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

by Rosemary Morris

  “Yes, I know; some rascals insulted poor Mister Barnet.” At the memory of him, tears filled her eyes.

  “Don’t cry, Helen. If your eyes are red, Major Tarrant will think I have mistreated you.” He pretended to tremble. “I fear he would horsewhip me.”

  She laughed. “You are so funny.” She buttered a roll. “After the review, will there be manoeuvres?”

  His mouth full, he nodded.

  “Why must they be practised so often? By now, surely the cavalry knows its drill.”

  “Yes, but it is difficult for the men and horses to reform after a charge. The more we practise, the better it is.”

  “Of course, I should have remembered that.”

  Dalrymple finished his coffee. “Don’t tire yourself out today. I intend to dance with you again and again at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball.”

  Oh, she was fortunate to be married to such a considerate gentleman.

  Chapter Thirty

  15th June, 1815

  Helen wanted to watch the review while mounted on Silk, but when Georgianne insisted on attending it in her landau, she accompanied her.

  At a distance, Helen found it difficult to identify individuals among motionless rows of soldiers astride their sleek black horses. However, she recognised Makelyn, the foremost figure, who was inspecting the regiment.

  A rush of pride swelled within her as she eyed the spectacle—rows of mounted hussars; the scarlet plumes on their flat-topped busbies fluttering in the breeze.

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth. What did fate plan for these magnificent men? She glanced at Georgianne, whose eyes glittered with unshed tears, and guessed a similar thought had crossed her sister’s mind.

  “Dear God,” Helen prayed, “please spare my husband’s and Cousin Tarrant’s lives.” After a moment’s hesitation, she also prayed for Langley because—she told herself—he was a friend of the family.

  Georgianne’s eyes widened. “Do you remember that after our brothers and Papa died, I said I would never marry a soldier, for fear of him being wounded or killed?”

  Helen nodded; the enormity of the possibility was too great for her to speak.

  Her sister’s shoulders heaved. ” Now here I am, consumed by fear for Tarrant.” She pressed a hand over her rounded stomach. “Oh, I am sorry. That is no way to speak to a bride.”

  Helen’s mouth trembled. She pressed her lips into a thin line. The review ended. A battery of six pounder horse artillery moved forward. Too moved by her sister’s words to speak, Helen focussed her attention on the squadrons which formed up, and in response to drumbeats and trumpets, began manoeuvres.

  A horseman galloped to the side of the carriage.

  Dalrymple bowed from the saddle. “Good morning, Mrs Tarrant.” He smiled, the delightful dimples on either side of his mouth deepening. “Mrs Dalrymple. I regret only having time for a quick word before I return to my brigade. Makelyn’s given me more orders than I can count on the fingers of one hand, so I am sorry I will not see you again until we dine before the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. I have instructed my man, Jarvis, to lay out my dress uniform.” He bent from the saddle to remove her glove and press a kiss on the back of her hand.

  In response to the sombre expression in her bridegroom’s eyes, Helen found it difficult to breathe. “Is there any cause for alarm,” she asked, forcing herself to speak in a level tone. “Brussels is a hive of activity. Have any regiments been ordered to stand at arms?”

  “No, they have not. Don’t be alarmed. At the moment, there is nothing to worry you.”

  Dalrymple spoke fast, perhaps too fast, for she knew Napoleon commanded the French army.

  He squeezed her hand, but not hard enough for it to hurt. “If Wellington had given the order to prepare to be on the move, The Glory Boys would not be practising manoeuvres.” He released her hand. “No reason to worry. The closest French vedettes are forty miles away on the other side of the River Sambre. Our army and the Prussians are guarding the border.”

  “What a goose I am,” Helen retorted. “For four months, and particularly during the last few days, so many rumours have spread that we civilians scarcely know what to believe.” Did she imagine a shadow cross his face? Did he know more than he admitted? A frisson of fear made its way down her spine.

  Before her bridegroom could reply, a trumpet sounded. He saluted. In response to the light touch of the spurs, his charger galloped away.

