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

by Rosemary Morris

  “Good day,” Georgianne greeted her guest, mother of a cornet in the Glory Boy’s regiment.”

  “Good day, Mrs Tarrant. Good day, Miss Whitley. I beg your pardon. I should have said Mrs Dalrymple.” She sighed. “My mind is on—well you can imagine what.”

  “Please be seated, Mrs Hamilton,” Georgianne said. “A glass of wine?”

  “No thank you. I will only take up a few moments of your time. Please tell me if you have news of the regiment,” she gabbled.

  By contrast, Georgianne seemed incapable of speech so Helen spoke, “No, I regret we have not.”

  “Shocking, quite shocking,” the matron muttered.

  Georgianne, her face a mask of apprehension, raised her eyebrows but made no comment.

  “Indeed, Mrs Hamilton,” Helen began, “in the early hours of this morning, the sight of our men riding out of Brussels shocked us. I don’t know why. All of us knew the day would come.”

  “We hoped it would not.” Mrs Hamilton’s double chin wobbled. “But, when I said shocking, I referred to those people who regard the French invasion as little more than an excuse for an excursion. Mister Hamilton says they are following the troops in their carriages to view the proceedings. When I think of the danger my son will face. Lud, I beg your pardon, both of you must be worried about your husbands. Oh, it is horrid in the streets which are so quiet with the army gone, and those who have not fled remaining indoors. Mister Hamilton wanted me to leave for Antwerp but I refused. I must be here to greet my boy when he returns.” The unspoken words—if he returns—seemed to echo. She stood. “I must bid you good day. Mrs Leigh expects me to join her. She has formed a group of ladies who are preparing bandages.”

  Helen walked with her to the door of the salon.

  When will there be news of Dalrymple? If only she could do something for him. Well, perhaps she could.

  After the visitor left, she could hardly bear to sit down again in comfort in the beautiful salon, while, at this very moment, his life might be in danger.

  Georgianne opened her sewing basket, took out a tiny, pin-tucked cambric smock and held it against her cheek.

  “Mister Tomlinson,” the butler announced.

  Dressed in a blue coat, canary-yellow pantaloons, and a flamboyant blue and yellow striped waistcoat, Tomlinson bowed. Somewhat red in the face, he straightened up. “Daresay you’re surprised to see me?” Unlike Mrs Hamilton, he radiated nervous good humour. “It’s my girl, you see.”

  Helen did not understand, and to judge by the expression on Georgianne’s face, neither did she.

  He sat opposite them on the sofa. “A sad business brought me back to Brussels. My son-in-law bought a commission in the 30th. Maria insisted on following him, so I accompanied her. I couldn’t allow her to travel alone.” He leaned forward and drew his hand back at the last moment instead of patting Georgianne’s knee. “She’s very frightened, Mrs Dalrymple. I hope you’ll visit her.”

  Helen exchanged a glance with her sister. Did the man not understand that although fear for their husbands tortured them, they were doing their utmost to control their sensibilities? She sighed. “I would prefer her to visit me.”

  Mister Tomlinson lowered his voice to a loud whisper. “I am to be a grandfather so she’s in no condition to do so.”

  Helen sighed. “Congratulations. Tell me where you are putting up. I will try to find time to see her?”

  “Thank you. We have rooms at the Hotel Angleterre. If you wish, I can send my carriage to take you there.”

  “Thank you, but it is unnecessary.”

  Helen’s jaw tightened. There were more important matters on her mind than Maria’s understandable distress.

  Mister Tomlinson cleared his throat. “I’ll take my leave of you.” He regarded them somewhat anxiously. “Don’t hesitate to call on me if you need my services. If there’s danger of the French reaching Brussels, I’ll insist on Maria retreating to Antwerp or Ghent. If you wish, I would be pleased to take both of you.”

  “Thank you.” Georgianne stood. “Good day.”

  “He means well,” Helen said after the door closed behind him.

  “I know.”

  “Georgianne?”

  “Yes.”

  “I cannot stay here without news. Would you care to take the air with me?

  Her sister shook her head. “No, Tarrant might send a message, or there might be one from Dalrymple. I shall stay here. Go if you wish, but take Pringle and a footman with you.”

