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

by Rosemary Morris

  While Dalrymple spoke to Captain Thomas Wildman, one of the Duke of Uxbridge’s aide de camps, she admired the rose-trellised wallpaper. In her opinion, the décor, which included pillars entwined with ribbons, leaves and flowers, was not as spectacular as the carefully planned oriental theme of her ball on the previous day. Nevertheless, the Duchess’ decorations were impressive beneath the blaze of light from chandeliers which illuminated the House of Orange’s colours—crimson, black and gold—featured on hangings and tent-like drapery.

  Dalrymple turned to her. “May I introduce Captain Wildman?”

  She inclined her head toward the officer. “No need, we were introduced at one of my sister’s Sunday luncheons.”

  The captain bowed. “I have been offering your husband my best wishes. May I congratulate you on your marriage?”

  “Indeed, you may. Thank you.” Helen decided it was more likely Dalrymple had been asking Wildman for the latest news. She pointed her fan upward at a group of cavalry officers in the gallery “Can you hint at Lord Uxbridge’s plans?”

  “All I may say, ma’am, is there is no need for alarm. As you must know, the Duke of Wellington’s headquarters are here in Brussels and Blucher’s headquarters are forty-eight miles away at Namur. Our army and the Prussian army are divided by the chausée which stretches from Charleroi to Brussels. In the unlikely event of Napoleon choosing to proceed along it, I assume the Duke will give orders for our cavalry and infantry to move eastward to close the distance between the two armies.” With a handkerchief, Wildman dabbed the perspiration on his forehead. Perhaps it was no more than the result of the crowded ballroom and the heat from the chandeliers.

  Helen formed a mental picture of the terrain. “I don’t understand why orders have not been given already to close the gap between the armies.”

  “Unless Blucher warns Wellington of an attack, the duke will neither move troops away from Ghent—where the French court is still in residence—nor away from other strategic towns such as Mons and Tournai.” He bowed. “You must excuse me; Lord Uxbridge might have orders for me.”

  After Wildman retreated, Dalrymple appeared amused. “Did you think he would betray military secrets?”

  Helen visualised the possibility of troops marching along the paved chausée from Charleroi toward the capital. “No, not secrets.”

  “Outside, gunfire can be heard. To be safe, please agree to go north.”

  She shook her head. “To do so would be lily-livered. It would also imply I don’t believe Wellington will triumph over the French.”

  Dalrymple sighed. “Very well. We are unable to enjoy a wedding trip so let us take pleasure in the ball.”

  Yes, they should seize the opportunity to have fun, for heaven alone knew when they would have another chance to do so. Nevertheless, she should snatch a moment to tell Dalrymple about her inheritance. Where could they have a word in private? In future, she did not want him to accuse her of deceit.

  The band played the first notes of a waltz. Helen followed Dalrymple’s lead until Wellington arrived. She scrutinised his face. As usual he seemed unruffled. The Richmonds’ daughter, Lady Georgiana, who danced near them, rushed toward the duke. Curious, Helen followed her with Dalrymple.

  “Are the rumours that the French are on the move correct?” Lady Georgianna asked.

  “Yes.” Wellington looked down at the nineteen year-old’s frightened face. “They are true; we are off at dawn.”

  Helen clutched Dalrymple’s sleeve. The day she and her sister feared, for so long, had arrived. Who would survive—her husband, Cousin Tarrant, Langley? Although she had married Dalrymple, it did not mean she could not be deeply concerned about the viscount.

  Despite her mind being filled with ghastly possibilities, she completed the dance as though she were a carefree young girl. Afterward, all the guests stepped back to the sides of the ballroom in response to the thrilling sound of bagpipes.

  Of course, the Duchess of Richmond is the eldest daughter of the Duke of Gordon. Her mother is besotted by everything Scottish—the clothing, the pipes and the dancing. Papa told me her parents, the fourth duke and duchess, raised the 92nd Foot, or as they are commonly known, The Gordon Highlanders.

