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

by Rosemary Morris

  Relieved by his intention to take immediate action, Helen spoke. “Well, it might be Greaves, the butler, but his rudeness on one occasion when I called on Mister Barnet, does not mean he is guilty. It could even be Hempstead.” She frowned not wishing to make unjust accusations. “Oh, I don’t know who the culprit is. Any one of the servants could be to blame.”

  Dalrymple bowed. “Forgive me for leaving now. I want to act before Makelyn sends me on another mission. When there is something to report, I shall inform you.” He tucked the snuffbox into a pocket, before retrieving his busby and gauntlets. “Good day, my love.”

  Dalrymple could have kissed her before he left. Bemused by his abrupt farewell but impressed by his decisiveness Helen pressed her hand to her mouth. Well, her first kiss was everything she had hoped it would be. In response, another extraordinary but not distasteful excitement stirred within her.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  14th June, 1815

  In her dressing room, Helen caught sight of her own and her sister’s reflection in the full length mirror.

  “You have no regrets, dearest?”

  The question, which Helen knew referred to her decision to marry Dalrymple, seemed to hover in the air. Helen shook her head. Langley would never tie the knot with her. Well, as a gamester would say, she had cast the dice. Dice! She cursed Langley’s father for being an inveterate gambler. If he were not, she could have—Helen checked her thoughts. She would not give Dalrymple cause to regret the marriage.

  She looked down at her white silk drawers, with rows of tucks at the hems edged with Brussels lace. She choked back a giggle, relieved to find something to divert her mind. Old ladies still considered the garment immodest, but after it became known Princess Charlotte wore drawers, they became popular. She blushed. What would her bridegroom think of them?

  Her admiration for Dalrymple grew when he proved himself decisive and efficient. Only days after she confided in him, Dalrymple established Hempstead’s guilt and arrested the secretary. Like a knight in times past, sent on a quest by a lady, her captain had fulfilled it as competently as Langley had dealt with Maria’s blackmailer. No, she did not want to think of the viscount on her wedding day.

  Pringle tightened the laces.

  Helen sighed. She did not need to go on a reducing diet, but sometimes she wished she were not a giantess among smaller ladies. She shook her head. Dalrymple admired her, so what did her height matter? At least—she consoled herself—she did not need to complement the fashionable high waistline with a false bosom to enhance her figure.

  What would Dalrymple think when he first saw her in the fine linen nightgown, lavishly trimmed with ribbon and lace, which she had chosen to wear on the first night in their bed? Would he say, “You are beautiful?”

  Deep in contemplation, Helen slipped her cambric petticoat over her linen shift and stays. She stood still while Pringle fastened the tapes around her waist and did up the tiny buttons at the back of the bodice.

  She glanced at her sister. Sometimes, Cousin Tarrant dismissed Georgianne’s dresser and helped his wife prepare for bed. Aware of her blushes, she wondered if Dalrymple would allow Pringle to disrobe her, but if not— she could not complete the thought.

  “Now, Miss,” said Pringle, her tone of voice respectful. She picked up the silk wedding gown. With a deft movement, she drew it over Helen’s head.

  “You have never looked more beautiful,” Georgianne breathed.

  Her feet in dainty white slippers, Mister Barnet’s gift of the diamond parure in place, Helen peeped into the mirror at the gleaming white silk and exquisite Pointe Anglaise lace.

  “Dearest, you are beautiful.”

  “No, you are the family beauty.” Helen gazed at Georgianne’s pink silk gown. “You resemble a rose in full bloom.”

  Her sister laughed and patted her stomach. “How poetic, but you are unkind to remind me of the reason for ‘the full bloom’.”

  “You misunderstand me. I refer to your pink cheeks and your elegant gown.”

  “In that case, thank you for the compliment.”

  Georgianne handed her a posy of white roses and sprigs of rosemary. “Rosemary, so you will never forget me.”

  “As if I could!” She reached out to embrace her sister.

