sure that, in spite of financial difficulties, Langley would propose marriage to her. Well, whether he loved her or not, he would not be the first gentleman forced by circumstance to marry for money. She struggled to convince herself Langley was unworthy of her love.

  Helen knew one thing, she must put the viscount out of her mind and never allow anyone to guess he had broken her heart. Helen straightened her back. There was much to be thankful for. Her popularity was assured. Captain Dalrymple and other gentlemen were paying court to her. Not by a word or deed would she reveal her bitter disappointment.

  Helen reached the pavilion where Pringle sat. “Come,” she said to the woman.

  What could she do other than continue her daily activities? Where to go? Not to Georgianne, who knew her so well. No matter how hard she would try to conceal her misery, her sister would sense it and ask concerned questions.

  Followed by Pringle, Helen left the park.

  She walked slowly down the street. On the opposite side, a group of mannerly Belgian soldiers—unlike those who accosted poor Mister Barnet on the previous day—approached.

  “Mister Barnet!” she exclaimed to herself. “I promised to visit him. I shall do so immediately.” She nodded at acquaintances but did not pause to speak to any of them.

  “Knock on the door,” she ordered Pringle when they reached Mister Barnet’s house.

  The woman sniffed, an irritating habit employed when she disapproved of something. The door opened. A tall footman in dark green livery opened the door.

  “Please tell Mister Barnet that Miss Whitley is here,” Helen said in a crisp tone of voice.

  “Step inside, Miss, the master told me you might call.”

  Helen entered a lofty hall with a domed skylight and a peach-veined, white marble floor.

  The footman ushered her past walls covered with beautiful hand-painted paper to the staircase.

  Helen removed her pelisse and gloves. She handed them to her dresser. “You may wait here.”

  Pringle opened her mouth, probably to protest it was her duty to chaperon.

  “I said, wait here,” Helen repeated every inch of her an authoritative officer’s daughter.

  Fine paintings, of exotic scenes she would have liked to examine, hung on the walls on either side of the broad staircase. At the top, the footman turned right. He led her too swiftly along a short corridor for her to pause to admire beautiful blue and white china on plinths. He opened one of a pair of double doors. “Miss Whitley, Sir.”

  Helen stepped into a small salon decorated in the Chinese style, and ornamented with gorgeous vases and bowls from the mysterious land of pagodas and silk.

  “My dear young lady.” Mister Barnet put down a journal. “You are welcome, most welcome.” He stood. “Please sit by the fire. It is a little cold outside, is it not?”

  “Oh, I am well wrapped up so I hardly felt the chill in the air.”

  He nodded at his footman. “Fetch coffee and biscuits, Thomas.”

  Alone with Mister Barnet, Helen watched him sit at the other side of the hearth. “My dear young lady, I hope you did not come here alone.”

  “No, sir, my dresser accompanied me. She is waiting for me downstairs.”

  “I hope you will not take offence when I ask if it is unwise for you to only be escorted by a female servant.”

  “Of course not, sir, I…I—” To her dismay, thoughts of Langley caused tears to fill her eyes and trickle down her cheeks. She dabbed them away with her gloved hand, furious wit
h herself for revealing her unhappiness.

  Mister Barnet scrutinised her face.

  “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  “There is no need to do so. If you wish to confide in me I might be of assistance.”

  A long sigh escaped her. “No one can help me.”

  Her host’s blue eyes gazed at her from a lined face. “In my experience, when a young lady sighs and is overset, the cause is a gentleman.”

  His percipience threw her into confusion. “You are…too acute, sir.”

  He chuckled. “Please forgive my amusement. I am old, an advantage because I have experienced and observed much.”

  He did not seem self-pitying but something undefinable in his tone told Helen he had suffered profound grief.

  Thomas returned and put the contents of a tray on a low table in front of her.

  “Miss Whitley, would you pour coffee?” Mister Barnet asked. “I regret I have neither wife nor daughter to do so.”

  “Yes, of course.” She wondered if he were a childless widower. It would be impertinent to question him to satisfy her curiosity. She poured coffee from the heavy silver pot, without comment.

  “You may go, Thomas.” Mister Barnet held out his hand to take the cup from her. She noticed a gold ring on the third finger of his left hand. So, he had been married.

  “Am I mistaken to assume, that like Romeo and Juliet, you and the gentleman who has caused you sorrow are a pair of ‘star-crossed’ lovers?”

  “In a manner of speaking, however, he is not my family’s enemy. Sadly, the stars are not in our favour.”

  Mister Barnet sipped some coffee. His silence invited more confidences. At the end of them, he smiled. “The gentleman is to be praised.”

  “Why?” The word escaped her as fast as a bullet from her pistol.

  “If he is sincere, you should believe he loves you too much to marry you without the means to maintain you.”

  “I don’t care about his circumstances.”

  “It is fortunate he does.” Mister Barnet put his empty coffee cup on the table.