  “Not Pringle,” Helen remarked dryly, “she is on the verge of hysterics, but I shall take a footman.” She cast a glance at Georgianne. Should she reveal her plan? She would visit the house she inherited from Mister Barnet, to give orders for it to be prepared to receive wounded soldiers. What would be necessary? Food! She would instruct the cook to make large quantities of bread and soup, and she would send for bandages and other supplies from the pharmacies.

  She shied away from the thought that Dalrymple, Tarrant, or even Langley and so many friends might die. No! She must not think of death. It was unlucky. She stood. “I must call on some of our friends.”

  Georgianne raised her eyebrows. “At such a time, dearest?”

  “Yes, to find out what is happening.” When she returned she would tell Georgianne about the will, with the hope her sister would not upbraid her for failing to mention it earlier.

  * * * *

  After months filled with crowds of civilians and soldiers in colourful uniforms, Mrs Hamilton’s description of the quiet streets was accurate. Most people Helen knew remained behind closed doors and shutters. The few people she met were disinclined to talk, although some claimed Napoleon suffered defeat at the cost of enormous British and French casualties. All the more reason to put her house to good use. Those she called upon had no news. Helen clamped her lower lip between her teeth.

  A few steps away from Helen’s front door, a lady ran toward her and came to a halt. “The French have triumphed,” she blabbered, without an exchange of the usual courtesies. “Even now they are marching to Brussels.” She ran on down the street, skirts held high above her ankles, heedless of an impertinent man who ogled her pantalets.

  Helen shook her head. Her faith in Field Marshall Wellington was too great to believe the battle was lost and, even now, the French marched toward Brussels. Her head ached. She imagined that whatever the outcome, a finger of doom pressed down on all those remaining in the city.

  After repeated knocking on the door of her house, Thomas opened it a little. He peered out. “Miss Whitley!” A broad smile on his face, he opened the door wider.

  “Mrs Dalrymple,” she corrected him.

  “I beg your pardon, madam.”

  She stepped inside. The house smelled stale. Perhaps the windows and doors had not been opened since Mister Barnet’s death only three days ago.

  “Where is Greaves?”

  “He left along with my poor master’s steward and some of the other servants.”

  “I see. Why did you stay?”

  “Because I hope you’ll keep me on in your service.”

  “If Captain Dalrymple agrees, I shall.” What should be done first? “Thomas, the house is to be made ready for the wounded; beds, blankets pillows, mattresses on the floor and whatever else is required. Did the cook leave?” Thomas shook his head. “Good. I shall write a letter to Sister Imelda, which I wish you to deliver. I hope she and some other sisters will come here to nurse the wounded.” She paused to eye Thomas, who stood straight, his eyes grave. “Assemble the remaining servants while I pen my letter. For the time being, you may act as my butler.”

  * * * *

  Satisfied with her arrangements, Helen, followed by James—Georgianne’s watchful footman—made her way back toward Cousin Tarrant’s house to the tune of distant thunder in streets suddenly alive with anxious people.

  “Lawks!” the hitherto silent young man exclaimed. “What’s that noise?”

  Thunder? Helen looked up
at the clear blue sky from which the sun blazed down. Not thunder, something else. She stood still listening to a sound she could only compare to the repeated thud of a woodcutter’s axe against a tree trunk. “I think it is canon fire.”

  “You are right,” a man agreed, then forged his way ahead into the park.

  “Mrs Dalrymple, this is no place for a lady. I’ll take you home,” a shocked voice protested.

  She recognised the familiar voice. “No, no, Mister Tomlinson, I must find out what is happening.”

  His face creased with anxiety, the manufacturer clutched her elbow. “You’ve been such a good friend to my Maria, please let me be of service. When there’s accurate news of where the battle’s taking place and how it goes, I promise to bring it to you.”

  Faint from the heat and fear, for the first time in her life Helen wished she had sal volatile in her reticule. The pungent smelling salts would have revived her. “Thank you. However, there is no need to escort me. My sister’s footman will follow me.”

  Mister Tomlinson touched the brim of his hat. “If you insist, I’ll see you later.”

  * * * *

  The front door closed behind Helen.