  Georgianne warded her off with her hands. “You will crush your gown and that is Dalrymple’s privilege. Now, hurry if you still want to visit Mister Barnet so he can see you in your wedding finery.”

  “I insist on it.”

  “You are so stubborn, Helen, I cannot understand why you wish to— Oh, I shall say no more on the subject. We have already argued enough.”

  Helen sighed again. Her sister and Tarrant would never understand her affection for the nabob.

  “Your cloak, dearest.”

  Her wedding gown concealed by the ankle length garment, Helen made her way with her sister to the carriage.

  “Your visit must be brief, if we are to return in time for Tarrant to escort us to the Embassy,” Georgianne warned her.

  * * * *

  “Ah,” breathed Mister Barnet, “Captain Dalrymple is fortunate to have a beautiful, good-natured bride.” He smiled. “Oh, I am delighted you are wearing the jewellery made for Emily.”

  Helen leaned forward to pat his hand.

  “My child, don’t pity me. I believe I shall soon be reunited with those I love.” He turned his head on the pillow. “Mrs Tarrant, it is good of you to accompany Miss Whitley. Do you know your sister rescued me from a rabble of hooligans who are a disgrace to their uniforms?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Georgianne replied.

  “She is dear to me.” Mister Barnet beckoned to Sister Imelda, who seemed to keep constant vigil in her patient’s bedroom. “Please give my letter to Miss Whitley.

  The nun opened a drawer. She removed a missive sealed with red wax and held it out to Mister Barnet.

  “No, it is for Miss Whitley.” Mister Barnet clasped Helen’s hand for a moment. “It is my farewell letter, but don’t open it until I am dead.”

  Helen drew her breath in with an audible gasp.

  “My dear child, there is no cause to be sorry for me. I am ready to meet my Maker, who I hope will not judge me harshly.” He covered his mouth with his hand to conceal a yawn.

  “Indeed, I am sure He will not.” Her eyes filled with tears. She decided to let him sleep for now. She would visit him again in a few days.

  Mister Barnet sat up. His eyes opened wide. “Emily!” he cried out, and, even as he voiced the name, fell back onto his pillow.

  Sister Imelda rushed forward to check his pulse. The nun put his hand down. She made the sign of the cross on his forehead then closed his eyes.

  “Is he…?” Helen faltered.

  “Yes, he has gone—in his own words—‘to meet His Maker’.”

  Georgianne put an arm around Helen’s waist. “I am very sorry.”

  Sister Imelda fingered her rosary. “Don’t cry, child. Mister Barnet would not wish it. To be sure, it is more than kind of you to have visited him on today of all days. He looked forward to seeing you in your wedding gown.”

  Helen squeezed her eyes shut. “It has been a pleasure to know him, Sister.”

  “You have a loving heart, child. May God bless you and keep you all the days of your life. I hope your marriage will be happy and fruitful.”

  “You are very kind.” Helen allowed Georgianne to guide her out of the bedroom.

  Thomas handed Helen her cloak. “Congratulations, Miss.”

  She thanked him, conscious of the many servants who busied themselves in the hall in order to see her wedding gown. Even crusty old Greaves smiled. Should she tell them their employer had died? No, if she did she would lose her composure and weep.

  Wrapped in the cloak, she stepped out to the carriage with Georgianne.

  Still numb with shock at the suddenness of Mister Barnet’s death, Helen clutched the stems of her flowers and remembered the letter. She laid t
he fragrant posy on the seat beside her. With tremulous fingers, she broke the seal and unfolded the paper. Her eyes misted with tears. She read Mister Barnet’s words twice in order to understand them. They thanked her for taking pity on a lonely old man, and explained he had left her a memento, which he hoped would please her.

  She picked up the posy. Rosemary, for remembrance. How apt. She would never forget Mister Barnet. “Farewell, my friend,” she murmured.

  * * * *

  “Dearest, I am sorry the nabob has died just before your wedding,” Georgianne commiserated, when they reached home.

  “I knew he did not have long to live,” Helen replied, despite the lump in her throat.

