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

by Rosemary Morris

  “Your hot chocolate, Miss.”

  Helen sat up, and then plumped up her pillows and arranged them behind her.

  Pringle placed a tray on Helen’s lap, then crossed the room to draw open the heavy silk curtains at the window. “A lovely day. The sun’s shining. Shall I lay out your riding habit?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly ten o’clock.”

  Helen hoped Dalrymple had not sought her this morning in the Allee Vert. “No, I don’t have time to ride before breakfast. In future, no matter how late I return, please wake me at half past eight; I don’t want to forgo my daily ride. If I need to, I shall rest in the afternoons. She looked down at the tray and picked up a letter. “Who sent this?”

  Helen broke the red wax seal and unfolded the smooth, expensive paper. “Oh! It is from Mister Barnet. He invites me to drink coffee with him this morning.”

  Pringle sniffed.

  “No need to disapprove.” Helen sipped some chocolate before adding, “He is a good-hearted old man.”

  “If you say so, Miss.”

  “I do. Please don’t frown.” She shook her head reprovingly. “Sometimes I think you and the other servants are more conscious of my position in society than I am.”

  The dresser’s cheeks reddened. “Well, Miss, I know what is fitting. Mister Barnet will not add to your consequence.”

  “Is that so?”

  Pringle nodded vehemently. “Yes, we take such pride in you.”

  Helen laughed. “To hear you talk, someone would think I am a duchess instead of an army officer’s daughter.” Of course, her father, the youngest son of a baron, was well-born nonetheless. Although respected for his courage and courtesy, he had not ranked high in society. If Cousin Tarrant were not well-born, and extremely wealthy due to an inheritance from his godfather, a nabob, her position amongst the ton would be negligible.

  After finishing her drink, Helen got out of bed to attend to her morning ablutions, and retired behind a screen. “The sun is deceptive at this time of the year, Pringle. I shall wear my cream kerseymere gown, my jade-green pelisse, the matching hat and dark green leather gloves.

  Refreshed after washing with water scented with essence of roses, Helen cleaned her teeth with coral powder, before she allowed her dresser to help her into a cotton chemise with a square neckline and short sleeves trimmed with lace. With resignation, Helen eyed the buckram stays with cup-shaped supports for her breasts. At a ball, she had overheard a dowager comment on her good figure and elegant deportment. Perhaps the rigid garment helped to achieve it along with her determination to make a proverbial mark on society. She sighed. Stays were not designed for comfort. Constrained by them, how did any ladies manage to eat sufficiently to keep them alive? Well, she did not intend to starve. “Pringle,” she said, somewhat irritably, “don’t pull the laces too tight for me not to be able to eat enough to satisfy my appetite.”

  The stays fastened, Helen put on her pink silk stockings and knee-length cotton drawers. Next, she allowed Pringle to help her with a cambric petticoat with a deep border of Moravian work. She fastened the buttons at the front of the bodice while Pringle tied the tapes at the back.

  Helen glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Time to partake of a late breakfast.

  She sat at the dressing table looking at her reflection in the mirror. Impatient, she waited for Pringle’s clever fingers to arrange her hair in a knot high on her head and tease short, pomaded tendrils into place across her forehead and at the sides of her face.

  “My pearl earrings,” she said, even more impatient to complete her toilette.

  Pringle found the earrings in the jewel case. Helen slipped them into her ears. Aware that she looked her best, she hoped that if Langley joined them at breakfast he would admire her. Even if she must accept they could never be married she also hoped they could be friends and always at ease with one another.

  * * * *

  After breakfast, Georgianne asked Helen to go shopping with her, so it was not until they partook of a late nuncheon that Helen settled in Mister Barnet’s parlour.

  “Are you comfortable, Miss Whitley?” the old gentleman asked. “Are you warm enough? Although it is nearly spring, there is still a chill in the air. A good fire is the answer.”

  “I assure you I am both comfortable and cosy, sir.”

