Damnation! Miss Whitley netted a reluctant catch when she asked him to help Miss Tomlinson. With Wellington’s arrival expected in the near future, Makelyn would most probably issue more and more orders, so he did not want to feel obliged to find the time to help the heiress. Curse the foolish young lady for having been indiscreet. He shook his head. No, he should not be unkind. Suppose one of his sisters were caught in such a coil. He would be grateful to anyone who came to her rescue.
Langley scowled. He would deal with the blackmailer while he bivouacked well away from Miss Tomlinson. God forbid anyone, particularly her ebullient father or her formidable grandmother, misinterpreting it if he ever did more than greet her briefly out of politeness.
* * * *
Helen lingered in the library. She must accept Langley would never marry her. Yet she revelled in the remnants of warmth she imagined emanated from his body and thawed her frozen heart. His intoxicating choice of sandalwood toilet water, mingled with a cavalryman’s odour of leather and horses, still hovered in the air. The fool, the dear fool! She would be delighted to marry the viscount in spite of his change of circumstances. If only she had more to remember than his lips against her forehead. If only he had kissed her on the mouth.
Shame overcame her. What did Langley think of her disgraceful conduct? Would he know why strange but sweet sensations stirred deep within her when she hugged him? Oh, why think of it? She could never speak of it to him.
Dalrymple entered the library. “Miss Whitley, there you are. When Major and Mrs Tarrant wondered where you were, I offered to search for you.” Candlelight flickered over him, adding ruddy colour to his face as he drew closer. He frowned. “Are you quite well? Pardon me for saying you don’t seem yourself.”
“My head aches a little,” she replied, truthfully, for it began to hurt after Langley strode out of the library.
She gazed at her beau. Her mind flitted away from Langley. Dalrymple was perceptive. Did he love her, truly love her? He must. Why else would he want to marry her despite her small dowry?
“Shall I fetch your sister? Do you want to go home to lie down in a darkened bedchamber?”
“No thank you; my headache is not severe.”
“Shall we join my sister and the Major?” Dalrymple asked, too much the young gentleman to take advantage of the impropriety of their being unchaperoned.
Would she prefer Dalrymple to be more impetuous? He treated her with utmost respect, unlike some of the rakes Georgianne warned her of; libertines, who would not hesitate to ravish a young woman for their own enjoyment. She wondered what ravishment entailed. When she had asked her sister, Georgianne blushed before she responded. “There is no need for you to know.”
The captain stood aside for her to leave the library.
* * * *
4th April 1815
At breakfast the following day, her head filled with the memory of her assignation with Langley on the previous evening, Helen ate the last morsel of toast spread with butter and apricot conserve. Instead of thinking of him, she would consider the sketches she intended to make of Mister Barnet this morning.
Georgianne entered the room. How dainty her beautiful sister looked. Helen admired her sister’s charming cap edged with delicate lace, and her white muslin gown sprigged with china-blue posies.
“Good morning, dearest.”
“Good morning. Are you well?”
“Yes, thank you. Ginger helps with the nausea that afflicts me every day upon awakening.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, thank you.” Georgianne helped herself to some toast and coddled eggs, before she sat at the table. She looked at her plate with obvious satisfaction. “How hungry I am! But dearest, we came home late last night, so I am surprised to see you have almost finished your breakfast.”
“Have you forgotten I arranged to draw Mr Barnet today? Shall I go in the carriage or take a footman with me to carry my folder, paint box and other materials?”
“Your paint box?”
“Yes. I shall make a chart of the colours of his clothes and his complexion.”
Georgianne poured a cup of coffee.
“The carriage or a footman?” Helen persisted.
Georgianne looked out of the window. “There might be April showers. Go in the carriage with Pringle.”
* * * *
Thomas opened the black-painted door. “Mister Barnet is expecting you, Miss Whitley.” He took her equipment from Pringle.
The first fat drops of rain fell. Grateful for Georgianne’s permission to use the carriage, she gave orders for it to return to take her home at three of the clock.
