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

by Rosemary Morris

  Helen shook her head while she tried to analyse her reaction to the old gentleman’s poor health. “I wish I could help Mister Barnet.”

  “You can pray for son âme immortelle.”

  “Oh, his immortal soul, yes, I shall.” Helen looked down embarrassed by such talk. She glanced at Mister Barnet. He slept, his breaths shallow. “Good day to you. I shall visit him again.”

  * * * *

  When Helen left the bedchamber, Maria came out of a room a little further down the corridor. “I left the door open so I would hear you take leave of Mister Barnet’s bedroom. How is he?”

  “He is tired but peaceful.”

  “I’m glad, and I’m sure you understand why I hesitate to impose upon his hospitality for much longer. Come to my bedroom while I put on my cloak. I shall go to Parc Royale to see if Phillipe’s arrived.” She wrinkled her forehead. “I must take precautions to make sure I’m not recognised.” A nervous laugh escaped Maria. “I dare say you think it’s over-dramatic to suppose Father might have employed people to search the streets to find me.”

  Helen followed Maria into a large bedroom, and stared at an old-fashioned tester bed with brightly embroidered curtains tied back to each carved post.

  A plump, rosy-cheeked dresser turned away from her task of dusting the mantelpiece, put the cloth down and curtsied.

  “Susie, my black cloak, bonnet and gloves,” Maria ordered.

  The young dresser helped her mistress envelop herself in the cloak. Maria put on her bonnet, pulled the black net veil over her face, and tied the ribbons beneath her chin. Susie drew the hood over Maria’s head and pulled the edge over her mistress’s forehead.

  Maria looked in the mirror. “I don’t think Father would recognise me.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Helen agreed.

  As Helen followed Maria onto the landing and down the stairs, she looked down at the butler, who was crossing the hall. “Greaves, send for my dresser.” To assert her position as Mister Barnet’s welcome guest, she did not say please, although, unlike some members of the ton, she usually accorded the servants that courtesy.

  A few minutes later, with Pringle and Susie in attendance, Helen walked with Maria at a steady pace to Parc Royale. When they entered it, Maria hurried toward the pavilion outside, where well-dressed patrons relaxed at tables eating and drinking in spite of the cloudy sky that threatened more rain.

  Maria halted. A long drawn out breath escaped her. “Philippe is not here,” she murmured, her tone of voice desolate.

  “Yes, he is, cherie,” came a voice from behind them.

  “Philippe!” Maria tottered. An unusually tall, well-proportioned gentleman, with hair the colour of newly minted sovereigns, reached out to steady her before drawing her into his arms.

  He pushed back Maria’s hood and raised her veil. “Why did you hide your lovely face?”

  Maria blushed as pink as a peony in full bloom. “Because of my father! I am staying at a friend’s house. I don’t want him to find me.” She gazed lovingly at Philippe. ” How did you recognise me?”

  He laughed. “You spoke my name, but even if you had not, I would have recognised your voice.”

  “You can’t imagine how anxious I have been while waiting for you to arrive. I imagined you might have been thrown from your horse and lost your memory, or attacked by thieves and mortally injured. Or, I even thought you decided you don’t want to marry me.” She stood as close to Phillipe as possible without touching him, and stared up at his face, her eyes tender with emotion.

  “Of course I do. The chaos in Ostend—a miserable place, a filthy unhealthy town with endless sand hills along the shore—delayed me.” The expression of disgust on his face was comical. “When the military were disembarking, the Duke of Wellington’s orders for the troops to land and their boats to return to England without delay, led to frantic horses being lowered into the sea and paraphernalia thrown overboard.” He emphasised the shocking scene with a wave of his hands. “Oh, it is impossible to describe the chaos during which my horse bolted. My groom could not find the wretched animal. Fortunately, my portmanteau was safe. Anyway, to be brief, I travelled here in comfort by canal. So here I am, entirely at your disposal.

  “Sweetheart, my sister looks forward to receiving you.” He held her hand. “Are you sure Mister Tomlinson will not change his mind?”

  “Father is too stubborn. I love both of you, but am glad you want me to be your wife.”

