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

by Rosemary Morris

  “In six weeks?”

  “There are sure to be artists who can be employed to help me and, maybe some of the hussars under Cousin Tarrant’s command can paint the background for my designs.”

  “Perhaps we could serve some Indian food,” Georgianne mused. “Maybe my chef has some receipts.”

  “If not, there are sure to be army men who served in India, who can make suggestions.”

  “I daresay. And there is an Indian restaurant in London. Perhaps the owner could lend us a cook. That would be splendid.”

  “What would?” asked Cousin Tarrant.

  Georgianne raised her eyebrows. “Must you enter a room so stealthily, sir?”

  “Stealth, Georgie, is a hussar’s friend. He never knows what he might hear to his advantage.” He crossed the room to kiss her.

  Georgianne held up her hand in protest. “Desist, Major, you will shock my sister.” She patted his cheek. “How cold you are. I am glad you have joined us. The weather is so bleak that I ordered Scotch broth to warm you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Georgianne beckoned to Peter, who had followed Cousin Tarrant into the room. “The broth in the tureen is cold. Fetch more from the kitchen and make sure it is hot.”

  Cousin Tarrant sat opposite Georgianne. “Please tell me what you ladies are plotting.”

  “Helen will transform the ballroom for her ball. Imagine an Indian paradise painted around the beautiful blue boy, a Hindu god our father once described. It is sure to be spoken of as the most splendid event of the year.”

  “Painted!” Tarrant sounded alarmed. “Helen, you can’t strip the paper from the walls to paint them. The house does not belong to me.”

  “I shall paint my designs on heavy cloth which will hang from poles on the walls in the ballroom.”

  “I see.”

  “Perhaps The Glory Boys’ band could play for our guests,” Georgianne suggested.

  “Maybe. I shall speak to Makelyn.”

  “Good. Can you imagine the strains of a waltz?”

  “No, though I am sure the two of you can.” Tarrant sounded amused. He cleared his throat while helping himself to a sandwich. “Where is the broth? I must hurry. Georgie, I shall be away for a week or more.”

  “Why? Where are you going?”

  “To gather information and inspect troops quartered at various places along the border.”

  “Be careful—” Georgianne broke off when Peter served Tarrant.

  “This is very tasty,” Tarrant remarked. “Did I hear a mention of an Indian restaurant when I arrived?”

  “Yes, it is. I would like to serve some Indian food when we dine before the ball, and during supper.”

  “I shall leave everything in your capable hands.” About to bite into the sandwich, he paused. “The blue boy sounds fascinating, but please remember this is a Christian country. You must not shock either the Glory Boy’s chaplain—who will most probably attend—or any of the other guests.”

  Helen nodded, imagining a sweep of hyacinth blue sky above plains made verdant by the heavy rains Papa had described.

  “Helen?” Cousin Tarrant spoke in a sharp tone.

  “Yes.”

  “I repeat that I don’t want any of the guests to be affronted.”

  “Trust me, Cousin, if you don’t approve of my designs, they can be painted over.”

  “Good.” He finished his broth and refused Georgianne’s offer of an apricot tart. “I must leave.”

  Her sister peeped up into his eyes.

  “Don’t look at me thus!” he murmured. “There is no need for apprehension. I have the lucky heather you gave me in my sabretache.”

  Georgianne’s smile did not warm her eyes.

  “Take care of each other, ladies. I shall return as soon I can.” He kissed her sister’s cheek.

  Half way to the door, he turned around and returned to the table. Smiling like a mischievous schoolboy, he helped himself to two apricot tarts. “Greedy, I know, yet I can no more resist them than I can resist you, Georgie.”

  Conscious of her sister’s blush, Helen studied the crumbs on her plate. Did Langley like apricot tarts?

  * * * *

  Helen hoped Mister Barnet would be pleased with the watercolour. In the afternoon, while she waited for admittance to his house, she tried to decide whether she had captured the soft texture of velvet and the sheen of silk. Once again, she wondered if she would ever be satisfied with anything she painted.

