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

by Rosemary Morris

  “God willing.”

  * * * *

  Helen walked slowly with Pringle at her side, her mind disturbed by thoughts of death, Mister Barnet’s, the possibility of Georgianne’s in childbirth, Tarrant, Dalrymple’s and Langley’s during the inevitable war.

  The dresser neither sniffed, coughed, nor spoke until they were close to Rue Royale. “I am sorry Mister Barnet is not expected to live for much longer.”

  Surprised, Helen looked at her attendant. “Thank you.” She was tempted to question the woman about her changed attitude toward the elderly gentleman.

  “Well, Miss, I am a Christian so I shall pray for the old gentleman.”

  Her surprise must have communicated itself to Pringle. Helen suppressed a smile. Presumably Pringle now knew Mister Barnet came from an upper class family. Servants were often more snobbish than those they served. If Pringle knew the nabob was well-born, it would explain her changed outlook. “Very commendable, Pringle. I shall also pray for him.”

  The dresser’s black gown swirled at the hem as she increased her pace to keep up. “If I may be so bold, please accept my congratulations on your betrothal.”

  How did the woman know she had agreed to marry Dalrymple? Oh, she had probably noticed the emerald and diamond ring.

  “Please forgive me for asking if you are to wed Captain Dalrymple?”

  “You may ask, but until I have broken the news to my sister, please don’t tell anyone.”

  “You may depend on me not to, Miss. Please forgive me for saying if you don’t want them to know, be careful not to let them see your ring.”

  “Thank you for your good advice. I shall follow it.”

  With sympathy, Helen observed the thin woman, who must be thirty years-old or more. Servants were expected to devote themselves to their employers at the cost of marriage. Those in service usually lost their positions if they wed. How dreadful to be denied matrimony and children. Most servants took great interest in every detail of their employer’s lives and gossiped about them.

  “Pringle, I don’t think I have ever expressed my genuine appreciation for your excellent service. What would I do without you to keep my clothes in order, attend to my toilette and chaperone me?”

  Her dresser’s cheeks reddened. “Thank you, Miss, you cannot imagine how gratified I am by your words.”

  She really should be less curt with all the servants, other than Greaves, for Mister Barnet’s secretary seemed to agree the man might be guilty of theft.

  Pringle walked a little straighter until they entered the house and Helen hurried to Georgianne’s boudoir.

  Nestled on the day bed, a pile of pretty silk-covered cushions at her back, when Georgianne sat up quickly, the satin coverlet fell onto the pastel coloured Aubusson carpet.

  If only she could be so dainty. Impossible! She was happiest in her paint spattered apron.

  Helen held out her hand.

  Georgianne stared at the ring. “Dearest! Who? When?”

  “Captain Dalrymple. I accepted his proposal a few hours ago,” she explained, torn between the urge to smile or cry over her decision.

  “I am pleased. So will Tarrant be. We like the captain very much.” Her eyes rounded. “Dearest, why didn’t you tell me immediately?” Georgianne asked, her eyes quizzical. “Why don’t you look as radiant as you should?”

  Helen’s vision blurred with unshed tears which she blinked away. “I have, this moment, returned from a visit to Mister Barnet. Although he is so ill, he is always pleased to see me.” Aware of a tremor in her voice, she swallowed before she spoke again. “I fear he has not long to live.”

  Georgianne stood and put her arms around Helen. “I am sorry, dearest. The only certainty in life, is that we come into this world, and must leave it. What happens in between cannot be predicted. Don’t let the old man’s sickness impinge upon your happiness.”

  Again, fear for those she loved crept through her. “Gentleman, not old man, Georgianne. His late parents, Sir Roderick and Lady Barnet, lived near the Dalrymples.”

  “I see.”

  Helen withdrew from her sister’s arms. “I have grown fond of Mister Barnet so I shall try to visit him every day.”

  “Will your captain approve?”

  If her judgement was right, Dalrymple would be a less authoritarian husband than Cousin Tarrant, who, although he adored his wife, was very much the master of his house. Curious, Helen realised how much she needed to learn about Dalrymple. Did he intend to remain in the army until old age forced him to resign?

  “Helen…” Georgianne prompted.

