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

by Rosemary Morris

  “It is my pleasure. I would enjoy doing so for the rest of our lives.”

  Oh dear, the captain might be on the brink of a marriage proposal. It seemed the moment to decide whether to accept or reject her beau had arrived. “I am sure I would not deserve such devotion.”

  “I think you will always be worthy of it.”

  Surely he would not ask her to marry him while at risk of being interrupted by Thomas when he brought the wine.

  She buried her face in the soft petals of the tussie-mussie. The perfume almost overcame her senses and, somehow or other, added to her indecision.

  “What are you thinking of, Miss Whitley?”

  By now her cheeks must be rosy. “Nothing in particular.”

  “I hope you have recovered.”

  “Recovered?”

  “From your indisposition. Upon my word, I burned with anxiety.”

  All confusion, she peered at him over the top of the flowers. He seemed as calm as the sea on a tranquil day. But one never knows what undercurrents lay in its depths. “You did not need to concern yourself, sir.”

  What would her devoted admirer think of her if she confessed her deception? Would he despise her? She decided to confess. If he were not dismayed by her dishonesty, it would prove he loved her. “I was not ill.” She faltered for a moment. “I confess, I needed an excuse to question Doctor Longspring about Mister Barnet, one of his patients.”

  The captain whistled low. “Mister Barnet, the nabob?”

  “You know him?”

  “I know of him. He is the only son of Sir Roderick and Lady Barnet, my parents’ deceased neighbours.”

  “I am not surprised to hear he is of good birth. His conduct is that of a gentleman born. Please tell me if he has any living relatives?”

  The captain shook his head. “None that I know of.”

  “How sad.”

  “Indeed,” the captain began. He broke off when the double doors opened to admit Thomas, who served the wine.

  A wave of her hand dismissed the footman.

  Dalrymple leant forward. “So, Miss Whitley, do you wish to tell me more about your charade?”

  He did not seem put out by her confession.

  She found the courage to explain her motives.

  “Thank you for confiding in me. I admire your concern for the gentleman.” He put his glass on the small table by his chair.

  Her cheeks warmed. “I feared you would think ill of me.”

  The captain knelt on one knee in front of her chair. “To the contrary, I honour you for your compassion.”

  Surely the moment to decide her future had arrived. Still indecisive, she looked up at the ceiling.

  “Miss Whitley, we have your guardian’s consent, and my parents’ and Major and Mrs Tarrant’s approval, so, will you agree to be my wife?” he asked, his words somewhat rushed.

  She gazed down at him. Flames burned in the depths of his dark, fathomless eyes. She took a deep breath. Langley had made it clear he would not marry her. Here was a prospective husband whom she believed would do his best to make her happy. Although Georgianne and Cousin Tarrant had not been in love when they married, they doted on each other. Helen respected the captain. She could learn to love him, could she not? Only a fool would reject a proposal of marriage from such a man. Her cheeks cooled. “Yes, Captain Dalrymple, I shall be your wife.”

  Every trace of anxiety left his face. His eyes blazed. Never had she seen such joy on a gentleman’s face.

  He took a small green and gold box out of his pocket and opened the lid to display the contents.

  She regarded the gold ring set with a large, square cut emerald surrounded by small diamonds.

  “Green to match your eyes. Please hold out your left hand.” He slid the symbol of their betrothal over her third finger.

  “Thank you, it is beautiful. I shall always treasure it.” In return, she believed Dalrymple would treasure her. After the pain of Langley’s rejection, the captain’s love acted like balm, which brought unexpected peace.

  Dalrymple drew her to her feet. “How can I ever thank you for agreeing to marry me? I know you don’t love me, but I hope you will in the future. If not, I have enough love for both of us.”

  How did he know she did not love him? Oh yes, while secluded on the balcony at the ball—after which Cousin Tarrant upbraided her—she had been honest when she told her captain she expected a proposal of marriage from another gentleman which she would be pleased to accept.