Why did Thomas look so glum?” She looked around the hall at packing boxes. Perhaps Thomas feared Mister Barnet would dispense with his service when he returned to England.
“This way, Miss.” The footman shrugged as if his coat were too tight. Observant as ever, Helen admired the effect of the gold braid on his livery.
She followed him up the stairs to the spacious landing, now bare of oriental rugs, where Thomas halted. “I hope you will not be offended, Miss, by my informing you that Mister Barnet is unwell.”
“I am sorry. Should I return on another day?”
“No, Miss, he is looking forward to your visit. If may be so bold, please don’t tire him.”
Helen nodded, appreciative of the servant’s concern. She looked back at Pringle. “You may wait downstairs.”
The dresser sniffed loudly and then retraced her footsteps.
Helen ignored the almost silent protest. One would think the woman would be pleased to sit in idleness. She followed Thomas into a parlour.
A beautiful cream-coloured quilt patterned with scallops was draped over his lap, Mister Barnet smiled. “Welcome, Miss Whitley. I am delighted to see you.” He waved his hand—an invitation to look around the small room. “I apologise for receiving you here instead of in the drawing room, where my butler is supervising the servants who are packing my treasures.”
“No need to say sorry. This room is charming.” Helen admired the miniature paintings clustered together on one wall, an ornate mirror on another, and exquisite snuffboxes on several tables. “How do you go on, sir?
“Well enough, well enough.” Mister Barnet glanced at some small bottles of medicines, a glass and a jug of water, on the table beside his chair.
Helen set up her easel, placed her sketch pad on it, and then arranged her pencils and paint box on a table next to it. While she did so, she noted the dark circles under her host’s eyes and the hectic colour in his cheeks. If she were not mistaken, his complexion was even greyer than when last she saw him.
“Do you require anything else?” Mister Barnet inquired.
“Only some water.”
He poured some into one of the glasses on the table beside his chair. “Will this be adequate?”
“Yes, thank you.” Helen put it next to her wooden paint box. She opened the lid, removed the upper tray to reveal the lower one, and admired the myriad of colours, each in separate china compartments.
“Something to drink, to eat?” Mister Barnet suggested.
“Please don’t tempt me. You have been good enough to allow me to sketch your likeness; I don’t want to further intrude upon your time.”
The old gentleman chuckled. “Miss Whitley, I enjoy your company. You could never be an imposition. We shall partake of refreshments while we talk, before you wield your pencils and brushes.”
The door opened.
Mister Barnet looked at her with a childish gleam in his eyes. “I gave instructions for refreshments to be served as soon as you arrived.”
“Thank you, I shall enjoy them.” She sat in front of a low table. “Shall I pour coffee, sir?”
“Yes, please.” The gleam in his eyes deepened. “You may lace it with cream—though my doctor would disapprove. He expects me to survive on slops. At my age!” He shrugged.
“Perhaps you should follow his in
structions,” Helen suggested, although she handed him a cup of coffee with cream floating on its surface. “A biscuit, cake, or a bon-bon?”
“No thank you, my child, I have little appetite.”
Helen tried to decide whether she objected to his addressing her as a child. No, she did not, although she might resent it from anyone else.
“Please serve yourself, Miss Whitley.”
Helen selected a small cake covered in marzipan.
Mister Barnet sipped his coffee. “Does all go well with you?”
“Yes, thank you,” she replied, although Maria Tomlinson’s predicament came to mind.
Shrewd eyes scrutinised her face. Her cheeks became hot.
“Something troubles you.”
“Yes.” Once again the temptation to confide in him proved irresistible. “I cannot reveal my acquaintance’s name. To be brief, when she was still in the schoolroom she wrote some indiscreet letters. The man she imagined she loved is blackmailing her.”
“I see. Does she need my help?”