  As Helen stared into the heart of the burning wood, she remembered lying on the rug in front of the nursery fire with Georgianne beside her, watching fiery caverns, and castles and dragons which formed in its depths. Well, her childhood days were over.

  A footman placed refreshments on the low table in front of her. At her host’s request, she poured coffee.

  “I forget what young ladies like. Would you prefer cherry brandy or tea to coffee?” Mister Barnet asked. “Should I send for biscuits?”

  Helen cut a slice of feather-light cake for him. “No thank you, this young lady is perfectly content.”

  “Good. How are you, Miss Whitley? I hope you are a little happier than when I last saw you.”

  “Yes, thank you, I am.” Her voice lacked conviction.

  “Something is troubling you?”

  “A little. I am in disgrace.” The entire sorry tale tumbled from her.

  Mister Barnet put his empty cup and plate on the table. “Perhaps you were incautious. Nevertheless, I like what you have told me about Captain Dalrymple. With regard to gossip, people in your milieu will forget your misdemeanour when they have something new to chat about. You are wise beyond your years to hold your head high, and dress exquisitely to carve a place for yourself amongst the ton.”

  Appreciative of his encouragement, Helen looked across the space between the table and his chair. His face, slightly tinged with grey, was somewhat thin, with two deep lines extending from each side of his nose to either side of his mouth. Yet Mister Barnet’s visage expressed good humour, and his sky-blue eyes revealed exceptional kindness. At one moment they were soft, at the next, sharp as a sword-edge. Life must have dealt him equal shares of happiness and distress. Dressed in dove-grey velvet, the coat with silver lace, silver buttons, and a long pearl-coloured waistcoat embroidered in silver thread, his garments were fashionable in a bygone era. He would be an excellent subject for a sketch or even an oil painting.

  A little embarrassed because she had confided in him so recklessly, Helen finished her refreshments.

  She put her cup and plate on the table spread with a linen cloth of the finest quality. Indeed, everything in this withdrawing room spoke of Mister Barnet’s good taste and great wealth. Even the Prince Regent might envy the gentleman’s exquisite collection of blue and white vases, other Chinese porcelain, and a magnificent black-lacquered screen, embellished with exotic scenes painted in shades of brown, cream and red.

  Mister Barnet stood. “I have a gift for you.

  “For me?”

  The elderly gentleman crossed the room. He unlocked a cabinet which matched the screen, opened the doors and took a dark blue leather box from one of the many small drawers. He put it on her lap. “Yes, a present, Miss Whitley, to thank you for rescuing me from those ruffians.”

  “There is no need to give me anything.”

  “I disagree, for it would give me great pleasure if you will accept this small token of my appreciation.” His eyes shone like an enthusiastic young man’s.

  It would be rude to refuse. Helen opened the box lined with indigo-blue watered silk. She gasped with pleasure at the sight of a delicate suite of brilliants set in silver. Any young lady would be delighted to adorn herself with the tiara—into which ostrich feathers could be fitted—necklace, brooch, ring and arm clasps. Speechless with delight, she admired the delicate floral design reminiscent of spring.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes, but it is too much, I cannot—”

  “No, it is not.” The light left his eyes. “You must accept it.” He pressed his right hand to the left of his chest. “At my age, I mig
ht have died if those ne’er-do-wells had forced me to dance. My gift is valueless compared to your gift of my life.”

  Were his eyes moist? “You are persuasive, sir, but—”

  “I commissioned the jewellery for someone I loved who never had an opportunity to wear it. The pieces should not be wasted in a box. If you accept my token of gratitude, it will give me great pleasure.”

  However well-meant, Helen knew she should not accept the present. She sought a way to refuse it without causing hurt or offence. “There is something which would give me even more pleasure, Mister Barnet.”

  “What?”

  “I want to sketch you, sir.”

  “Ah, like so many other clever young ladies, you claim you are an artist. Is it not the fashion to draw mossy stones, deserted places inhabited by ravens, or tumbledown abbeys surrounded by neglected graves?”

  “Such gothic subjects are of little interest to me.”