  The door opened; her footman handed the watercolour to Thomas and she stepped indoors, followed by Pringle.

  Thomas put the wrapped painting on a table in the hall, now denuded of its treasures. Presumably, they had been packed prior to Mister Barnet’s departure.

  Helen handed Thomas her furled parasol before she stripped off her sage green gloves, the colour of which matched her pelisse. She gave them to Thomas, who put them beside the watercolour, but not before he glanced at Greaves, the butler, who stood opposite the front door.

  The butler nodded to the gentleman, who stood with his back to them. “Soup, steamed fish, a little chicken, no rich sauces and, most definitely, no brandy or other strong liquor. I shall return tomorrow to see how Mister Barnet is. In the meantime, please send for me if you have further cause for concern.”

  “I shall, Doctor Longspring,” Greaves replied.

  “Mister Barnet’s relatives must be informed of his state of health.”

  The butler shook his head. “He has no relatives.”

  Doctor Longspring frowned. “A pity. I daresay Mister Barnet’s attorney is in charge of his affairs.”

  His face impassive, Greaves looked at Doctor Longspring. “Yes, Doctor, he has given me instructions.”

  “See that you carry them out. I must go. I have other patients to attend.”

  Shocked by the severity of Mister Barnet’s illness, Helen frowned.

  The butler’s glance flickered over the carefully wrapped watercolour. “Thomas, if that is for Mister Barnet, you may take it to him.” He turned his attention back to Helen. “Miss Whitley, I regret Mister Barnet is confined to bed, therefore, unable to receive you today.”

  Helen looked around the bare hall and up the equally bare stairs. “Nonsense, Mister Barnet is always delighted to see me. Thomas, show me to his room, immediately.”

  Greaves thrust his chest out. Rich colour flooded his cheeks, but unless he manhandled her, he could not prevent her from making her way up the stairs to the landing. “I protest,” he said, rigid with disapproval.

  “Miss, I don’t think you should visit him.” Pringle sniffed.

  “Nonsense!” Helen exclaimed, surprised by the depth of her affection urging her to see the old gentleman. However, she would observe the proprieties, such as they were, by allowing the woman to accompany her. “Come with me. This time you need not wait downstairs.”

  “This way, Miss,” said Thomas from the top of the half-landing.

  Judging by the warm expression in the footman’s eyes, he approved of her determination to see Mister Barnet.

  Thomas led them up another flight of stairs and opened the door to a small parlour. “Please wait here, Miss Whitley, while I inform Mister Barnet you are here.”

  “Thank you.”

  A door further along the wide corridor opened.

  “You have been most helpful, sir,” said a familiar voice.

  Langley! For her sister’s sake, she regretted Cousin Tarrant’s orders which sent him to the borders. For her own, she was glad Langley remained safe in Brussels.

  Langley strode toward her. “Miss Whitley, I did not expect to see you here.”

  Like a guilty schoolgirl, she fidgeted with the satin bow securing her bonnet beneath her chin. “Nor did I anticipate seeing you.” She cursed the heat rushing into her cheeks. “Why are you here, my lord? I did not know you are acquainted with Mister Barnet.”

  “He sent for me.”

  Helen pressed her gloved hands to her hot chee
ks. Why did Mister Barnet send for him? To betray her confidence? Surely not. Her face cooled but she could not speak.

  “You seem alarmed, Miss Whitley. There is no need to be.”

  Had he sensed her inner turmoil? “How fortunate.”

  “I presume you have come to call on him.”

  She wanted to warn him to keep out of danger, but, tongue-tied, could only nod in answer to his question.

  Langley inclined his head. “It will be my pleasure to escort you when you are ready to leave.”

  Before she could say another word, he strode to the stairs.

  “If you’ll be good enough to wait here, Miss Whitley, I’ll inform my master you’re waiting to see him.” Thomas said.

  “Thank you.” She looked at her gift for Mister Barnet. She did not want Thomas to give it to him. “Pringle, take the watercolour from Thomas.”

  Pringle obeyed while sniffing even more loudly than usual.