Her eyes widened. How could he be of assistance? “With my friend’s permission,” she continued, “I related her sorry tale to Viscount Langley. Hussars are accustomed to gathering information. Langley, with a few of his most trusted men, will search for the scoundrel.”
“Miss Whitley, I deplore crime. I would be pleased to help bring the fellow to justice. If you furnish me with his name, one of the people I know might be able to discover his whereabouts.”
She pondered this strange offer, while the delicious flavour of the cake she nibbled, which tasted of chocolate and brandy, distracted her. Well, so long as she did not mention the victim’s name, there would be no harm in revealing the blackmailer’s.
She finished her coffee, stood, picked up a pencil and quickly drew Mister Midhurst from memory.
“You seem distrait,” Mister Barnet said.
“A little.” She gave him a page torn from her sketchbook. “I have drawn a likeness of the blackmailer. His name is Mister Midhurst.”
“Upon my word, you are talented, Miss Whitley. Please forgive my previous comment about clever young ladies who paint mossy stones and other gothic subjects. It seems your skill exceeds some of those who believe they are talented artists.”
Flattered, she curtsied playfully. “Thank you, sir.” She returned to her easel. For the next hour, she concentrated on drawing the elderly gentleman, adding, adding a range of colours to each sketch.
The clock struck three. “So late, by now my carriage will have returned.” She packed up her equipment.
Mister Barnet pulled the bell rope. “Has Miss Whitley’s carriage arrived?” he asked when Thomas answered the summons.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, you may carry her paraphernalia to the carriage.”
“Thank you for your kindness, Mister Barnet.” Helen wished propriety allowed her to kiss his cheek. “When I have finished the watercolour, I shall present it for your opinion. You must be honest. I will not be cast down if you don’t like it, for I constantly try to improve.”
He winced. “I shall send you a message if I receive news of Midhurst. Good day to you, child.” He pressed a hand over the left side of his chest.
Something in his tone forbade her from either asking if he were quite well, or if he needed to dose himself with medicine.
Chapter Fourteen
5th April 1815
The morning brought heavy rain and gusts of wind, so instead of enjoying an early morning ride, Helen went to the attic before breakfast.
After several hours of intense concentration near the window which provided natural light, she stepped back to consider her partially completed watercolour. Would she ever be completely satisfied with anything she painted?
Helen looked forward to painting the old gentleman in oils when she returned to England, where she would have time for the paint to dry. With the moistened tip of her brush, she mixed a little sepia into the mid-grey on her palette, to achieve the right tone to edge Mister Barnet’s coat. Good, it defined the collar and cuffs.
Helen smiled; she had finished the portrait in time to have nuncheon with Georgianne, who had not put in an appearance at the breakfast table. Oh well, last night they came home only a few hours before dawn. Georgianne’s condition justified her sleeping late if she wanted to.
Helen rinsed her brushes, then poured the dirty water into a bucket. She took the key to the attic out of her pocket. To avoid the temptation to return to the watercolour, she hurried out and locked the door as usual, to prevent the servants entering her private domain.
In her small dressing room, Helen washed her hands with purified soap. She dried them with a soft linen towel, then massaged her hands with almond milk to keep them white and soft.
A quick glance in the mirror showed tidy hair. She took off the apron which protected her white muslin gown. Since the day on which Lieutenant Calverly untied her apron strings, she never made the mistake of wearing one stained with paint when she came downstairs.
Georgianne smiled when she entered the small parlour where they dined en famille. “Good day, dearest, I hope you did not ride this morning. The weather is miserable. I don’t want you to become chilled because it might cause an inflammation of the lungs.”
Helen sat opposite her sister. “Good day, there is no need to worry about my health. How are you? I hope you are not too fatigued?”
Her finger to her lips, Georgianne looked sideways at the footman, warning her not mention her condition.
“Would you care for some broth, dearest? The weather is so bitter that if Tarrant joins us, he might appreciate something hot instead of ham sandwiches. I also instructed Cook to make apricot tarts which Tarrant is partial to. To be sure, he and his men are busier than ever gathering news inspecting the borders. Who knows whether or not they will be in danger?” She gained control of her sensibilities before addressing the footman. “Peter, you may serve Miss Whitley before you leave the room.”