  Dalrymple encircled her with his arms and kissed the top of her head. Always conscious of being taller than most ladies, she relished his superior height. Her nose was level with his black collar edged with gold braid as dazzling as her future. For a moment, she wanted to escape his possessive embrace. Common sense reasserted itself. Not only would she be mistress of her own home, she would also be his cosseted wife.

  He cupped her chin and raised it until she looked up at him. His face drew close enough for her to see a faint trace of stubble. Anticipation of his kiss bubbled up. An unfamiliar thrill accumulated in the pit of her stomach, one which, until now, she had only experienced in Langley’s presence. No, she must not think of the viscount at this moment. From now on, she should only think of him as Cousin Tarrant’s close friend.

  The double doors began to open. The captain released her, and whispered something too quietly for her to hear.

  Thomas entered the drawing room. “For you, Miss.” He crossed the floor.

  “Thank you, Thomas.” She took a letter, sealed with a wax wafer, from the silver salver he held out. “You may go.”

  Dear God, had Cousin Tarrant or Langley been wounded or worse? If Cousin Tarrant had sustained a fatal wound, Georgianne would be prostrate with grief. How would if affect her condition? Helen caught her breath. How would she bear it if Langley had received a mortal blow? Curse it! A moment ago she had agreed to marry Captain Dalrymple. Now, sick with apprehension concerning Langley, Helen wondered when she would learn how to control her foolish imagination. She opened the letter. “Thank goodness, Captain Dalrymple.” She looked up after she reading the contents.

  “Dalrymple, not Captain,” he corrected her.

  “Very well, Dalrymple, if it pleases you. I was about to say Mister Barnet’s secretary has returned from Brussels. I hope he will take charge of the old gentleman’s household, because, at the moment, it is obvious Mister Barnet is too ill to oversee it. The secretary writes to inform me the old gentleman is fretful and wishes to see me. My visit might calm him. I must go without delay.” Rueful, she indicated her white muslin morning gown. “Please excuse me. I need to change into a carriage gown.”

  “Would you like me to accompany you?”

  “If you wish, though I don’t know how long I shall remain at his house, and I certainly don’t wish to keep you from headquarters.”

  “Headquarters,” he repeated. “Now that Lord Uxbridge has arrived to take command of the cavalry, I doubt General Makelyn and his staff will remain in Brussels much longer.”

  “Oh, I shall be sorry if your regiment is sent far from here, but I am a Major’s daughter, so you need not fear I shall keep you from your duty, or complain when circumstances keep us apart.”

  “You are a paragon. I shall escort you to Mister Barnet’s house before I find out if Makelyn has any new orders for me.” His forehead creased. “If you wish, I shall tell the secretary you suspect the butler of theft.”

  “Thank you, but perhaps I am mistaken. For now, I don’t think we should broach the matter.”

  * * * *

  Helen erupted into her bedchamber and tugged the bell pull to summon Pringle.

  Impatient to see Mister Barnet, she flung opened the closet and assessed her wardrobe. Her long-sleeved, light grey walking dress trimmed with swansdown, and the dark grey pelisse edged with white braid, would do. She shook her head. No, they were too funereal for a newly betrothed lady. She chose a cream-coloured, long sleeved gown and her emerald-
green merino pelisse.

  Pringle entered the bedchamber and raised her eyebrows. “I should be laying out your clothes, Miss. Your hands are trembling. What is wrong? Allow me to help you.”

  A little later, high-crowned hat upon her head, Helen pulled on her gloves.

  For once, the dresser took one look at her face and did not speak.

  “Pringle, fetch your hat and cloak. I shall visit Mister Barnet.”

  Pringle coughed to indicate her disapproval.

  Helen glared at her but made no comment. Instead, she hurried downstairs to join her betrothed, who stood the second he saw her. He took her hands in his and spread them wide apart. “How beautiful you are. You should always wear green to complement your eyes. It is why I chose an emerald ring.”

  Beautiful? No, Georgianne was the family beauty. She was merely fashionable in clothes she designed. Yet Dalrymple’s admiration warmed her heart.