  “My beauty, it is for me to be grateful for your trust in me. We shall leave Belgium after we are wed.”

  Helen coughed to attract their attention. “Miss Tomlinson, I must go.”

  Maria turned to face her. “How discourteous of me not to have presented Monsieur Lamonte to you.” she said and made the introductions.

  The gentleman bowed, Helen inclined her head. “Good day, to both of you.”

  Followed by Pringle, Helen walked toward Rue Royale. Her footsteps slowed. She remembered her late father’s good humour and tenderness. Confronted with the same dilemma as Maria, she could not imagine having married without Father’s consent. Yet, an inner voice whispered, would I not give up everyone and everything for the opportunity to marry Langley? Yes, I think I might whatever the consequences.

  She halted, causing other pedestrians to have to step around her. Honesty compelled her to admit she envied Maria. She castigated herself for being guilty of envy, one of the seven deadly sins. She brushed away a tear.

  “Miss Whitley, are you unwell?” Pringle asked.

  Helen shook her head. With great effort, she abandoned the painful memory of her father, thoughts of Maria, and her own covetousness.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  23rd to 28th April, 1815

  To find an excuse to question Doctor Longspring about Mister Barnet, Helen pretended to be ill.

  After he examined her, he addressed Georgianne. “Well, ma’am, it is possible Miss Langley is feverish due to an unknown condition, which might worsen during the next few days. At the moment, I find little amiss with her.” He gazed at Helen, the expression in his eyes sharp. “Your sister’s cheeks are merely a little flushed, and her pulse is only a bit rapid. We must hope its rate will decrease.”

  His comment did not surprise Helen. Until now, she prided herself on her absolute honesty. Doubtless guilt brought colour to her face and increased the beat of her pulse. The experienced doctor could not know she lied about her condition even if, for some reason, he harboured suspicion. She looked at her sister who would never imagine she fibbed. Dear Georgianne had fussed over her since she stayed in bed. Her self-reproach swelled when her affectionate sister bathed her forehead with a cool cloth perfumed with lavender before she sent orders to the cook to make barley water and gruel. Gruel! No matter how tasty it would be, Helen’s appetite demanded something more substantial.

  Doctor Longspring released her wrist and patted her hand. Helen looked up at his round, plump face. If she were ill, his confident manner would reassure her.

  He turned his attention back to Georgianne. “Mrs Tarrant, your sister is not my only young patient to neglect her health while swept up by the gaiety of balls and suchlike. I prescribe bed rest for five or six days”

  For so long? How on earth would she maintain her pretence? She wondered while she listened to the doctor.

  “Afterward we shall see how Miss Whitley goes on. In the meantime, if her temperature rises please don’t hesitate to send for me.”

  Georgianne nodded. “Thank you for your good advice, Doctor. I know I can depend on you.”

  Doctor Longspring glanced at her rounded stomach. “You, ma’am, must take good care of your own health. Do summon me if you suffer even the slightest indisposition.” He smiled, amusement revealed in his light blue eyes. “Major Tarrant has already consulted me on your behalf. I assured him he has no cause for his excessive concern.”

  “So I have told him, but the major is too solicitous on my behalf,” Georgianne
explained, somewhat breathlessly.

  “Just so, ma’am,” he looked at Helen. “Miss Whitley, although ladies have stronger constitutions than it is generally believed, if you are chilled while you walk in the rain, it will do you no good. Now, I must bid you good day. I have patients who need my urgent attention.”

  “A moment more of your time, Doctor Longspring,” Helen requested, in spite of her shame because she deprived those in genuine need of him. “When I visited Mister Barnet, both his butler and nurse told me that in accordance with your orders no visitors are allowed to see him.”

  Doctor Longspring raised his shaggy eyebrows, as though surprised by the visit of a young lady of good birth to a tradesman. “My instructions have been misinterpreted. Mister Barnet’s heart is weak, so I gave orders for him to be kept calm. However, it is not for his butler and the good Sister to decide whether or not he should see someone.”

  Helen frowned. “I have his former guest, Miss Tomlinson, to thank for admittance to his bedchamber.”