  “I know, but it does not make it any easier. I suggest you go to your bedroom to compose yourself, while I tell Tarrant that Mister Barnet is no more.” She looked at her butler.

  “Major Tarrant is in the library, Madam,” Fletcher informed her.

  About to follow Georgianne up the stairs, Helen caught her foot in a fold of her cloak. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself while Fletcher answered a knock on the door.

  “My lord.” The butler’s voice conveyed surprise.

  “Good day, Fletcher.”

  Helen recognised Langley’s all too familiar voice. Why had he come?

  She heard his footsteps approach. “Miss Whitley, a moment of your time, if you please.”

  Helen did not please. Her foot freed, she turned. “I regret—”

  Langley frowned, “Say no more. I have not come here to be fobbed off with a platitude.”

  At the sight of the angles of his handsome face, unlike Dalrymple’s with more rounded cheeks, she tried to ignore bubbles of excitement which exploded in her like those of the finest champagne. “To say the least, your visit is ill-timed,” she replied, careful not to reveal the sudden but unwanted thrill in response to his presence.

  “I disagree. It is well timed.” Langley grasped her arm, but not hard enough to hurt.

  Unless she wrenched her arm from his, her only choice was to allow him to propel her into the ante room.

  “My lord?” She sank onto a small, hard-backed chair, aware of the closed door.

  “Why are you bundled up in a cloak? Are you cold? Your voice is icy enough to freeze the life from any gentleman.”

  His words brought Mister Barnet to mind. He had always asked her if she was too cold or too hot. Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away.

  Langley stepped back. “Don’t cry. Surely you are not frightened of me. Don’t you know I would never hurt you?”

  Someone on God’s earth should shed tears for the dear old gentleman’s passing. She swallowed to gain control. “No, I don’t fear you. I am not quite myself because Mister Barnet has breathed his last,” she managed to say in an even tone. She took a handkerchief out her pocket to wipe her eyes. “I should not mourn. Until the end of his life, he bore his illness with courage and dignity. I am glad he no longer suffers.”

  “You will miss him.”

  “Yes, I shall.”

  Langley drew nearer. He stood too close to her. “Well, I am here on a different matter. One which I hope will please you.”

  Puzzled, she waited for him to continue.

  “Helen, I am not conceited but I am sure of one thing, your marriage to Captain Dalrymple would be a travesty.”

  Helen stood. “I beg your pardon?” Only inches away from him, his dark eyes commanded all her attention. The scent of leather, blended with horses and spicy pomade, almost intoxicated her. “A travesty?” She managed the question in a level tone. “It is less than an hour from the wedding ceremony, my lord.” She stepped away from him with the intention of leaving the room.

  Langley caught hold of her hand. His eyes blazed. “My situation has changed.”

  “How? What has it to do with me?”

  “Forgive me. You must think I am mad because I am as inarticulate as a tongue-tied schoolboy.”

  “I would not describe you as inarticulate.” She resented his touch which sought to claim her.

  “My apologies. I must explain.”

  She sank back onto the chair to force him to release her.

  “I have won the Government Lottery. When some officers discussed whether or not to share their resources to buy a ticket for the next lottery, and share the proceeds if they won, I remembered my mother gave me a ticket.”

  She stared up at him. “I am delighted, but what has it to do with me?”

  “Oh, my love, she gave me the winning ticket. I can marry you and save Longwood Place.”

  The fool! She would have married him—even slept on the ground wrapped in his cloak. Did he value money more than her? “You call me ‘my love’ but I think you have always cared more for that pile of stone than me.”

  “You must know that is not true.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Helen’s inner voice whispered. I know, that although he loved me, his pride did not allow him to marry me if he could not support me in comfort. Now it is too late for us to marry. Not only gentlemen pride themselves on their honour. Does Langley really believe I will reject Dalrymple?

  He stood before her. “Helen? Have you nothing to say to me?”

  “What should I say? Should I be flattered because a viscount wants to marry an insignificant army officer’s daughter?”

