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

by Rosemary Morris

  “Little in stature, but from all one hears, not in ambition,” Helen replied. Ashamed—for she envied her sister—Helen relegated the thought to the back of her mind. “Why think of him now? Georgianne, I realised Cousin Tarrant might not wish for Maria to stay in his house, so I have arranged for Mister Barnet to accommodate her until her betrothed joins her.”

  Round-eyed, Georgianne regarded her for a moment. “Although I sympathise with Miss Tomlinson’s situation, I am pleased to be rid of her. I would not care for the scandal of her elopement to be attached to my name.” Her eyes grew even rounder. “Besides, it might damage your reputation; for your friendship with a manufacturer’s daughter, no matter how wealthy her father is, has caused unfavourable comments.”

  Helen mulled over the gossip about herself and Captain Dalrymple which had angered Cousin Tarrant. Now there was criticism of her unsought for involvement in Maria’s affairs. Perhaps she should draw a series of sketches called The Heiress’ Progress. No, it would be too cruel. “I fear you and Cousin Tarrant find me a trial.”

  “Dearest, you could never be a burden, but Tarrant is aware that he must account for you to your guardian, so he never wants a whisper of scandal to attach itself to you.”

  “Cousin Tarrant is kind,” Helen murmured with genuine appreciation. “I don’t understand why you didn’t tell him you are increasing. Why did he faint when Mister Tomlinson told him?”

  “There are questions you should not ask because married people are entitled to privacy.” Georgianne picked up Pride and Prejudice and snapped it shut.

  “I beg your pardon.” Helen could not help feeling resentful, for in the past she and Georgianne had not kept secrets from each other.

  Her sister shifted position. “Where is Captain Dalrymple? He has not called on you for some time. Have you rejected him?”

  “No, he wrote to me yesterday to explain he is very busy.”

  “He is a charming gentleman. I look forward to seeing him again.”

  Did her sister expect her to marry him? Should she ask her for advice? No, she did not want to be urged into a life she might regret. Helen stood. “I shall leave the two of you to rest.”

  “The two of us?”

  “Yes, you and my niece or nephew.” She looked forward to the baby’s appearance in the world. Would he or she be dark-haired and blue-eyed like her sister, or have Tarrant’s fair hair and grey eyes? If she married the captain, what would her children look like? Did she want to risk her life in childbirth? Fear coiled its way around her heart. Years ago, Helen witnessed a favourite mare birth a foal and guessed that the birth of a human was similar.

  Of course, Mamma would have whipped her if she knew her gently-reared daughter had witnessed the scene. Moreover, she suspected that even her tolerant father would have been angry. Afraid for her sister, Helen wished she had remained ignorant.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  20th April, 1815

  In the garb of an English gentleman of moderate means, Langley rode out of Brussels on the orders of General Makelyn. A wig, a subtle application of powder and paint—the art of which he learnt from an actor—and pads in his cheeks to make them seem plumper, reduced his chance of being recognised.

  Before long he passed ploughed fields and lush meadows, neat farmers’ houses, barns, stables and plump cattle and flat landscape so different from Spain and Portugal where he and Rupes spent so many years spying in both town and country. He shook his head. Instead of thinking about the past, he must concentrate on his instructions to discover the whereabouts of one of Napoleon’s pernicious spies, a merciless man who killed with no more compunction than a farmer’s wife wringing a chicken’s neck. He dismissed the ugly images.

  Unbidden, Helen crept into his mind. Confound it! If only the last battle against Napoleon was won, he would be free to— what? In spite of money, which would be raised when the valuable contents of Longwood House were auctioned by Christies to pay his father’s debts, he feared the sum would not be sufficient for him to marry Helen. He suppressed a groan. It took every scrap of control he could muster not to admit to her that he loved her.

  Helen would never know what it cost him to reject her overture when her soft, luminous eyes searched his, before she asked if they could be no more than friends. He could only guess how embarrassed she was when he denied his fervent desire to ask for her hand in marriage, and draw her into his arms to kiss her until they were breathless with desire. Her stricken expression when he told her he would stand her friend at her wedding to Captain Dalrymple, or some other gentleman, tore at his heartstrings, for she held them in her long-fingered artist’s hands.