  “Mamma thinks the foreigners will enjoy seeing highland reels,” Lady Louisa—another of the Richmond’s daughters, who stood nearby Helen and Dalrymple—explained to her partner. “Pipe Major Alexander Cameron will lead the Scots dancers into the ballroom while playing the bagpipes.” She laughed. “Did you hear that at the battle of Fuentes d’Onoro a bullet punctured the bag of his pipes? Infuriated, Cameron fired at the sniper, drew his sword, joined the fight and yelled in Gaelic, ‘We’ll give them a different type of music!’”

  Helen stared in awe at famous Alexander, of the Cameron clan. “Those highlanders are fine fellows and fierce fighting men,” Dalrymple commented. “They will acquit themselves well, even if they fall to the last man.”

  At the vision of them sprawled in death, Helen pressed her hand to her mouth.

  “I beg your pardon,” Dalrymple apologized, his voice gruff. “Please forgive my plain speaking.”

  Her hand strayed to his cheek. “You will take care. Please don’t perform unnecessary heroic deeds.”

  Dalrymple’s eyes blazed! “You do care for me.” Her hand captured by his, he guided her to a pillar. Behind it, he held her so close that their bodies pressed together. She tilted her head toward him. “Helen!” With delicacy, he ran his tongue along the seam formed by her lips.

  A spark—of what?—burned deep within her. She wanted more, much more. In turmoil, she turned her face away from him.

  “I apologize,” Dalyrymple commenced, shame-faced, “no matter how much I want to make love, it is not an excuse for kissing you in public.”

  A lieutenant approached and saluted Dalrymple. “General Makelyn’s compliments Captain; he wants a word with you.”

  “How tiresome,” her husband drawled. “Duty calls. I shall leave you with Mrs. Tarrant while I obey Makelyn’s summons.

  After he escorted her to Georgianne, he saluted her. “If I don’t have an opportunity to bid you farewell, please forgive me.”

  Helen observed him make his way to Makelyn, who was watching another highland reel from the opposite side of the ballroom. Dear God, I might never see my husband again. Georgianne’s hand on her arm prevented her from running after him.

  “Dearest, you must allow your husband to obey orders and not distract him. Tarrant has already slipped away to join the regiment.”

  Helen realized her sister’s face was wax-pale.

  Georgianne caressed her stomach. For the first time, Helen truly understood why her own husband did not want to risk having a posthumous child. She should have reassured Dalrymple. Told him she loved him even if she fibbed.

  “Dearest?”

  Georgianne’s soft voice drew her from her self-recriminations. “Yes?”

  “Hold your head high. Don’t give way to fear.”

  To the skirl of bagpipes, the highlanders marched out of the ballroom in perfect rhythm.

  “Shall we go home?” Georgianne inquired.

  Distraught, Helen shook her head. “Not yet, Dalrymple might have time for a word with me. Shall we have supper?”

  “You may, but I am not hungry.”

  She put an arm around her sister’s waist. “For your child’s sake, you should eat.”

  They walked around the edge of the ballroom and saw the Duchess of Richmond, her hand on the Prince of Orange’s arm, and the Duke of Wellington with Lady Charlotte Greville’s hand on his arm, on their way back from the supper. A mud spattered courier gave a note to the Prince who handed it to the Duke.

  Within moments, word spread that Wellington had received confirmation of the French advance, and that, with the help of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard, at eleven o’clock in the morning, the Prussians had been defeated and chased out of Charleroi. Every officer must return to his regiment.

&nbs
p; The band stopped playing. The dancers halted. Lord Uxbridge ordered the cavalry officers to join their regiments.

  Surrounded by ladies making tender farewells, Helen searched for Dalrymple to wish him Godspeed, beg him to return safely, assure him she would be waiting for him and, that one day, they would have a happy home and children.

  From behind, a hand grasped her wrist. Helen winced. Dalrymple? No, he was always gentle. She turned around. Not Dalrymple, Langley. They stared at each other. Candlelight flickered over the harsh lines of his face and taut jawline.

  “One kiss for me to remember you by.”

  He had no right to make such a demand. Like an animal threatened by a predator, she wanted to run away, yet something stirred deep within her. She could not move.

  Langley pulled her to him. She should voice a protest. A sharp sensation, half pain, half excitement, gripped her. One hand squeezed her buttock. Outraged, she tried to pull away from him. He held her too tight. His other hand cupped the back of her head. Their bodies pressed together.