The odour of the steaming broth, ladled into her soup plate from a silver tureen, made Helen’s mouth water. “It will be delicious,” she thought, in anticipation of succulent cubes of carrot, turnips and sticky texture of barley.
“What did you do this morning, dearest?”
“I worked on my watercolour of Mister Barnet.” While she dipped her spoon into the broth, she fretted about his dull complexion and the hectic colour in his cheeks.
Georgianne raised her eyebrows. “Why do you look so sad?”
“He seems ill.”
“It is obvious he can afford to be well-looked after, so don’t worry.”
“I know, but I am concerned.” A deep sigh escaped Helen. “Our acquaintance is short, but I have grown fond of him.”
Georgianne frowned. “Fond! I admit I like the gentleman, but don’t forget Mister Barnet is not a member of our milieu. You must be careful of your good name.”
“Nevertheless, he is everything a grandfather should be. It is easy to confide in him.”
Georgianne’s knife, poised to cut a bread roll in half, clattered onto her plate. “I beg your pardon! What have you confided in him?”
“Nothing worth mentioning.” Maria Tomlinson relied on her not to mention her name in connection with blackmail. If she hinted at the subject to Georgianne, her sister would want to know the victim’s name. She tasted the broth. “This is excellent. I must compliment your cook.”
“Well,” Georgianne began, “you will have more than Mister Barnet to concern yourself with. Tarrant proposes holding a ball for you in mid-May. He thinks you should make your formal curtsy to society. Of course, when we return to England, after—” she broke off then continued, “you shall be presented at the Queen’s Drawing Room.”
“How generous of him.” Helen wanted to tell Georgianne not to agonise over Cousin Tarrant. Yet, although he survived gruelling years fighting against Napoleon, her cousin would soon be in danger, once again. Her throat tightened at the thou
ght of Langley, Captain Dalrymple and her cousin.
Georgianne smiled at her. “So much to arrange.”
“Are you sure it will not overtire you at such a time?”
“Quite sure. We must order the invitation cards. By the time the ball is held, I am sure the Duke will have arrived in Brussels. I hope he will attend.”
“It would be an honour,” Helen murmured.
Georgianne dabbed her mouth with her table napkin. “The ballroom must be transformed, but neither with a mass of greenery nor with ribbons and bouquets.” She frowned. “Chinese lanterns and temple bells are all too common.” She clapped her hands. “India! A Moghul court! Unfortunately, we cannot procure a live elephant. Besides, even if we could borrow one from a menagerie, it would be inappropriate in a ballroom. Oh, dearest, the servants could wear splendid turbans decorated with aigrettes and…oh, I don’t know. Helen, what do you suggest?”
“Papa only served in India for two years before he returned to England when the Duke of Wellington did. However, his memory of the land remained vivid. He was very impressed by Gwalior Fort. Perched hundreds of feet above the surrounding plains, Papa said it measured almost two miles in length.” Her words came slowly. “Do you remember his description of one of the Hindu gods, a blue-skinned boy with a peacock feather in his hair?” Her artist’s imagination captured a picture in her mind’s eye. “Papa told me that his devotees believe he plays a flute so sweetly, that all who hear his music are entranced. What did our papa say he is called?”
“Yes, I remember Papa mentioning him, Helen. What was his name? Did it begin with ‘Kli’?” Georgianne shook her head. “No, I remember thinking it begins with ‘Chr’ as Christ does.”
“Krishna!” Helen exclaimed, memories flooding her mind. “I remember Papa describing a black marble statue of Krishna clad in yellow silk. He also spoke of white marble temples on dusty plains; of people dressed in bright colours. I shall transform the ballroom with scenes of Hindu India.”
Monday's Child (Heroines born on each day of the week. Book 2) Page 13