  “I am sure my captain will have no objections. Moments after I agreed to marry him, I received a note which asked me to call on Mister Barnet without delay. Dalrymple did not object, although—” She broke off, too self-conscious to admit the captain had been about to kiss her for the first time. To distract Georgianne, she explained why she wanted to marry at the embassy on the morning of the ball. “And,” she concluded, “Mister Barnet is confident that a marriage licence can be obtained from England so Dalrymple and I may be married quietly on the morning of the fourteenth of June. If Dalrymple consents, do agree, Georgianne. We could help you and Cousin Tarrant to receive your guests, and be introduced as husband and wife. Oh, please don’t look so dismayed.”

  Her sister sank back onto the daybed and swung her legs up. “Tarrant might disapprove of the suggestion.”

  Helen doubted it. Indeed, she suspected Cousin Tarrant would be pleased to see her leave his house so he and Georgianne could devote whatever time he could snatch from the army, to each other.

  “Dearest, I cannot imagine what Captain Dalrymple will think of your plan.”

  Amused, Helen restrained a smile. She did not doubt her ardent suitor would approve. He wanted to marry her as soon as possible. “I think it will please him.” Butterflies seemed to flutter in her stomach at the idea of being married so soon. She must not reveal it, for the slightest hint of indecision would alarm Georgianne.

  “Why do you want to accept the old gentleman’s suggestion?”

  “Because I like him so much, and because he prays to live long enough to know I am married.”

  “Very well, when Tarrant returns, I shall ask him to agree, and to approach our ambassador on your behalf.”

  Helen bent to kiss her sister’s cheek. “I hope your husband knows he is married to an angel.”

  Her sister’s eyes glinted with mischief. “I doubt one would please him.” She giggled. “Remember it when you are married.”

  * * * *

  7th May, 1815

  Georgianne and Helen faced each other on either side of the massive oak desk in the centre of the library.

  Helen smiled. Dalrymple was delighted by the prospect of their marriage on the fourteenth of June. She sharpened her crow’s quill and looked down at each list, one for the ball, the other for her wedding. So much to do and so little time to accomplish it. The menu had been chosen for the dinner which would precede it. The owner of the Indian restaurant in London had signed an agreement to provide exotic spices, and to send two cooks to prepare some of the food for the supper halfway through the ball.

  Georgianne frowned. “There is the question of the wine to be served at dinner and throughout supper. My butler is invaluable. He has advised me to purchase stocks of light French or Rhenish wine to serve with each course, and hock or Barsac to be served between each one.” She frowned. “Fletcher also pointed out that although the gentlemen will not be encouraged to linger over it, the finest port wine must be served after the ladies retire.”

  Helen continued to make notes while her sister spoke.

  Georgianne peered across the table. “You script is beautiful. I am ashamed to admit I always blotted my copybook when we were in the schoolroom, but our governess praised your copperplate. No matter how hard I tried, mine became squiggles instead of elegant loops.” She frowned. “How foolish I am to mention my handwriting when I should be discussing wi
ne. For the ball, champagne is the only possible choice, isn’t it?”

  Helen quailed. The wine would be expensive, not to mention all the other expenditure.

  Her sister tapped her fingernails on the desk. “If only I knew when my husband will return. Of course, I trust Fletcher’s advice; even so, I need to consult Tarrant about the wine. He has been away for longer than I anticipated. How I dislike being separated from him.”

  “With Wellington in command of the entire army, and Uxbridge in charge of the cavalry, it is not surprising Cousin Tarrant is fully engaged. When Major Makelyn found time to call with his wife to congratulate me on my betrothal, he looked exhausted. At heart, he is considerate. He even apologised for sending Dalrymple on a mission to gather information at such a time.”

  “How good of him,” Georgianne gesticulated with her quill. She gazed with dismay at the blob of ink which fell onto her apple blossom pink gown. “How vexatious, this is the first time I have worn this morning gown.” She put the quill down. “I shall depend on you to finish writing our lists.”

  “What else is there to discuss?”

  “Dearest, how can you ask such a question when there is so much to decide? We must order your wedding gown and sufficient clothes for a year, so Dalrymple will not be put to the expense of buying any. I shall enjoy helping you.”

