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

by Rosemary Morris

  “You don’t understand,” she burst out.

  “Yes, I do, only too well. Penury blights even the most ardent love.”

  Again tears threatened to spill over her cheeks. She wiped them away with a handkerchief. More tears oozed from the corners of her eyes.

  “My dear, Miss Whitley, please allow me to say how much I admire you for your decision to hold your head high and participate in all society has to offer you. You are a beautiful, brave, intelligent young woman. I have no doubt you will find happiness one day with someone else.”

  “Thank you, sir. Please forgive me for taking advantage of your hospitality. I have to go. By now, my sister must be wondering where I am.”

  Mister Barnet stood. The stiff silk of his old-fashioned coat rustled. “Thank you once more for rescuing me from those louts.”

  “I am pleased to have helped you, sir. Indeed, I am sorry for burdening you with my woes. Please pardon me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive.” He smiled. “I hope you will visit me again.”

  “I shall be happy to.”

  * * * *

  With only the lingering fragrance of his guest’s perfume to keep him company, Mister Barnet sank back onto his chair. He wiped his moist eyes. His dear wife would have known how to advise his guest. If his granddaughter had lived, her bravery might have equalled Miss Whitley’s. He sincerely hoped the young lady would visit him again.

  Mister Barnet frowned while he settled more comfortably. He must discover more about his visitor. Through a few discreet enquires, it would not be difficult to find out the name of her brother-in-law’s best friend. He hoped the gentleman really was an honourable man, not an arrogant, insensitive officer who cast her aside for selfish reasons. After all, he could only judge by the young lady’s interpretation of the matter.

  Chapter Nine

  26th March, 1815

  Helen skirted a table covered with a miscellany of objects, any one of which might feature in a painting. They included a marble bust of Julius Caesar, a collection of peacock feathers, a damaged sabretache with gold and red embellishments, a mummified seahorse and a spray of dried lavender. She shut the door of a battered armoire in which she stored paintbrushes, her paint box and other items.

  Helen walked across the spacious attic to the window at the front of the house, careful not to bang her head on the ceiling which sloped toward it. She peered through the glass. By the half-light before dawn, she could see cart horses pulling three wagons with iron-rimmed wooden wheels. When Helen opened the window, she heard the clip-clop of the horses and the clatter of wagon wheels. She gazed at the drivers, soldiers huddled into great coats. How could she capture the bustle of carts, mounted troops and foot soldiers, passing through the city on their way to towns on the border, in a sketch or watercolour? How could she depict the anxiety underlying brave smiles? She shivered, but not from the slight chill in the large room Georgianne and Tarrant allowed her to use.

  If she had the skill to record preparations for war, could she depict individual fears, such as those of a mother or wife unable to conceal their anxiety?

  Helen took a deep breath to clear her head. She stared past the street to Parc Royale at a well-endowed lady facing a tall gentleman. The ostrich plumes on her hat quivered. The man shook his head. He removed her hand from his shoulder. She reached out to him. He turned and hurried away.

  The lady sank onto a seat and took out a handkerchief from her reticule. Helen’s eyes widened. Maria Tomlinson! No sign of a maid or a footman. How improper!

  The manufacturer’s daughter wiped her eyes. Helen realized this might be her chance to try to capture the embodiment of a lady in distress. As she rushed to pick up her sketchbook, she experienced a twinge of guilt.

  By the time she returned to the window, Miss Tomlinson was looking around, presumably to see if anyone had observed her. She stood, her legs seeming too weak to support her.

  Sorry for the young lady, Helen’s imagination began to sweep away her common sense. Thwarted love? The bearer of bad tidings? She turned to a new page in her sketch pad and placed it on the easel. To depict Miss Tomlinson with the unknown gentleman would be equivalent to eavesdropping. However, she wanted to portray a young woman’s overwrought sensibilities. An imaginary picture of a slip of a girl, overcome by imminent separation from a handsome soldier, formed in her mind. The girl in tears—the soldier indifferent. No, not indifferent; his outward calm masked his fear that he might be killed and never return to the love of his life.