  Yet, in spite of her brave words, while drinking pink champagne after the manoeuvres, and listening to Cousin Tarrant reassure her sister, Helen remained anxious. Were the allegations true? Was Wellington on the brink of giving orders to invade France?

  * * * *

  At the house in Rue Royale, Helen made sure her sister reclined on a chaise longue before she went to her apartment. A sound from her bridegroom’s dressing room disturbed her. She opened the door to the room in which a servant, presumably her husband’s man, was folding shirts.

  “Jarvis, at your service, madam. Don’t you worry. The captain’s sword’s now sharp enough to cut off a Frenchie’s head. Is there anything I can be doing for you?”

  “No, thank you, Jarvis.” Helen clutched the door frame. Futile to be squeamish. She knew war was a bloody business.

  “No need to be fretting, madam, I’ve bought plenty of bandages from the apothecary. I’ll be looking after the captain, taking care of his billet, providing whatever he and his horses need.”

  Dalrymple might be wounded or worse. No, it would be unlucky to think of death. Her throat too choked for her to speak, she nodded at the man before retreating to her bedchamber. What were Wellington’s plans? Her jaw clenched. The Duke always appeared so carefree no one would think he had anything more to do than attend cricket matches, dance and enjoy festivities.

  She crossed the floor and looked out of the window at Parc Royale, in which Belgians and British promenaded in lively groups, and superbly accoutred officers escorted well-dressed ladies. How could Brussels, protected by England’s wealth and the allied army, be at risk? Faced with immediate danger, would her aristocratic countrymen still be here lavishly spending money, and enjoying the fun and military displays? Yet, what if claims, that imminent orders for the army to prepare to check Napoleon’s advance, were true? Helen shook her head. If so, by now, surely the Duchess of Richmond would have cancelled her ball.

  Helen turned around. She would walk in the park to enjoy the sunshine while Georgianne rested.

  She clapped her hands to her ears. The noise must be thunder not gunfire!

  A knock on her dressing room door preceded Pringle, who bustled into the bedroom with Helen’s wedding gown in her arms.

  “Ah, you are back, Miss. Oh, I beg your pardon, I should have said Madam. I’ve removed the mud from the hem. Have you changed your mind about wearing it to the Duchess’ ball?”

  “No, and I shall also wear the jewellery which Mister Barnet gave me.” She sighed. “I shall miss him.” Her hands tensed. If fate were cruel, the loss of Dalrymple, Cousin Tarrant and Langley would be unbearable.

  Pringle opened the door. She spoke a few words then turned around. “Someone is waiting to speak to you in the library, madam.”

  When she entered the room, a solemn-faced gentleman, neatly attired in sombre black, which was relieved only by his white shirt and neck cloth, bowed. “Please allow me to introduce myself, madam. I am Mister Coombe. The late Mister Barnet summoned me to Brussels a few days prior to his death.”

  Helen sat behind Cousin Tarrant’s desk. She indicated the pair of chairs placed opposite her. “Please be seated.”

  “Thank you. I presume you’re Mrs Dalrymple, wife of Marcus, Captain Dalrymple, of The Glory Boys?”

  Somewhat surprised she nodded.

  Mister Coombe rubbed his hands together. “I am here to follow my late client’s instructions. However, after I have dealt with immediate business, I shall return to London. He withdrew some papers, tied with pink ribbon,
from a folder. These are for you. I have a copy of them also signed by Mister Barnet.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Didn’t Mister Barnet tell you? Apart from a number of bequests, you are his sole heir.”

  She shook her head. Was her inheritance the memento the nabob mentioned in his letter? Speechless with surprise, for the moment, she could not imagine the change in her circumstances.

  “You are fortunate. Mister Barnet, a gentleman of great wealth, left everything to you. However, his last will and testament ensures it remains under your control—although your husband is to benefit from certain incomes.” He cleared his throat. “I am not prepared to remain in Belgium at the risk of my life. Please inform me when you return to England, where we may deal with the necessary legal matters.”

  “No need to flee,” Helen responded, her voice tart. “The Duke of Wellington will not fail us.”