  * * * *

  Seated at her escritoire in the small parlour adjacent to her bedroom, Helen perused a note from an anxious Maria.

  “There is no news of Monsieur Lamont who should have arrived two days ago. You can imagine,” Maria wrote, “I am in great anxiety about my betrothed. Although Mister Barnet has been all that is kind, I would appreciate it if you would call on me as soon as possible, for he advises me to confide in my father and ask for his permission to marry Philippe. Mister Barnet is in poor health therefore I don’t want to argue with him, but his advice is unacceptable.

  If my husband-to-be does not arrive within the next three or four days, I don’t know what to do, because I am reluctant to impose any longer on my host whom the doctor attends twice a day.”

  Helen stared across the road at the Parc Royale. She reproached herself for her neglect of Mister Barnet. In future, she would be more attentive.

  After nuncheon Helen set out for the old gentleman’s house, with Pringle in attendance. Halfway there, sunshine submitted to dull grey clouds. Drizzle fell, further dampening her low spirits, which she found almost impossible to conceal since Langley’s visit. By the time Thomas opened the door of Mister Barnet’s house, her clothes were damp.

  Helen shivered and took off her pelisse. “I hope Mister Barnet’s health has improved,”

  “I’m sorry to say it hasn’t,” Thomas replied.

  Greaves came forward from the other side of the large hall. “You may go, Thomas.”

  Helen turned her attention to the lugubrious man. “Please inform your master I am here.”

  “Doctor Longspring gave orders for Mister Barnet not to be disturbed,” said Greaves, who could not be much younger than his employer.

  Helen looked straight into the butler’s eyes which were as cold as those of a dead fish. “Ask your master if he wishes to see me.”

  “Miss Whitley, perhaps you did not understand. Mister Barnet is in bed so it would be improper for you to visit him.”

  “Nonsense! On previous occasions, I have visited him in his bedchamber. I am certain your employer would be glad to see me.” She stressed the words ‘your employer’ to remind Greaves that not even an upper servant had the right to make decisions for his master. “Please inform Miss Tomlinson I wish to see her.”

  At the mention of Maria’s name, Greaves looked down his nose as if he smelt something offensive. “I don’t think Miss Tomlinson will receive you.”

  “I am sure she will.”

  Greaves opened a door to the small room in which she had waited with Georgianne to see Mister Barnet. A quick glance informed her the ivory Chinese boat, they so much admired, was no longer on the mantelpiece. Doubtless it had been packed for transport to England. She remained in the centre of the hall. “Greaves, I am sure it will not take long for you to inform Miss Tomlinson I wish to see her.”

  Greaves turned around and left the room. What caused him to be so put out and unhelpful?

  Pringle coughed. After a severe reprimand concerning her habit of sniffing, the woman had replaced it with equally annoying coughs.

  She ignored the dresser while she looked around. The beautiful hand-painted Chinese wallpaper still graced the wall, but the ornately ornamented porcelain flower pot on a red-lacquer stand, which Georgianne had remarked the Prince Regent would envy, no lo
nger stood in its place.

  She frowned. Apart from such large treasures there were many small objet d’art which could be pilfered. It would be easy to slip a jade figurine or a small, valuable piece of porcelain into a pocket. Did Greaves discourage her visits because he feared she might suspect him of theft? She had only met a few of Mister Barnet’s servants. Did he have a secretary? Did he have a steward? Were the items packed for transportation to England itemised?

  A door opened. Maria, her eyes reddened by tears, erupted into the hall. “I knew you would come.” Maria crossed the floor so fast that she reminded Helen of a galloping filly. She came to a halt in front of her and seized her hand. “Do come to the parlour.”

  “Wait here,” Helen ordered Pringle. She followed Maria to the hall where Greaves stood. Maria called over her shoulder. “Please bring refreshments, Greaves. What would you prefer, Miss Whitley, tea, coffee or ratafia?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Odious man,” Maria said when Greaves went through the door leading to the kitchen. “He dare not disobey me for Mister Barnet has told him to make sure I am comfortable, but Greaves makes it obvious he resents my presence.” She gestured to a chair. “Please sit yourself down.”