  The minutes ticked away while she sketched. Her stomach rumbled. How long had she been up here? She put down her pencil. She had captured Maria Tomlinson’s sorrow via the imaginary girl. Sharp as a shard of glass, a pain pierced her heart. Suppose she and Langley were parting forever. Would she ever smile again?

  Yet he had made it plain they had no future together. Helen sank onto a chair. For sanity’s sake she must remove him from her mind. It would be difficult, for they could not avoid frequently seeing each other.

  She glanced at the window. The sun had long since risen in the sky from which the last traces of pale pink and gold faded from the horizon. Time to breakfast, but surely she should not be so hungry. In novels, young ladies crossed in love, lost their appetites and faded away. “Well,” she thought, “I am healthy so I shall not languish like those weak-spirited heroines. Moreover, regardless of whatever Langley thinks of me, I am not a heartless flirt. Even if I cannot marry him, sooner or later, I shall wed, have my own home and—God willing—children.” She left the attic room and went to the breakfast parlour, where her sister sat reading a letter.

  “Are you unwell?” Helen asked Georgianne after they greeted each other.

  Not only was her sister’s face almost devoid of colour, her weight had decreased. Helen eyed her with concern. There were dark shadows under Georgianne’s eyes. She must be fretting about Cousin Tarrant and wishing he had not purchased another commission after he heard Napoleon escaped. “You should eat more. Toast and weak coffee are insufficient.”

  Georgianne dabbed her mouth with her table napkin. “I cannot.”

  Helen helped herself to ham, eggs, and bread and butter.

  “Coffee?” Georgianne asked.

  Helen nodded.

  “Dearest, you should take off your apron before leaving the attic.” Georgianne gazed at her. “I must say I cannot understand why you want to leave your warm bed at such an early hour of the morning, either to practice your art or ride.”

  “Sometimes, as the saying goes, early birds catch worms.” She chuckled. “I caught one this morning.”

  “Really?”

  She hesitated. Perhaps it would be unkind to mention Miss Tomlinson’s assignation. Yet Georgianne would not gossip. “I saw Mister Tomlinson’s daughter, unchaperoned in the park with a gentleman. After he left, she wept.”

  “’Pon my word!” Georgianne frowned. “What an unfortunate lady. Before I married Tarrant, I always feared being the victim of an arranged marriage. When Mamma beat me with a riding crop for refusing to marry the Earl of Pennington—Oh! I have no words to describe my sentiments.”

  Helen sipped some coffee. “It is old history which I am sure you don’t wish to recall any more than I wish to remember! I am sure you have not forgotten, the earl also tried to force me to marry him after you rejected him. Yet what does it have to do with Miss Tomlinson? Why should you pity her?”

  Georgianne’s bosom rose and fell faster than usual. Once more she dabbed her mouth with a table napkin. “If Mister Tomlinson is still set on her marriage to Langley, I pity her if she does not wish to marry him.”

  “Why should she not want to?” Helen burst out. “He is agreeable and handsome, besides being well-born.”

  “Perhaps you are right. She might be in love with the man you saw her with in the park. Someone her father disapproves of. After all, it does not take half a brain to understand the manufacturer is ambitious. If he is trying to force her into a ma
rriage against her wishes, she is to be pitied.”

  Fletcher entered the breakfast parlour. “Lieutenant Calverly has called to speak to Miss Whitley.”

  “You may admit him,” Georgianne said.

  Helen stood to remove her apron. Before she could do so the fresh-faced lieutenant, wearing the silver-laced black service uniform of the 7th Light Dragoons, and a scarlet sash around his slender waist, entered the breakfast parlour. He bowed while looking at Helen with palpable amusement.

  To her annoyance, her cheeks grew hot.

  “My sister is an artist,” Georgianne explained, while Helen wrestled with her apron strings.

  “Allow me.”

  Somewhat ill at ease when the lieutenant could not avoid touching her back, Helen fidgeted while he teased open the knot.

  Before she could thank him, he turned and bowed to Georgianne.