  Doctor Longspring frowned. “If you call on my patient again, please remember he soon becomes exhausted, so you should not stay for long. In the meantime, I shall speak to the butler and Sister Imelda—who is an excellent nurse even if she is sometimes too protective of her patients.”

  “Thank you,” Helen replied, still annoyed with Greaves and sorry for Mister Barnet.

  “Dearest,” Georgianne began, after the doctor left the bedchamber, “I am sure there is no need for you to worry about Mister Barnet.”

  “I am anxious about him. As I have told you, he is frail and at the mercy of his servants.”

  Georgianne applied a cool cloth to Helen’s brow. “There now, don’t fret. It will make you even more feverish. Sit up. I’ll plump up your pillows. Would you like some barley water?”

  “Yes please.” Helen despised herself for her charade, “There is no need to fuss. I am much better.” The idea of being confined to bed for nearly a week irked her, but unless she confessed her deception to Georgianne, she must endure it.

  * * * *

  After Helen did not ride on two consecutive early mornings in the Allee Vert, Captain Dalrymple called at the house. Told she was unwell, he bombarded her with pretty nosegays and letters, in which he expressed his hope she would soon recover. He also sent gifts of handkerchiefs edged with broad borders of exquisite lace, and a bottle of Hungary Water. They were well-chosen gifts which did not exceed the bounds of propriety. On the morning of the fourth day, a note accompanied a copy of An Account of the Kingdom of Nepaul by Major Kirkpatrick.

  With pleasure, Helen read the note. “Look, Georgianne.” She turned the pages and admired the maps and pictures. “It was so kind of Captain Dalrymple. He hopes it will help me to plan the Indian theme we have chosen for my ball. Of course, he is sworn to secrecy because I want to surprise the guests.” She chuckled. “Polite society feeds on chatter and rumour while every hostess attempts to provide more lavish and spectacular entertainments than any other. When questioned, I merely say I am sure the decorations will not disappoint.”

  “It is good of Dalrymple to be so attentive. Tarrant and I like him.”

  “So do I.” Helen said, conscious of her sister’s unspoken words ‘we hope you will marry him,’ that almost hovered in the air.

  Georgianne kissed her forehead. “Well, dearest, I shall leave you to rest until nuncheon. You must not overtire yourself.”

  Helen restrained herself from protesting that there was no question of becoming fatigued. She kept silent, fearful of her sister’s reaction if she admitted her fraud. She passed the time by first reading the book and then finished Cook’s tasty barley gruel to which a little white wine had been added. Sweetened with sugar, flavoured with mace and enhanced with raisins and currants, she savoured every mouthful. Unfortunately, her stomach rumbled after she finished it. Helen considered bribing Pringle to fetch a ham sandwich. Her mouth watered when she imagined succulent ham between slices of bread spread with butter fresh from the country. No, no matter how hungry she became she would not stoop so low. A second parcel, containing a copy of Oliver Goldsmith’s Vicar of Wakefield and another note from her suitor, distracted her. With a sigh, she put the book and note on her quilt.

  Surrounded by luxury, she considered Captain Dalrymple. If she married him, she believed he would wrap her in kindness for the rest of her life. She sighed. “Love”, some of the ton have stated, “is not a prerequisite for marriage.” Many of its members considered the mere notion of romantic love unrefined. Nevertheless, she found no vulgarity in the masterpiece Pride and Prejudice, which she had read three times with increasing appreciation and enjoyment. Yet perhaps those who disapproved of romance were wise. One’s heart would not be broken if one’s husband took a mistress, an all too common occurrence. What more did she want than a husband such as Dalrymple? “Langley,” an inner voice whispered, and continued. “How foolish to hanker after a gentleman who ruthlessly rejected your overture.”

  * * * *

  On the afternoon of the sixth day, glad to exchange her nightgown for a well-cut white muslin gown, Helen joined Georgianne in the drawing room. No sooner had she sat on a chair from which she could look out of the window toward Parc Royale, than Cousin Tarrant arrived. He strode across the carpet to Georgianne and raised her hand to his lips.