  For a moment, Helen caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Dalrymple is attentive and generous. He writes to me every day and sends gifts. I want to buy him a present, something he will treasure. I can’t decide whether to purchase a medicine chest and fill it with necessities—because he mentioned his old one is in a sorry state—or a snuff box.”

  “I think a snuff box would be more appropriate. If you wish, you may give him a medicine chest filled with necessities after you are married.”

  “Very well,” Helen agreed, still unable to imagine the reality of being a wife.

  Next time she saw Dalrymple, would he claim their first kiss? She caught her breath and swallowed a sob. The kiss she always imagined receiving from Langley.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  10th May, 1815

  The clock struck two. Helen spared a moment to look outside through the window at the moon, which hid behind a veil of silver-rimmed clouds. She yawned and turned toward her bed on the end of which lay a prim, high-necked linen nightgown, cambric sleeping jacket and a lace edged nightcap.

  Helen sank onto the edge of the feather mattress. Sleepy-eyed, she bent to untie the satin ribbons of her slippers, the soles of which were almost worn out from dancing at several balls.

  Pringle, her cheeks flushed—probably because she had been dozing in the dressing room—joined her. Doubtless the dresser also looked forward to settling into bed. However, no matter how late at night Helen retired, she needed Pringle to untie the strings of her stays.

  Almost ready for bed, Helen nodded at her. “Thank you. You may go,” she said, when freed of the stays. There is no need for you to fasten my buttons and tie my ribbons.”

  “Thank you, Miss.” Pringle gathered the discarded clothes and slippers.

  Helen wriggled her aching toes. She buttoned her nightgown at the throat, fastened her sleeping jacket and pulled her nightcap over her head. Exhausted by a busy day, which included a visit to Mister Barnet and ended with hours of vigorous dancing, Helen snuffed out the candles.

  Helen stretched and relaxed on the feather mattress then turned onto her right side and closed her eyes. Thoughts crowded her mind. Dear Dalrymple, always solicitous, made every effort to ride with her in the mornings and attend her at balls and dinners, breakfasts and soirees.

  She turned over but could not still her mind. In spite of Cousin Tarrant’s kindness since he returned to Brussels, she still suspected he might look forward to her departure from his house. “Are you certain?” he had asked, when she told him of her decision to marry Dalrymple.

  She had known why he put the question but, her face expressionless, she had blocked Langley from her mind.

  “Yes, I am,” she had replied, with no regret for her decision.

  “I congratulate you for accepting the hand of such an upstanding gentleman and wish you every happiness.” He had smiled at Georgianne before he summoned his butler. “Ah, Fletcher, a bottle of champagne is in order to toast the bride-to-be.” Before they sipped from their glasses, her cousin saluted her in military style. “Will you permit me to have the honour of saying ‘I do’ when the clergyman asks ‘Who giveth this woman to this man’ at your wedding?”

  Filled with gratitude for his many kindnesses, she had said, “I shall be honoured.”

  Helen never slept on her left side, so she turned over again. The palm of her right hand tucked under her cheek, her mind turned to Mister Barnet who slept for most of every day. Only a fragile thread bound him to life. She had known him for such a short while but knew she would grieve deeply for him when he departed this world, which, last Sunday, the vicar at the English church described as a cesspit of vanity.

  A contented sigh escaped her. Mister Barnet’s pleasure, when she told him she had taken his advice to marry at the British Embassy on the same day as the ball, made the inconvenience worthwhile.

  Of course, there would be few guests at the wedding, but in the meantime, congratulations continued to swamp her. She giggled. Several young gentlemen had sworn their hearts were broken. One even threatened to shoot himself. ‘Not fatally, I hope,’ she had responded, for she knew he would not.

  Helen turned onto her back. She hoped Dalrymple would be pleased with the snuff box she ordered as a memento of their betrothal. Somehow or other, she and Dalrymple never had a moment alone so she still did not know how she would react to his first kiss. Sometimes, when he looked at her, his eyes smouldered, and unfamiliar but pleasurable sensations gripped her.