  “When I return to England, I hope you will visit me so I can show you the works of art I have been collecting for many years.”

  “If my sister and her husband permit me, I shall be pleased to accept your invitation.” She closed the lid of the hinged box. “Will you allow me to sketch you instead of accepting this?”

  “No, you may paint me only if you keep the trinkets.”

  Helen hesitated. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. After all, brilliants and silver could not be costly, could they?

  “Thank you for your gift. With your permission, I shall sketch you later in the week.”

  * * * *

  The door closed behind Miss Whitley. Contented Mister Barnet removed his wig and scratched his head. He admired her. She had entered his life like a welcome broom which swept away cobwebs.

  Mister Barnet replaced the wig. The knowledge that Miss Whitley would wear the dainty pieces, lovingly designed for his late granddaughter, pleased him. He sank back against his padded chair. Would her sketch of him be like one drawn by a child in the nursery? Every young lady with pretensions to an education considered herself an artist.

  * * * *

  Helen looked up at the sun low in a sky streaked with pale gold and powder-pink. It took little to imagine God’s almighty hand had painted it.

  Dusk approached so Helen walked a little faster, conscious she had stayed for longer than she had intended with Mister Barnet. She glanced at Pringle, who followed behind her carrying a parcel containing the jewellery box. From the opposite direction, she heard horses’ hooves. Seconds later, she saw Langley at the head of a contingent of mounted troopers, their horses’ coats glossy black and satin-smooth. Langley drew rein, dismounted and spoke to a lieutenant. The trooper’s horses clattered away while Langley led his horse over to her. “Miss Whitley, you should not be out alone at this hour of the day.”

  Overcome by his kind concern, she could not speak.

  He frowned. “I hope you are in good health.”

  She recovered her voice. “Yes thank you. As you see, I am not alone. My woman is with me.”

  Langley glanced at Pringle, who still walked behind her. “She could not protect you from a dastardly attack.”

  “I refuse to allow fear to prevent me from going out. Besides, I have a pocket pistol in my muff.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Yes, Cousin Tarrant gave it to me.”

  “I shall not ask if you know how to use it, for I am sure Rupes has taught you. Now may I escort you home?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  His smile revealed evenly-spaced white teeth, unlike so many gentlemen’s discoloured ones, which she considered repulsive. Why had she fallen in love with Langley? How could she define what set him apart from her other beaux? Oh, he was brave, gallant and handsome, yet so were many other officers in His Majesty’s army. Besides, she was in his debt, although he had been too modest to allow her to express her appreciation for rescuing her from the Earl of Pennington. She admired all his qualities, his common sense, his—

  “Miss Whitley, you seem to be wool-gathering,” Langley’s deep voice sounded somewhat amused.

  “Do I?” she asked, embarrassed. “I mean, how discourteous of me. I beg your pardon,” she gabbled.

  The Major cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should not broach certain subjects, nevertheless for your peace of mind I shall.”

  A head taller than most ladies, she appreciated his superior height when he looked down at her. It imparted a sense of delightful femininity.

  “I don’t know how the rumour you are an heiress took root. Now it is scotched, your friends will value you only for your many admirable qualities.” Her heart seemed to flutter girlishly. “The gossip I heard is of no significance. I could never imagine you behaving with gross impropriety.”

  As the distance to Georgianne and Cousin Tarrant’s house lessened, tears formed in her eyes. “Thank you for your reassurance, Major. You shall always be one of my dearest friends.” She stared down at the pavement, wishing she could say much more.

  “And you, Miss Whitley, shall be one of mine. Whatever befalls you in the future, you may always approach me for help.”

  “Lud, how serious we have become. Please let me know if I can ever mend your quill, sew on a button, or perform any greater service.”

  “Oh, my quill often needs to be mended and my man constantly reprimands me for losing my buttons,” he explained with laughter in his voice, “so I shall remember your kind offers. Now, as Romeo said to his Juliet, ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow.’” He smiled and the harsh lines on his face softened. “Fortunately or unfortunately, we are not a pair of star struck lovers. Our friendship shall endure.”