  Helen held her sprigged muslin skirts taut to prevent them creasing as she sat, back straight, feet placed demurely side by side on a small footstool. “How is Mister Barnet?”

  “In spite of his cheerfulness, I am very worried. His face is ashen and his lips have a bluish tint. The doctor has ordered him to stay in bed.”

  “Do you know the cause of his illness?”

  “I am told his heart is weak.”

  Thomas arrived carrying a silver tray which he put on a low table beneath the sash window that overlooked the garden.

  Maria stood. “Shall I pour coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Maria busied herself with the silver pot and delicate porcelain. She handed a cup to Thomas to give to Helen. “Some seed cake? A biscuit?”

  “No thank you.”

  Maria gave Helen a cup of coffee. “You may go, Thomas.”

  Alone with the young woman, Helen sipped a little of the aromatic drink. “Are you comfortable here? By the way, does Mister Barnet have many servants? Does he, for example, employ a steward and secretary?”

  “There are several footmen and maids besides the cook and the kitchen girls. His steward fell down the stairs. His ankle is sprained and he is badly bruised. The secretary has gone to Bruges on Mister Barnet’s business.” Her eyes glistened. She dabbed them with an embroidered handkerchief. “What do the servants matter when I am beside myself with fears for Philippe? There is no word of him. I fear his ship sank, thieves attacked him, or he encountered some other misfortune.” She hurried and went to the window. “Oh,” she cried out, “the first tulips of the year are in flower. I wish father never brought me to Brussels. I could be at home in England enjoying our garden.” She covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook. “Forgive me for my outburst, Miss Whitley. You have only known happiness. How can you understand my despair?”

  Only known happiness! Surely Maria must have heard Papa died of gangrene and both of her brothers died in battle in Spain? Of course, she could not know the family secret of Mamma’s addiction to the bottle. However, perhaps Maria could understand she did not want to continue her life at Cousin Tarrant’s expense, and that she loved a gentleman who would not propose marriage. Helen pressed her teeth together for fear of her sensibilities becoming as uncontrolled as Maria’s. “My father always said bad tidings travel faster than good news. Don’t despair. There are many less dramatic reasons than yours for Phillips arrival being delayed.”

  Maria turned around. “I don’t know what to do.” Tears filled her eyes. “I can’t expect Mister Barnet to house me for more than another two or three days. If Philippe has not come to Brussels by then, where shall I go?”

  “If he does not arrive, I think you have only two choices. The first is to return to your father, who must be distraught about your whereabouts. If you have the funds, the second is to return to England to make inquiries about your betrothed.” Helen put her cup down. “Maria, please compose yourself before we visit Mister Barnet.”

  “I shall try to.” Maria walked slowly out of the room.

  In the hall, Helen looked at Pringle, who sat on a settle, lemon-faced—to indicate her disapproval of the visit to Mr Barnet, whom she regarded unworthy of a young lady’s attention. On stage, Helen thought, Pringle would give an excellent role of a martyr. She nodded her head at Thomas, the footman on duty. “Please take my dresser to the servant’s hall and see she has something to drink.”

  Maria beckoned. “Come, Miss Whitley.” She led her up the stairs to the third floor, along the corridor and knocked on a bedroom door, which opened almost immediately.

  Helen caught her breath surprised by the sight of a nun, who wore a grey tunic, emblazoned with a red cross on the chest, a black gown with full skirts, and a spotless white wimple and veil.

  “May we see Mister Barnet?” Helen asked.

  Not a ripple of emotion disturbed the nun’s tranquil face. “I regret—”

  “I know that voice. Miss Whitley, how good of you to visit a sick old man. Sister Imelda, be good enough to admit my guest.”

  “Monsieur Barnet, you know Doctor Longspring said you should not have any visitors.”

  “Confound him—beg your pardon Sister—what harm can passing the time with a charming young lady cause.”