  What would her future hold with Dalrymple? He had told her, “I am country bred and have a love of the land—which is not to say that I am not well-educated. I attended Eton and Oxford before I joined the army.”

  She yawned repeatedly. Enough of such matters, she must sleep. Once more, she planned the design of her wedding gown. No frills and flounces for her. It must be elegant. Her eyes closed. An inner voice whispered she should be planning a wedding gown to wear when she married Langley. She punched her pillow. No, no, no, she would not think of him.

  * * * *

  15th May, 1815

  The carriage drew to a halt. A footman opened the door and lowered the step. Her feet on the ground, Helen approached a shop which sold snuffboxes and received orders for them to be made for customers. Monsieur Lucay, the elderly proprietor, came out to greet her. He bowed low and ushered Helen inside, but paid no attention to Pringle who accompanied her.

  Monsieur beckoned to an assistant. “Jean-Paul, chair for Miss Whitley.” A smile hovered around his mouth, Monsieur Lucay rubbed his smooth hands together. “Jean-Paul, fetch Mademoiselle’s snuffbox.”

  Helen sat and looked down at the magnificent display beneath the glass counter. There were so many small treasures; some shaped like shells and hexagons, others were fanciful designs of animals and birds, fruit and flowers, boats and even sedan chairs. Each one was made of gold or silver, jasper or onyx, and many others materials such as ivory, malachite, papier-mâché and tortoiseshell.

  Her artist’s eyes revelled in the etched or engraved patterns on the lids, some of which were embellished with precious gemstones. She particularly admired one with a fine cameo.

  Helen examined an outstandingly pretty box, with an enamelled lid that depicted a bluebell wood, each tiny flower perfectly executed. Neither she nor Georgianne took snuff so she resisted the temptation to buy it.

  She frowned at the sight of a silver snuffbox edged with tiny diamonds which framed a mother of pearl moon and stars. Where had she seen the charming object? If she partook of snuff, she would have bought it.

  Jean-Paul returned and handed her order to Monsieur Lucay.

  “Reg
ard, your treasure, mademoiselle.” With a theatrical flourish Monsieur placed a circular snuffbox on a square of black velvet.

  At the sight of the enamelled figure of a ‘glory boy’, Helen caught her breath. Every detail of the dress uniform was correct with even a hint of red silk which lined the jacket and pelisse.

  “Allow me, mademoiselle.” With a practiced flick of his left thumb, Monsieur Lucay opened the lid to reveal a ruby heart pierced by a golden arrow. Monsieur closed the lid. “Regard.” He pressed a tiny catch to reveal a false bottom in which Helen intended to hide a minute self-portrait executed in watercolours.

  “Mademoiselle is satisfied?”

  “Yes, Monsieur. May I examine another snuffbox, the silver one decorated with the moon and stars?” She assumed nonchalance when he handed it to her. “Perhaps I am foolish to think I saw this somewhere else.”

  “You might have. I purchase snuffboxes from those who wish to sell them.”

  “I see.” She could have seen it in any one of a score or more hands.

  Jean-Paul put the gift for Dalrymple in a red leather box and handed it to her.

  Helen stood. “Good day to you, Lucay.”

  Jean Paul hurried to open the door.

  With Pringle a pace or two behind, Helen left the shop.

  Perhaps she should purchase some snuff and snuff jars for Dalrymple. No, gentlemen were very particular. At least Papa had chosen his after much consideration, and Cousin Tarrant, whenever he could spare the time, blended his snuff.

  Her next purchase would be some exquisite lace for the sleeves of her wedding gown. On her way to the coach, a display of antiquities, behind two bow windows on either side of a panelled door, brought her to a halt. Amongst Grecian urns, Egyptian jewellery, gothic rings, and ancient coins, stood an ivory boat, the one which she last saw in Mister Barnet’s house. She peered through the whirls of glass at it. Could she be mistaken? No, there was the artificial greenery in a miniature terracotta pot. So, one of the nabob’s servants had stolen it. Furious, she pressed a hand to her throat. Should she ask how the proprietor obtained it? Helen shook her head. No, but she must take some action. Perhaps the best thing would be to inform Hempstead. The secretary would be the best person to make enquiries. She would speak to him tomorrow.