  “I hope not, but Napoleon might triumph. Now, if you would be good enough to sign this.” He put a paper on the desk.

  “What is it?”

  “It gives me your permission to pay your staff and attend to your property, prior to your return to England. In accordance with my late client’s instructions in his will, I have already paid the servants at the house in Brussels. It is now at your disposal.” He placed a card on the desk.

  Helen read the paper, dipped the quill into the inkpot and signed.

  Mister Coombe stood. “Here is a copy.” He added it to the other papers. “Good day, madam.”

  “Good day.”

  He lingered for a moment. “Listen. Gunfire! I suggest you return to England without delay.”

  Gunfire? Did he really think she would desert Dalrymple! She nodded at Coombe.

  She had prayed to be independent of Cousin Tarrant, to have her own establishment, be married and have a child. Apart from her bridegroom’s refusal to father a son or daughter at this time, God had answered her prayers in a manner she had never anticipated. Indeed, she could not imagine being mistress of such wealth. The news seemed unreal. Until she became accustomed to it, she would not confide in anyone, not even Georgianne. She frowned. Perhaps it would be wrong of her to keep such news from Dalrymple. Excitement flooded her. Due to Mister Barnet’s incredible generosity, her future would be quite different from the one she had previously anticipated. She and her husband would enjoy a life of elegance. But first, the outcome of confrontation with Napoleon’s army must be faced.

  What should she do? Go to the attic to sketch and paint the subjects she dwelt on in her mind? No, she would stroll in the park. When she returned, she would make her first entry in the blank journal, one of the wedding gifts Cousin Tarrant and her sister had given her. She would not write that if Langley had won the lottery or if she had come into her inheritance earlier, they might have married. To do so would be to wish Mister Barnet had died at an earlier date, and seem as if she begrudged him his last days on earth.

  * * * *

  Helen fidgeted while she waited for Dalrymple to escort her downstairs. Did he know whether or not Napoleon had crossed the border? By now she should know better than to pay attention to rumour.

  Nervous, she fiddled with her diamond and pearl earring. What would her husband’s reaction to her inheritance be?

  A tap on the bedchamber door. Helen opened it. Dalrymple’s medals glittered. All too soon he would wield his sword in life or death combat. Maybe he would earn another medal. Yet what did she care about one more decoration on his broad chest? His survival was more important than anything else.

  “Dalry—” she commenced. “I beg your pardon. Marcus, I have something important to tell you. A gentleman from London, called Mister Coombe, visited me today.”

  Her husband put a finger to her lips. “You may tell me later. There are more important matters. The Duke has given permission for those officers, invited to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, to attend, provided they join their regiments when it ends.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” His arms encircled her. “My dear love, I have arranged for you to go to Antwerp in the morning.”

  “Impossible! My sister is in a delicate condition. I cannot leave her.”

  “I daresay Tarrant has made arrangements for her to leave Brussels. If Mrs Tarrant wishes, you may travel with her and share accommodation.”

  Helen withdrew from his arms. “Some time ago, Cousin Tarrant asked her to leave. She refused. Don’t be misled by my sister’s appearance. She appears fragile but she has a will like hard-tempered steel.”

  “You must leave. Nothing is certain but, for all we know, Napoleon might have reached Charleroi. He might be on the way to the crossroads at Quatre Bras, which is little more than ten miles away. If he defeats us there, he will march to Brussels.” He captured her with his arms. His medals pressed painfully into her. “Don’t you understand what might happen if he allows his soldiers to sack Brussels? No, I suppose you don’t.” He sighed. “I will not frighten you with a detailed explanation. It is enough for me to say, no woman will be safe.”

  Helen straightened her back. “Georgianne and I are not in danger. Wellington will triumph. How could he not, with officers of your calibre and Cousin Tarrant’s? When the battle is over, I shall be here waiting for you.”

  A good Christian woman should obey her husband, but, in spite of the vows Helen made yesterday, she would not flee, leaving her husband behind to ride into danger. She traced the outline of his cheek with her forefinger. Dalrymple opened his mouth to speak, but this time she pressed her finger against his mouth. “Whatever happens, I shall be here,” she repeated. “Shall we go to the salon?”