  “Don’t agitate yourself, Monsieur Barnet,” Sister Imelda then turned her attention to them. “Only one visitor at a time.”

  “I shall visit him later,” Maria said.

  The Sister opened the door a little wider to allow Helen to enter.

  “Please leave us,” Mister Barnet said to the nun. “I wish to speak to my guest in private. If you don’t allow me to do so, I shall be agitated.”

  Sister Imelda fingered the rosary suspended from her belt. “Very well, Monsieur.” She spoke without a hint of displeasure. “My child, please help him to make his peace with the cher Dieu. Don’t be surprised,” she continued, in a lower tone, “if my patient nods off to sleep in the middle of a conversation, and don’t be taken aback if you cannot make sense of his words. Sometimes, he relives the past in a disjointed manner.”

  Helen remembered the last days of her father’s life. Now and then he had believed he was still a happy child in his parents’ house. Helen gazed past the nun into the dimly lit room with a crucifix on the wall opposite Mister Barnet’s bed. She did not remember seeing it before. Did Sister Imelda hang it there?

  “I shall return within the quarter hour.” The Sister closed the door behind her.

  “Ah, you are looking at the crucifix which the good nun hung on the wall. It does no harm so don’t be dismayed. She belongs to an Order dedicated to nursing the sick and wounded.”

  Helen shivered. Unless a miracle occurred in the near future, the nuns’ services would be needed to tend countless soldiers.

  “Please come closer, Miss Whitley.”

  Helen stepped quickly across the spotless floorboards to his bedside.

  “Ah, pretty and well-turned out as ever. Now, please draw back the curtain and open the shutters. I can’t abide this gloom. Anyone would think I’m almost in the grave.”

  “I don’t think you are.” Somewhat embarrassed by his remark, she hurried to let light into the room.

  “Sister Imelda seems to think I am.” Mister Barnet chuckled. “If I gave her the least excuse, I think she would send for a priest to administer the last rites.”

  Brought up in the Anglican faith and taught to despise the Roman Catholic Church, Helen shifted from one foot to another, unsure of what to say. The last rites were as foreign to her as Bengali, which her father learned to speak—in his own words, ‘tolerably well’—during his time in India. “Don’t allow the Sister to bully you, Mister Barnet.”

  “No fear o
f that, I’ve never allowed anyone to do so.”

  His eyes closed. Had he drifted off to sleep? She hoped he was merely tired, not drugged to ward off discomfort. Should she leave? No, she would sit in the small wing chair by the window and look out at the garden in which he took so much pleasure.

  She watched a tree sparrow flying backward and forward with grubs in its beak, presumably to feed its nestlings. Her shoulders drooped. If only she possessed a nest to share with—

  Mister Barnet stirred. “Emily, there you are. Give your grandfather a kiss.”

  His granddaughter! He had said she died, and also that he had no living relative. Saddened, Helen turned to look at him. Of course, Sister Imelda had warned her the old gentleman sometimes retreated into the past. What should she say or do?

  “No? Now that you are a young lady, do you think you are too old to give me a kiss?” Eyes half open, Mister Barnet tapped his cheek. “I remember the days when you sat on my lap, shook your pretty brown curls and pouted your little cherry-red lips. Somehow you always persuaded me to give you whatever you wanted. Sweetheart, do you know you have been the joy of my life since your father died?”

  She should humour him. “Y…yes grandfather and I know how much you love me.”

  The sick man’s eyes fully opened. “Ah, Miss Whitley, there you are. For a moment I thought you were Emily.”

  Helen dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “Yes, I know. May I fetch you anything?”

  “No, thank you. I am grateful for your visit.”

  She patted the back of his gnarled hand. “It is a pleasure. You only have to send for me whenever you wish to see me.”

  Miser Barnet’s eyes closed again so she resumed her seat on the chair by the window.

  “Everything for you,” he muttered, presumably back in the past with his beloved Emily.

  The door opened. Sister Imelda seemed to glide into the bedroom on noiseless wheels. Vivid blue eyes, set in an alabaster-white face, regarded her. “You appear distressed, my child.”