  Eyes wide, Georgianne clutched his arm with her free hand. “Why have you come home so early? What has happened?”

  Cousin Tarrant removed Georgianne’s hand from his sleeve. “Nothing to alarm you. I only came to tell you I shall be away for a week.”

  “Why? Where are you going?”

  He smiled down at his wife. “Makelyn ordered me to gather information around the border. No need to sigh; I shall return before you have time to realise I am away.”

  “I shall miss you every moment until you come back safely.” The passion in Georgianne’s voice startled Helen. “Why, Tarrant,” her sister asked, “do I always suspect there is something you have not told me? That your duties are not as straightforward as you claim? I am your wife. You should have no secrets from me.”

  Cousin Tarrant sat next to Georgianne on the sofa.

  “You know better than to question me about my orders.”

  Her sister stood. “No, I don’t.” She glared down at him. “Neither Helen nor I would ever repeat anything you confided in us.”

  The major stood. “One never knows who might overhear and gossip, or whether, in an unguarded moment, you might say something in all innocence. Something which might be misinterpreted and put my life and the lives of others at risk.”

  Georgianne’s hands fluttered above his gold epaulettes. “You speak as though you are more than a dedicated officer.” She closed her eyes. “If I did not know you better, I would think you are a spy, and maybe Langley is also one, for the two of you are constant companions.”

  For a moment, the major remained silent, his grey eyes hardened, and his features seemed to alter, to become sharper.

  Helen stared at him in horror. Could her sister’s hunch be true? She caught her breath. As usual her artist’s eyes were aware of something most people did not seem to observe.

  Cousin Tarrant stood. His face an inscrutable mask, although his grey eyes were tender when he spoke to Georgianne. “You know part of ‘The Glory Boys’ duty is to gather information. Now, if you please, no more nonsensical speculation. I have heard ladies who are increasing, are prone to whimsies.”

  “I am sorry,” Georgianne whispered.

  The major slipped an arm around his wife’s waist. “There is nothing to apologise for. Now, I must get ready to leave.”

  “I shall come with you to make sure you have everything you need,” Georgianne murmured.

  The door closed behind them. Helen took a deep breath. Her heart beat fast. Perspiration beaded her forehead. She looked at the delicate china ornaments on the mantelpiece, the broadsheets and magazines on a table and Georgianne’s rosewood sewing box
. Everything seemed so ordinary, so commonplace. Yet something even more terrifying than the imminent threat of armed combat, in which Cousin Tarrant and Langley would participate, crept into the drawing room. Helen shuddered. She found it almost impossible to visualise the gracious house being vandalised if Napoleon’s army invaded Brussels.

  “Captain Dalrymple,” a footman announced.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  28th April 28, 1815

  Captain Dalrymple bowed, a tussie-mussie of delicate spring flowers in his hand. He straightened his back, walked toward Helen and halted three-feet—or a little more—away from her.

  Helen curtsied, conscious of the footman, who could hear every word they spoke. ” Good day, sir.” His smile warmed her heart as he gazed at her with a glint in his dark eyes. She smiled back at him with admiration for his exceptional good looks. “Please be seated.”

  “Before I do so, please accept this.” He bowed and then handed her the flowers.

  She inhaled the fragrance of the multi-coloured blossoms. “Freesias, narcissi, some of my favourites. They smell delicious. And yellow rosebuds, how charming.”

  “Not as charming as you.” Her suitor spoke too low for the footman to overhear.

  “You flatter me, Captain.”

  “No, Miss Whitley, a mere mortal’s words could never do you justice.”

  “You are too kind, sir.”

  “I could never be too kind to you.” With an economic movement common to so many military officers, he sat opposite her.

  Conscious of her blushes and his ardent expression, Helen gazed out of the window. Nervousness made it impossible to continue looking at him. “A glass of wine?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Thomas, a glass of Canary wine for the captain,” she ordered the footman.

  She smiled at her suitor with genuine gratitude. “Thank you for your gifts. Kirkpatrick’s book about Nepaul is fascinating. It has given me many more ideas for the décor for my ball. And thank you for your other gifts. I fear you are spoiling me.”