  “Please forgive me for waiting on you so early in the morning, ma’am. My excuse is duty which sends me to Nivelles, so I have called to set Miss Whitley’s mind at rest before I leave.”

  Helen handed the grubby apron to Fletcher, who looked down his nose at it before leaving the room.

  “Do sit at the table before you explain.” Georgianne’s hand hovered above the coffee pot. “Will you partake of coffee? Something to eat?”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Georgianne waved her free hand in the direction of the buffet. “Please help yourself.”

  The lieutenant piled his plate with steak, kidneys, sausage and eggs. He looked at it appreciatively. “I shall enjoy my breakfast. The food in my billet is not as good as this, and you cannot imagine what our rations taste like when the army is on the move.”

  Georgianne gave him a cup of coffee.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He smiled. “I beg you not to look so dismayed, soldiers must do their duty.”

  “Quite,” Helen commented, aware of her sister’s distress at the indirect mention of war. “You said you have some good news.”

  “Yes.” He laid down his fork. “Those impertinent Belgian soldiers have been disciplined.”

  Helen smiled. “I am pleased. Poor Mister Barnet; being made fun of and ordered to dance at an age when he should be respected. A disgraceful matter.”

  “Who is Mister Barnet?” Georgianne asked.

  Helen wished she had told her sister about the incident. “An old gentleman insulted by the soldiers.”

  “Who your sister rescued,” Calverly explained.

  Georgianne raised her eyebrows but made no comment.

  The lieutenant broke a brief silence. “You paint, Miss Whitley?”

  “Yes.” She did not like discussing her endeavours.

  “Of course, it is fashionable for ladies to dabble in watercolours. The more eerie the subject, the more enthusiastic they are,” Calverly said.

  Georgianne laughed. “My sister does more than dabble, and she does not paint ruined gothic abbeys and churches which send chills down the back and cause nightmares. She painted the oil painting of my husband above the mantelpiece. I like it so much that I brought it with us from England.”

  The lieutenant looked at it for a long moment. “Upon my word, I hardly know what to say. It is clear Miss Whitley is exceptionally talented.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Helen replied, somewhat amused by his astonishment.

  Calverly put down his knife and fork. “Miss Whitley, I would be honoured, if you would show me more of your paintings.”

  “Oh, they are not worth viewing,” Helen declared. “Oil paintings take a long time to dry, so I only work in pencil and watercolours in Brussels.”

  The lieutenant ate the last morsel of sausage. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Tarrant.” He stood, bowed and took his leave.

  “A nice young man. God bless him,” Georgianne said softly when they were alone.

  “What are you going to do this morning? You still look unwell. Should you rest?”

  “No, I could not sleep knowing Tarrant might need something. Come.”

  Helen accompanied Georgianne to her comfortable parlour, where Cousin Tarrant’s mahogany medicine case with silver mounts and a close-fitting lid stood on a low table.

  Georgianne sat down. She opened the case to check the contents of several small boxes. “Rhubarb pills,” she murmured. “Of course, though Tarrant has an excellent digestion, he might need them.” I must order some. He needs more plaisters and James Powders for fever. Ah, here is his tongue scraper. Where is his bleeding cup?” She pressed her hands to her mouth, her pupils dilated.

  Helen knelt by Georgianne’s chair. She drew her sister’s small hands into her own. “I shall purchase a new one for him today. Perhaps I could also buy a few things for you to give Langley. After all, he regards you as a sister, so he would probably appreciate them. Some rhubarb pills and James Powders perhaps; no maybe not—some laudanum and-and bandages.”

  “Dearest, your hands are trembling.”

  “I am cold.”

  “If you say so, although your hands are warm.” Georgianne smiled. “It is kind of you to suggest providing Langley with some necessities.”

  Aware of unspoken words on the subject of the viscount, Helen forced herself to return her sister’s smile. “I shall purchase them today from the English Apothecary.”

  Georgianne replaced the hinged lid of Tarrant’s round case. She stood. Poker-straight she fainted.

  Women’s troubles? Horrified, Helen could not act for a second or two. She recovered her senses and tugged the bell rope.