  “I chose grey, then decided the colour is too dull for a bride-to-be.” She spoke somewhat breathlessly to distract herself.

  His endearing, boyish laughter rang out. “I adore you too much to ever think you look dull.”

  “Even when I grow old and wrinkled?” she teased.

  “I shall be so accustomed to your face that I will not see the wrinkles, but I am sure you will notice the havoc time has wrought upon me.”

  What had she done to deserve this charming, sincere gentleman? For the first time, she began to look forward not merely to being mistress of her own establishment, but to becoming Captain Dalrymple’s wife.

  “Ah, judging by your expression, you like me a little.”

  “More than that, sir.” Yes, she liked him very much indeed. If she could rid her mind of Langley, surely it would not be difficult to love him.

  * * * *

  Helen waited with Pringle in the reception room after being admitted to the house by Mister Barnet’s impassive butler. It had been emptied of everything other than a sofa, with a long narrow seat and two matching chairs. Now devoid of ornamentation, it seemed the soul of the house had departed.

  The door opened. A tall, slim man joined her. She found no fault with his black cloth suit, white shirt with stiffly starched collar not too high for him to turn his head, and a simply tied muslin cravat. He bowed. “Miss Whitley, please allow me to introduce myself. George Hempstead, Mister Barnet’s secretary.”

  Helen inclined her head. “Mister Hempstead.”

  “I am pleased to see you. As I wrote, Mister Barnet is extremely restless. He has repeatedly asked for you.”

  So far, she approved of Hempstead—whom she judged to be more or less thirty years-old—a gentleman of medium height, with an oval face and a head of russet-brown hair. She looked into his hazel eyes. “I cannot help comparing the house, as it is now, to my first visit. I hope there is an inventory of all its treasures.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  The expression in his eyes hardened as he spoke, but that might have been because he considered her question impertinent. Yet, could Hempstead and Greaves have robbed their employer? “Ah,” Helen began, “I can only hope none of the servants are dishonest.”

  Hempstead frowned. “So do I.”

  “I shall not take up more of your time.”

  The secretary held the door open. Helen looked at her dresser. What did she make of her conversation with Mister Hempstead? “You may wait here, Pringle.” At the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated with one foot on the first one. “Mister Hempstead, I hoped Mister Barnet’s health would improve after my last visit during which he seemed exhausted and a little confused.” Should she mention that, not for the first time, the nabob mistook her for Emily? Why not? “Sometimes he confused me with his late granddaughter.”

  “Ah. Her parents died when she was three years old. Afterward, Mister Barnet cared for her. When she died, it appeared—I hope this does not seem too fanciful—Mister Barnet’s heart and soul had left him.”

  “No, Mister Hempstead, it does not strike me as too whimsical.” She understood completely. The deaths of her brothers and father had destroyed her mother. Day-by-day Mamma drank more and more wine and spirits in an attempt to obliterate her grief, until only the carapace of the woman she had once been, remained.

  “Although Mister Barnet continued to trade and to fulfil his obligations to those he employs in England and elsewhere, after Miss Barnet’s death he became reclusive. Since her funeral, Miss Whitley, he has been indifferent to everyone.”

  But not, Helen thought, to me. “I should visit him immediately.’

  Mister Hempstead followed her. “Please forgive me if I have said too much.”

  “You have not.”

  Side by side they walked along the corridor on the second floor. Mister Hempstead knocked on the bedroom door. It opened to reveal Sister Imelda’s concerned face.

  “Ah, it does my eyes good to see you, Miss Whitley. My patient needs you.”

  With mingled dread and pity Helen crossed the threshold.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  28th April, 1815

  Helen stood next to Mister Barnet’s bed, her back toward Sister Imelda, who sat opposite it, her rosary in her right hand.

  “How happy you look, Miss Whitley.” As he spoke his voice wavered.

  She looked down into his eyes as guileless as a small child’s. “Not because you are confined to your bedchamber pretending to be a little unwell, sir.” A chuckle rewarded her for the sally. She tugged off her glove and held out her hand. “My happiness is due to this.”