  Was his voice huskier than usual? Did he want to say much more that was not permissible?

  The Major mounted his horse and rode away. The empty sleeves of his gold-embellished black pelisse, worn over one shoulder, streamed behind him in a sudden blast of cold wind; a wind which chilled her entire being and almost swept away all her erstwhile hopes.

  Helen shivered as she entered the house. She hurried up the two wide flights of stairs to her bedchamber, where a bouquet of narcissi lay on her dressing table. On the card, Captain Dalrymple had written, “No flowers can compare to your matchless beauty, which I hope to have the pleasure of seeing this evening at the soiree.” ’Pon her word, the gentleman knew how to compose a pretty phrase. She buried her nose in the fragrant blooms and relished their scent. She would pin a spray in her hair. Its delicate colour would complement her new cream, silk, evening gown.

  Pringle spoke a few quiet words to someone who knocked on the door, then turned around to face her. “Major Tarrant and Mrs Tarrant request your immediate presence in the drawing room.”

  Helen picked up Mister Barnet’s gift to show it to Georgianne.

  Chapter Eleven

  1st April, 1815

  In the drawing room the curtains were pulled across the windows, effectively shutting out the dark. The candles cast a warm glow. A cheerful fire burned in the grate. Regrettably, the expression on Cousin Tarrant’s face did not match the cosy atmosphere.

  “Ah, Helen, please be seated,” he said, a distinct chill in his voice. “Your sister has been uneasy. She wondered where you were this afternoon.”

  “Oh, I am sorry; Georgianne was resting when I went out, so I left word with her dresser.” She sat on a chair opposite the chaise longue on which her sister took her ease.

  Georgianne frowned. “Dawson did not give me your message.”

  “Where were you?” Cousin Tarrant asked.

  Why did they seem so suspicious? Did they think she had committed another indiscretion?

  “A glass of ratafia?” Cousin Tarrant poured a drink for himself from the decanter on a low table by his chair near the fire.

  “Yes please.”

  He handed her a glass almost full to the brim.

  “I visited Mister Barnet,” she answered, annoyed because he spoke to her as though she was a mere schoolroom miss.
<
br />   “Mister Barnet?” Cousin Tarrant frowned and sipped his drink while waiting for her reply.

  “The old gentleman Helen rescued,” Georgianne explained.

  “Why should you visit a person your family is not acquainted with?”

  Although Cousin Tarrant put the question in even tones, she sensed his displeasure. Confound Dawson! If the woman had given her message to Georgianne, Cousin Tarrant would not be questioning her. “I called to enquire whether or not he had recovered from the shock.”

  Her cousin raised his eyebrows. “A letter of enquiry would have sufficed.”

  Helen decided to be honest. She found it difficult to keep secrets. Besides, she wanted to show Georgianne the silver suite set with brilliants. “Perhaps I should have written to him, but I am concerned for Mister Barnet, who is very kind. He even insisted on giving me a token of his gratitude.”

  “What did he give you?” Cousin Tarrant asked.

  She quailed inwardly. He seemed unreasonably disgruntled. “Some jewellery made for someone he did not have the opportunity to give it to. I suspect she died.” She shrugged. “Anyway, Mister Barnet really wanted me to accept his gift. It would have been ungracious to refuse.”

  “May we see it, dearest?”

  “Of course, I am going to wear the suite this evening. I think it will look well with my new satin gown, the one with silver net. My present is pretty, but silver and brilliants are not valuable, so Cousin Tarrant need not be so cross with me.”

  “Who said I am?” he asked.

  “You seem annoyed,” She gave the box to Georgianne. “Look inside.”

  Tarrant crossed the floor to look down over Georgianne’s shoulder.

  Her sister held up the necklace.

  “Brilliants!” Cousin Tarrant exclaimed. The word almost sounded like a swear word. “Not brilliants, they are diamonds worth a fortune. You must return them.”

  “D…diamonds,” Helen faltered, knowing it was almost, if not quite out of the question to keep them.