  “Blow your nose,” Helen ordered her, irritated by the conventions designed to fetter young ladies with a chaperone. “Thomas, why did the doctor attend Mister Barnet?”

  “When he stood after breakfast, he staggered. If I had not caught hold of him, he would have fallen. Mister Greaves persuaded the master to return to bed and allow him to summon the doctor.”

  Alarmed, Helen scrutinised the footman’s impassive face. The old gentleman’s condition must be serious.

  Chapter Fifteen

  5th April, 1815

  When Thomas ushered Helen into the bedroom, Mister Barnet smiled at Helen from his chair, every hair of his snow-white wig in place. “Good day, Miss Whitley, thank you for visiting me.” A wry expression on his face, he indicated his opalescent grey silk dressing gown, embroidered with gold oriental lettering. “I apologise for my appearance. My doctor forbade me to dress for the day. He ordered me to remain in bed, but I prefer to sit by the window to enjoy the view of my garden. The primroses and bluebells are in full bloom and the birds are busy building their nests.”

  “Good day, sir.” Helen glanced at the large, neatly made bed with a primrose yellow quilt folded back at one corner to reveal linen sheets, a plump bolster and pillows.

  Concerned for his health, she scrutinised him. “Perhaps I should not have disturbed you.”

  “Yes, you should. Thomas, fetch a chair for Miss Whitley. We shall admire the view together.”

  While she waited for the chair, she looked around. Although patches on the pale blue and primrose-yellow striped wallpaper marked spots where paintings once hung, everything in the bedchamber was comfortable.

  Pringle, who had followed her, sniffed several times, presumably to express her disapproval of their presence in a gentleman’s bedroom.

  Impatient with propriety, Helen’s breath caught in her throat. Did she need a watchdog? No, she did not. “Pringle, I have changed my mind, you may wait for me downstairs.” She frowned at the woman. “Please stop sniffing.”

  Helen moved aside to allow Thomas to fetch a small wing chair, upholstered in velvet the same colour as the bedspread.

  She placed the folder across Mister Barnet’s knees before she sank onto the chair. “Please look inside. I hope it will please you.”

  After the old gentleman opened it, he whistled low. His head bent over the painting, Helen could not see his face. Did he like it? She could hardly breathe while she waited for him to speak. At long last, he smiled at her. He held his portrait up to examine it more closely. “I congratulate you, Miss Whitley. Were you not born a lady, your paintings could be exhibited by the Royal Academy in one of the galleries at Somerset House, and your talent would earn you a living.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Mister Barnet studied the watercolour for a minute or more before he beckoned to Thomas. “Take this downstairs. Make sure it is packed carefully. And, Thomas, fetch coffee and cake.”

  “I shall bring it immediately, sir.”

  Alone with her, Mister Barnet smiled again. “I don’t know how to thank you for my portrait. It is beyond me to understand how you captured the glint of silver and the texture of velvet with your paintbrush.”

  Helen shrugged. “I try to show what I see.” She considered the designs for the supper and ballroom. “And sometimes I picture what I have not seen.”

  “Do you have a subject in mind?”

  She nodded. “Yes, my brother-in-law and sister plan to hold a ball for me. Mrs Tarrant wants the decorations to be superior to those of every other ball held this season. I suggested the ballroom should be transformed with vistas of India, temples and palaces, elephants and tigers.”

  “An ambitious scheme.” Mister Barnet chuckled. “How will you accomplish it?”

  “Not without a lot of help from artists I shall employ.”

  Before Mister Barnet could reply, Thomas arrived with a tray of coffee which he put on a table. The elderly gentleman dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

  Helen poured coffee for Mister Barnet and handed him the cup. After she ate a small cake and drank some coffee, she stood. “I must go, sir,” she told him, for fear she would exhaust him. “I shall call on you soon to see how you are. When will you leave for England?”

  “As soon as the doctor permits.” His wrinkles deepened as he spoke. “Although I hope to see you beforehand, I shall understand if you are too busy to call.”

  She pitied the frail, lonely invalid. “I shall visit you several times before you go home.”