  “You are no longer an ignorant girl unaware of a man’s way with a virgin.” He spoke in a harsh, unfamiliar voice. “You and Dalrymple—Curse him!—have shared a night of passion, but I believe you love me, so you will forgive me for this.”

  Judging by the odour of his breath, the viscount was inebriated. His mouth plundered her lips. His tongue forced its way between them. Their teeth ground together. Shocked by his violent hold, her mouth opened. Langley’s tongue thrust deep into her. With her fists, she pounded her protest against his chest. Langley’s hand kneaded her buttock. She slapped him across the cheek as hard as she could.

  “Methinks the lady doth protest,” an ice-cold voice intervened.

  Langley released her with such abruptness that she staggered. She became aware of Lord Uxbridge when he steadied her with a firm hand. Heat scalded her cheeks.

  “Sober up; then join your general, Langley,” Uxbridge ordered.

  “Sir.” Langley saluted his lordship then bowed to Helen. “My apologies, I mistook your sentiments and—”

  “Please say nothing more.”

  “As you wish, ma’am.”

  “There you are.” Georgianne put her hand on Helen’s arm. “Is Langley ready to slip away?”

  “Indeed he is,” Lord Uxbridge bowed. “Please excuse me ladies, I have much to do.”

  “Shall we leave?” Georgianne’s voice seemed loud in the quiet following the officers’ departures.

  Furious with Langley, Helen walked beside her sister to the door, where the Duchess stood.

  “Will you not stay for a little longer,” Her Grace pleaded. “If everyone leaves, my ball will be ruined.”

  Helen stared at her hostess. Faced with imminent battle, how could the Duchess be so shallow? Outside, drums beat. The cobbles seemed to shake while bugles summoned both the infantry and the cavalry to assemble. The tramp of the soldiers on the march sounded together with the clip-clop of cavalry horses’ hooves and the rumble of the iron-rimmed wheels of the wagons.

  Georgianne wrapped her arms around her waist. A troop of scarlet-coated infantry, knapsacks on their backs, marched past them. They broke into song. “Over the hills and far away, King George commands and we obey.” But insane King George was locked up, incapable of commanding his army. The scene before her seemed unreal. She could hardly believe Napoleon, in command of the French army, might reach Brussels in a few hours.

  Later, much later, she would learn Wellington had declared, “Napoleon has humbugged me, by God; he has gained twenty-four hours march on me.” The Duke of Richmond had asked him what he would do. “I have ordered the army to concentrate at Quatre-Bras,” Wellington had replied, “but we shall not stop him there, and, if so, I must fight him here.” With the tip of his thumbnail he had touched Waterloo on the map.

  * * * *

  16th June

  “No, madam, neither Major Tarrant nor Captain Dalrymple have returned to the house since they left with you and Mrs Dalrymple for the ball.”

  Her sister’s face was very pale and her shoulders drooped. She must be worn to a rag. Helen cupped Georgianne’s elbow with her hand to guide her upstairs.

  “Shall I send for camomile tea to help you sleep?” Helen asked when they entered the bedroom.

  Georgianne shook her head. “Dawson, fetch a carriage dress, hat, gloves and a pelisse.” The dresser hesitated. “Don’t dawdle.”

  “I’m not, madam, but I’ve laid out your nightgown and—please forgive my boldness—I think you need your sleep.”

  “I think you should get ready for bed,” Helen said to her sister, no less concerned than Dawson.

  “I am going out,” Georgianne snapped. “Please don’t argue with me. I shall go to the Namur Gate to watch the divisions set out. You may come with me or stay here, but nothing you can say will dissuade me.”

  “Why are you going?”

  “Do you need to ask? Tarrant left the ball wearing his slippers. He has not returned here to collect either his boots or his medicine case. Tarrant must not—” almost in tears, her voice broke, but she recovered herself. “Tarrant must not leave without them.”

  Georgianne dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “I cannot bear the idea of him going to battle wearing his ballroom slippers. If The Glory Boys have not yet left, I shall give my husband his boots.”