  “Ah, a handsome ring, set with an emerald to match your eyes.”

  “Thank you, Mister Barnet. That is what my future husband said.”

  “Who is the fortunate gentleman, Viscount Langley, Captain Dalrymple, or maybe someone whom you have not mentioned to me?”

  At the viscount’s name, pain lanced through her. “Captain Dalrymple,” she replied, her voice choked with emotion.

  “I must congratulate you.” His eyes gleamed.

  Helen studied his linen sheets, primrose yellow quilt and the crucifix above the bed while she decided how to phrase her question. “Must? Don’t you think I should have accepted the captain’s proposal?”

  Mister Barnet’s chuckle wheezed from him. “It is not for me to say.” His eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep.

  She looked at Sister Imelda who murmured something. Helen distinguished the words, ‘at the hour of our death’. She wanted nothing to do with Popery. The fragment of the soft spoken prayer both fascinated and scared her.

  “Congratulations on your betrothal, Miss Whitley.”

  “Thank you,” Helen answered, her voice strained. She wondered what a woman who had chosen marriage to the Lord could know of earthly matters.

  “I wish both of you every happiness. May the Good Lord bless both of you.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  Helen looked down at the infirm nabob. His chest did not stir the covers. She groped for the pulse in his wrist. To her relief, it beat steadily.

  A smile appeared on the nursing Sister’s face—a white oval framed by her wimple. “No need to be alarmed, Miss Whitley. You already know that my patient slips in and out of sleep. It is only to be expected. Do you wish to sit by him?”

  Helen nodded. Sadness for the old gentleman, who had been so vital when she first met him, overwhelmed her.

  Sister Imelda placed a chair by the bed. In spite of the nun’s Roman Catholic faith, Helen found strange comfort in her calm presence.

  She sat. Toward the end of life, did old age inevitably mean being cared for like an infant? The thought dismayed her until she answered her own question. No, both of her paternal grandparents enjoyed good health to the end of their lives.

  His eyes flickered open. “Miss Langley.” She leaned forward to hear his quiet voice. “It is good of you to sit here with such patience. I hope I shall live long enough to know you are married.”

  She chose not to voice a platit
ude. “If Cousin Tarrant and my sister approve, to please you, I shall wed soon.”

  “Good. You know, I am not without influence. I can help you to obtain a special licence from an ecclesiastical court at Doctor’s Common’s in London.” His voice gathered strength. “I shall send a letter to our ambassador requesting his aid. Perhaps you could marry at the embassy, on the morning of your ball, in the presence of your sister, brother-in-law and a few friends.”

  Astonished, Helen opened her eyes wide. How much influence did Mister Barnet wield?

  “Miss Whitley, when the guests at your ball are received, you may be introduced as Mrs Dalrymple.”

  Doubtless her betrothed would agree to Mister Barnet’s plan, even if Georgianne and Cousin Tarrant objected to such haste on the morning of the ball when there would be so much to do. She did not regret her decision. It would be best to tie the matrimonial knot so she could put aside every memory of Langley—and what might have been—behind her. “An excellent suggestion, sir, for I neither wish to postpone my wedding for long, nor invite many people to it. Nevertheless, I must consult my sister and her husband.” Could the old gentleman retain his hold on life until the fourteenth of June? She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. “If they approve, I shall marry in mid-June.” While she spoke, she vowed she would be a good wife.

  “Good, I won’t detain you any longer provided you promise to visit me again.”

  She stood, not immune to his understated request. “Every day, if it is possible. If I cannot visit you, I shall send a footman to ask how you are.”

  “Thank you.”

  Helen waited until he slept before she stood. “Sister Imelda,” she whispered, “is he in much pain?”

  “No child, the laudanum keeps him comfortable and helps him to sleep.”

  “Good, I cannot bear to think of him suffering.”

  “May God bless you for your compassionate heart.”

  “Thank you. Good day, Sister. I shall visit your patient tomorrow.”