  “Thank you again for the watercolour. I shall treasure it.”

  “Au revoir, Mister Barnet. I look forward to seeing you again. I hope you will soon be in the best of health.”

  * * * *

  As soon as Helen stepped into the street with Pringle close behind her, Langley stepped forward. Surprised because he had waited for so long, she gazed at him, appreciative of his delightful smile which softened the somewhat harsh contours of his face. She curtsied. Conscious of her dresser’s acute hearing, Helen searched for something innocuous to say. After several seconds passed, she spoke, flustered by his mere presence. “It is good of you to have waited for me.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Whitley. May I escort you home?”

  Helen hesitated. It would be improper to return in the carriage without a chaperone. Yet she did not want to be seated inside with Pringle listening to every word she exchanged with Langley. She opened her cream-coloured parasol which was shaped like a giant toadstool edged with broad lace dyed to match the fabric. “Langley, the sun is shining. If you wish, you may walk home with me while my servant returns in the carriage.”

  He inclined his head. “With pleasure, Miss Whitley.”

  “Thank you.” Vexed, she glared at Pringle. “If my dresser continues to sniff disapprovingly, I shall be tempted either to scream or—well never mind about that—it would not be ladylike,” she muttered, too low for her dresser to overhear. “Oh,” she continued when Langley laughed, “It is all very well for you to be amused, my lord, but you are not hemmed in by an attendant.”

  His gypsy-dark eyes seemed to continue to laugh at her. “Please accept my sympathy, ma’am.”

  “Be good enough not to tease me by calling me ma’am.”

  “I beg your pardon.” he responded, as meek as a lamb, although the laughter in his sloe-dark eyes appeared to increase.

  She frowned at him in spite of her amusement. “Wretch, I don’t believe you are sorry.”

  “A truce, Miss Whitley. I apologise for annoying you.” Hand over his heart, he inclined his head. “What may I do to make amends?”

  As ever, she found him irresistible. “By telling me why you visited Mister Barnet.”

  “He sent for me.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Yes, you may ask, but I am not obliged to offer you an explanation.”

  “Please don’t provoke me instead of answering my question,” she replied, with mock haughtiness.

  His face expressionless, Langley spoke again. “Why did you visit h
im? Should I assume you unburdened your heart to the gentleman?” The teasing note returned to his voice.

  “No, of course not,” she answered too quickly.

  What did Mister Barnet tell the viscount? That she loved Langley? Surely the ailing gentleman had not betrayed her confidences. She wished the ground would open, and then close over her head to rescue her from embarrassment. “Why did you visit him?” she asked, afraid of the answer.

  Langley’s eyes widened a little. His eyes searched her face in response to which her body seemed to explode into countless shards of delight. Before she had time to consider the extraordinary sensation, he spoke. “I called on him at his request. He told me Midhurst lodges in Antwerp. I shall ask Major Makelyn to send a small detachment of Glory Boys there to gather necessary information for the army. If he agrees, I will order my men to search Midhurst’s rooms and take possession of any papers they find.”

  “How good you are! Miss Tomlinson will always be in your debt. I shall tell her the letters might be retrieved.”

  Langley cleared his throat. “Let us hope they are in his rooms. We must avoid scandal. Unfortunately, Midhurst cannot be prosecuted, for it would ruin the lady’s reputation.”

  “He deserves the worst possible punishment,” Helen commented when they turned the corner into Rue Royale.

  “Upon my word, Miss Whitley, I would not care to have you for an enemy. You are as fierce as one of Napoleon’s famous Old Guard, any one of whom is capable of making me shake in my shoes.”

  She looked down at his gleaming black boots. “A gazetted hero frightened of one of the ogre’s toy soldiers. Impossible!” Yet again the possibility of him sustaining a fatal wound or being seriously hurt terrified her. She forced herself not to reveal her fear by as much as a blink of her eyes.

  “Thank you, Miss Whitley. Ah, here we are outside Rupe’s house. I shall see you safe indoors after which I must return to headquarters. Although everything is quiet at the moment, by now Makelyn will probably be asking where I am.”