  Distraught, she fetched a cushion, knelt by Georgianne, and inserted it beneath her sister’s head. “I knew you were feeling poorly.” She patted Georgianne’s cheeks hoping to revive her.

  When Dawson, Georgianne’s dresser, entered the parlour she regarded her mistress thoughtfully.

  “Fetch some sal volatile, some cool cloths and—” Helen commenced.

  Georgianne’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Lie still,” Helen said, relieved because Georgianne had regained consciousness, but still greatly alarmed. “I shall send for the doctor.”

  The dresser returned with a tiny, silver-chased vial of the pungent salts which she passed to Helen.

  She removed the stopper. “Sniff this.” She held the vial beneath Georgianne’s nose.

  Georgianne obeyed. Tears poured down her cheeks. She pushed Helen’s hand away. “Enough, dearest!” She sat up, rejecting the cool, damp cloths Helen wanted to apply to her forehead. Some colour returned to her face. With Helen’s help she stood. “No need to send for a doctor, Helen. There is nothing untoward.”

  “Please, I must send for one.”

  Georgianne sank onto the sofa. The palms of her hands rested on her stomach. A smile hovered around her mouth.

  “Tell me what is happening. Why you don’t want me to summon a doctor? If you feel shy with a strange physician, perhaps we can send to London for our own doctor.”

  “Truly, it would be ridiculous, dearest! There is no need for you to be so worried.”

  “A glass of brandy to bring the colour back into your cheeks?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “No matter what you say, I insist you sip some cherry brandy. It will restore you.” Helen crossed the carpet to a table on which small bottles and crystal glasses stood. She poured a generous measure of the ruby drink and gave it to her sister. “Please explain why you are pale and heavy-eyed. I think it is due to more than a monthly female affliction.”

  Georgianne sighed. “I see you will give me no peace until I confide in you; so I will if you promise not to tell Tarrant.”

  The door had opened in time for her brother-by-law to overhear.

  “Secrets?” he asked. “Perhaps you have lost a fortune at cards.”

  Georgianne laughed. “Of course I have not been so reckless.”

  “Then?”

  Helen took the empty glass from Georgianne.

  Tarrant narrowed his eyes. “Never tell me you
have become a secret drinker.”

  “No, no,” Georgianne replied, “The wines and spirits are for your refreshment when you take your ease here. I…er…felt a little faint so Helen suggested a sip or two of brandy. Please don’t worry, I am quite well now.”

  Helen looked anxiously at Dawson. Servants always gossiped below stairs which meant their chatter spread from person to person. Doubtless, Dawson would spread the news that her mistress fainted, and then Tarrant’s valet would probably tell him Georgianne lost consciousness.

  Tarrant sat next to Georgianne. He rubbed her hands in his large, well-shaped ones. “Heart of my heart, be honest, is all well with you?”

  “Yes, all of us are subject to occasional ills. I promise there is no need for concern.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  “Very well, I know you never lie to me.” Tarrant raised her sister’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss onto it. “I came to tell you I shall be away for two nights on Makelyn’s orders.”

  “Be careful. No rough riding,” Georgianne said.

  Tarrant stood. “You fret too much.” He bent to kiss the top of her head. “Lavender. Heaven. When I am away from you, I always remember your perfume.”

  Georgianne laughed. “I hope you remember more than that.”

  “Of course I do.” He straightened. “Helen, take care of your sister.”

  “I shall; so will Dawson.”

  Georgianne glanced at her dresser. “You may go.”

  Tarrant turned back to Georgianne. “Adieu, my dear love.”

  Georgianne smiled up at him. “Hush! Choose your words carefully or you will make Helen blush.”

  Tarrant lingered for another moment. He reached the door then turned back to give Georgianne another kiss on the cheek before he departed.

  Georgianne buried her face in her hands. “Heaven above, what is written in our stars?” Georgianne buried her face in her hands. “I am afraid for Tarrant! Suppose—”

  “Don’t think the worst. Instead, believe you will have long, happy lives together.” She sat opposite her sister. “What is your secret?”