  Helen stared at her tiny sister, a beauty who could command every luxury, now standing in the centre of the pretty bedchamber decorated in shades of blue and gold, determined to leave the safety of the house. How could she prevent her? “Jarvis!” she exclaimed. “Dalrymple’s man can take everything necessary.” She looked at Dawkins, who had returned with her arms full of clothes. “Dawkins, find out if Jarvis is still here.”

  “Whether he is or not, I shall go.” Georgianne’s tone of voice defied Helen arguing.

  “But why?”

  “Surely you know! We cannot miss the opportunity…to bid farewell.”

  No they should not. The possibility of never seeing Dalrymple again tore at her heart. “I will come with you, Georgianne.”

  “I expected you would. I shall order the carriage.”

  Helen fled to her bedroom to change her gown. She shuddered. Little more than a schoolroom miss when Langley and Cousin Tarrant rescued her from the Earl of Pennington, with a head filled with romantic dreams that had little to do with reality, she had idolised Langley. She had mistaken his charisma and her gratitude for love. A handsome cavalry officer distinguished in battle, who she believed had fallen in love with her. Yet, had he been equally mistaken? If he had truly loved her, nothing would have prevented him from marrying her—or at least asking her to wait for him to be in a position to do so.

  Why, she asked herself, while Pringle helped her to change her clothes, had she not realised love could come gently, softly, wrapping her in a warm cloud? If only she had realised it before they parted, she could have told her husband she loved him. “Dear God, please let Dalrymple return to me,” she prayed, then realised she had spoken aloud.

  Pringle bowed her head. “Amen,” Pringle said.

  As keen to reach the city gate as Georgianne, Helen pulled on her gloves.

  * * * *

  By moon and lantern light, column after column—the infantry in scarlet jackets, the Brunswickers in black, kilted Scots with huge sporrans and folded plaids over their shoulders, riflemen in their distinctive green, and Belgians wearing blue jackets—marched down the road to Charleroi, accompanied by fife and drum.

  Helen watched them from the security of the carriage. “They seem in good spirits. So do those soldiers’ wives who are marching with their men.”

  Georgianne pointed at a young lady mounted on the chestnut filly riding beside a heavy dragoon officer. “I envy her. Were I not increasing, I would ride with Tarrant. I cannot bear this separation. Suppose he never sees his child.”

  “At least he knows how much you love him. Oh, there’s Picton.”

/>   Top hat secure on his head, she watched the seasoned campaigner, who commanded the British 5th Division, ride past carts filled with produce. He must be on his way to Ninoves, where the light and heavy cavalry had been ordered to assemble under Lord Uxbridge’s command.

  Helen poked her head out of the window and shouted, “Sir Thomas, what news of The Glory Boys? Are they still in Brussels?”

  Picton—interrupted while he greeted friends and giving the impression he had nothing more in his mind than a pleasant ride in the sunshine—looked around. When he saw her, he reined in his horse. “Mrs Dalrymple, are you not? Someone pointed you out at the ball. Fine affair until news of Boney interrupted us. Don’t you worry, we’ll soon have him on the run.”

  “The Glory Boys, Sir Thomas, have they left Brussels?”

  “Yes, they were among the first to leave. He touched his hat. “Good day to you.”

  She inclined her head toward him. “May God bless you.”

  For the first time in her life, she resented Georgianne. If Cousin Tarrant had not made her promise to stay and look after her sister, she would ride to Ninove. Tears in her eyes, she watched the last infantry column disappear in the early morning mist.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  16th June, 1815

  Helen woke after noon, dressed in haste, and then joined Georgianne in the dining room to partake of a late nuncheon.

  Fearful of what the day would bring, Helen ate little. Her sister nibbled a bread roll and spoke only of mundane matters such as instructions she would give the housekeeper.

  After the meal, quill in hand, Helen sat at a desk in the salon. She made entries, accompanied by thumbnail sketches, in her journal.

  “Mrs Hamilton,” the butler announced.

  Dread had replaced good-natured Mrs Hamilton’s usually cheerful expression.

  Helen covered the tiny sketch, of three young ladies smiling at a handsome officer, with a sheet of paper. Only yesterday, before the news of Napoleon’s invasion, everyone’s spirits were high.