  “Sarcasm does not become you. I shall be flattered if you agree to marry me.”

  If only…no, she would not allow herself to travel down the road of regret. She had chosen to marry another upstanding officer and gentleman.

  “Helen, you don’t understand how desperate my circumstances were. Both of us have been brought up to understand duty. I owed it to my family.”

  “What have your relatives to do with your earlier rejection of me, when I summoned the courage to sacrifice my pride to ask you to be my husband?” Although her heart beat faster, she remained loyal to Dalrymple.

  “It has everything to do with it. My sister wore a darned dress. Papa gambled everything on the turn of a fatal card. Unless I paid for it, Charlotte could not have the London Season she deserved. Although I had accumulated the funds to do so, I knew it would take almost every penny.” He slammed his left fist onto the palm of his right hand. “Moreover, I also had an obligation to Mamma, my younger sisters and brothers. I was not selfish enough to have married you at the cost of their plight. However, I loved you too much to agree to marry Miss Tomlinson.”

  Helen stood. “I cannot reject Captain Dalrymple.”

  “Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?”

  In turmoil, she shook her head.

  Langley’s eyes raged. “My God, I have always admired your calm. Now, I wonder if you are thus because you lack sensibility.”

  Langley could not know what it cost her to appear unruffled. Snakelike, her breath hissed between her teeth before she spoke. “How dare you? Do you think I could shame my family by jilting Dalrymple? If I acted so disgracefully, they would be justified if they disowned me. And if society rejected me, I would deserve it.”

  Before Langley could reply, Georgianne entered the room.

  Her tiny sister drew herself up to her full height. She looked at Langley, her manner accusatory when she stepped forward. “Langley, thank you for calling on my sister to offer your congratulations.” She looked away from him. “Leave your cloak here, dearest. Tarrant is waiting to escort us to the Embassy.” Georgianne returned her attention to Langley. “We shall see you there. I also look forward to receiving you at our ball.”

  At the threshold, Helen could not resist the temptation to look back.

  The viscount bowed.

  Georgianne pinched her arm. Helen obeyed the unspoken instruction to leave.

  Langley’s impassioned plea for her to marry him clamoured in her mind. Had she made the right decision? Of course she had. She must not succumb to a hysterical outburst.

  “Dearest, you are too pale, but it is understandab
le. Every bride is nervous on her wedding day.”

  It would be hours before she and Dalrymple were alone; time to become calm enough to recover from the shock of Langley’s outrageous proposition.

  After the ceremony, she would return here to supervise the last minute arrangements for the ball. No wedding trip for her. Moreover, due to the uncertain future, Dalrymple neither wished to set up house in Antwerp, Bruges or Brussels, nor for her to live in a hotel when Wellington invaded France on—rumour claimed—the 25th of June. For the time being, they would live with Cousin Tarrant and her sister. Indeed, she would spend her first night of marriage in this house.

  Arm in arm with Georgianne, she made her way to the library.

  Resplendent in dress uniform, Cousin Tarrant saluted her.

  Georgianne gestured toward her. “I am sure you will agree Helen is the most beautiful bride you have ever seen?”

  He laughed. “If I had a magic mirror and asked it, if your sister is the fairest bride of all, it would reply, ‘She is fair; but fairer still was your wife on your wedding day’.”

  Georgianne blushed. “Dearest, it is time to leave.”

  Tarrant held up his hand. “A moment, if you please. My sympathy, Helen,” he began.

  She held her breath. Did the butler tell him Langley was closeted with her? Could he have guessed his friend asked her to marry him instead of Dalrymple?

  “I am sorry to hear Mister Barnet is dead,” Cousin Tarrant continued. “I know how much you liked him.”

  “Yes, I did. We became friends.”

  “Don’t allow anything to spoil your day.” He looked sharply at her. “Captain Dalrymple is an exemplary gentleman. I have no doubts about your future happiness.”

  “Thank you.”

  “God bless you, Miss,” her dresser said, when Helen approached the front door.