  He released her. “Yes, madam wife, I understand my only option is to obey you.”

  She curtsied. “That is correct, Captain. After all, I remember you saying you are my obedient servant.” She glanced down at her gown. “’Pon my word, you have used me ill. Look at my gown. It is crushed.”

  As she intended, Dalrymple’s expression softened. “I would enjoy crushing more than your gown but this is not the moment.”

  * * * *

  In the salon, the British officers seemed so impassive that it appeared they did not believe they might face Napoleon’s troops on the following day. Yet although they made light-hearted conversation, Helen’s sharp eyes recorded tense mouths, tightly gripped hands and wary eyes. Later, she would add tiny sketches to the entries in her journal.

  At dinner, no one mentioned unpleasant subjects, although Cousin Tarrant seemed preoccupied and frowned frequently at Georgianne. No doubt he had tried to persuade her to retreat to Antwerp and she had refused, but not until the ladies retired to leave the gentleman to enjoy their port, did Helen have the opportunity to snatch a few words with her sister.

  “Yes, Tarrant tried to make a coward of me,” Georgianne snapped, the colour in her cheeks rising. “I refused. Were I not,” she lowered her voice, “with child, I would ride by his side to his billet and stay there.” She broke off for a second or two. “By God, I swear that if the worst befalls Tarrant, I shall have no reason to live.”

  Shocked, Helen stared at her sister and caught her breath. “Yes, you will.”

  “You are mistaken. Now you are married, you understand the true nature of a wife’s intimate love for her husband.”

  No, she did not. Helen forced herself to reply. “But your child?”

  Georgianne laughed somewhat wildly. “I would not harm myself.”

  Helen patted her sister’s shoulder. “Shush. You don’t want your guests to realise how agitated you are.”

  * * * *

  Helen, together with Dalrymple, Georgianne, and Cousin Tarrant, did not bid goodbye to the guests until ten o’clock. By the time they left the house, they were half an hour late for the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. During the drive to the Rue de la Blanchisserie in the lower part of town, they heard bugles and drums sounding the assembly. From the window, Helen glimpsed columns of soldi
ers.

  She sighed. At Georgianne’s dinner table a murmur circulated that Prince Bernard of Saxe-Weimar’s infantry had made a stance at Quatre Bras and chased away French skirmishers. “Yet,” Cousin Tarrant had said, “earlier in the day, the Prince of Orange told the duke the Nivelles-Namur chausée was quiet.”

  From the corner of her eye, Helen saw Georgianne scrutinise Cousin Tarrant’s calm face. “You have not received orders from Makelyn?”

  “No, I shall report to him in The Wash House.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Cousin Tarrant chuckled. “Have you not heard that is what Wellington named the Richmond’s villa? He thinks the nick name is amusing. I can only imagine the Duchess’s chagrin.”

  Helen laughed, but, after the coach slowed behind several wagons that blocked the road, her amusement ended at the sight of a woman with a baby strapped to her back, a toddler in her arms, and a young boy who clutched her skirts. The mother clung with both hands to a soldier’s arms. He freed himself, but, regardless of the small child, the woman flung her arms around him. He kissed her, pulled away from her and patted his children’s heads. When he joined a column of soldiers formed up at the side of the road, he looked back at his loved ones again and again.

  Grabbed by fear, Helen held Dalrymple’s hand. “So, the army has been ordered to stand at arms?”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  15th June and early morning 16th June, 1815

  Helen eyed the glittering throng in the ballroom at the Richmond’s villa. Although no-one appeared to have anything more in mind than enjoyment, she sensed an underlying tension which matched her own. Everywhere she looked, she saw Dutch and Belgian royalty—including Major General Prince Frederick of Orange—British civilians, diplomats, army officers, and aristocrats, amongst whom was the Duke of Brunswick in his black dress uniform. Such sang-froid. Helen struggled not to reveal her ever-present anxiety.