  Georgianne rushed downstairs. “It is past six o’clock. Where have you been? I have been almost out of my senses with worry for the past hour! What is more, Cook is grumbling because the soufflé has fallen.” Georgianne’s eyes rounded and her hands momentarily shook. Another distant boom reverberated. “But, what does the soufflé matter when I can hear cannonades?”

  Helen’s stomach rumbled with hunger. “I will change my gown.”

  “No need to do so on today of all days.” Georgianne spoke slowly. “Remove your hat and gloves and come to the dining room. I fear Cook will resign if we don’t eat before something else is spoiled.”

  “I have a lot to tell you.”

  Georgianne trembled. “Bad news?”

  Helen shook her head. She accompanied Georgianne to the dining room where she took her place and stared at the blood red wallpaper. She did not speak until she had emptied her soup bowl. While the second course was served, she spoke. “Georgianne, there is something you should know. Mister Barnet left me his entire fortune and property, with the exception of a few bequests.”

  Georgianne’s glass slipped from her hand. The wine spread across the pristine white tablecloth. “How clumsy of me.” She glared at the stain. “Helen, look what you made me do. I never imagined you could be so sly.”

  “Not sly. Never that. I wanted to tell Dalrymple before I spoke of it to you or Cousin Tarrant, only he rode out before I could.” Helen wondered if there would ever be an opportunity to tell him. She pushed some creamed potato onto her fork with her knife. “Please forgive me for returning so late. I have been busy with arrangements for my house to—”

  “You won’t move into it, will you?” Georgianne interrupted. “I could not bear to be separated from you at such a time.”

  “Of course I won’t.”

  “Besides,” Georgianne rushed on, “Tarrant told me he would ask you to promise to look after me. Not that it is necessary, for I am your older sister, but you know how he worries because I am increasing.”

  “He did ask, and I promised him I would, so of course, I shall take care of you.” She sipped some wine. “But I am busy. At Mister Barnet’s…I mean my house…I have organised preparations to receive the wounded—beds, blankets, pillows, mattresses on the floors, soup and bread, bandages and medication.” Exhausted, she smoothed the frown from her forehead with the tips of her fingers. “What else… A nun nursed Mister Barnet during his last days. I have requested her to return with more nuns to nurse the men.”

  A long silence followed before her sister broke it. “I don’t know what to say.” Shame-faced, Georgiana stared at her across the length of the table. “Dearest, my mind has been full of apprehensions while you think of others. You shall have all my spare bed linens and—”

  “Mister Tomlinson,” Fletcher announced. “I beg your pardon madam, but he would not be denied entrance.”

  The manufacturer crashed into the room. “I’m sorry to intrude but I promised Mrs Dalrymple to bring news.”

  “What is it?” Helen demanded.

  “Wagons and carts, filled with those suffering from the most serious wounds, have arrived. Those who were able to walk limped back through the Namur Gate. Fierce fighting took place at Quatre Bras. Those who fought in the Peninsular said the engagement’s worse than any other they’ve known.” He sighed. “They can’t imagine the outcome. But you have no cause for alarm. The Glory Boys haven’t been engaged.”

  “The 30th?” Georgianne asked gently.

  Mister Tomlinson shrugged. “According to a private shot in his right arm, their musket fire peppered Kellerman’s brigade. He knows my son-in-law and said he was safe when he left.”

  “That is good news,” Helen murmured.

  “Yes indeed.” Georgianne commented. “But please sit down, Mister Tomlinson, you look tired.” She indicated a chair halfway between herself and Helen.

  “Thank you.” He sank onto the seat. “Yes, I hope the information will comfort my poor girl, who is feverish with anxiety. Ah well, it can’t be helped, for she’s of a nervous disposition.”

  “Have you dined, Mister Tomlinson?” Georgianne asked. He shook his head. “Then you must do so before you leave.” She turned her attention to the butler. “Fletcher, a place for my guest. Send for some more soup.”

  “I’ll fill my carriage with hampers of food and kegs of brandy, for wounded men making their way back to Brussels,” Mister Tomlinson explained. “Of course, I shall drive as many of them as possible back to town.”

  Georgianne looked at him approvingly. “How good you are.”

  “It’s no more than my Christian duty; one which I’m glad to perform.”

  “Mr Tomlinson, you must take the wounded to my house which is ready to receive them.” Helen gave him the address. “After I have dined, I shall return there to make sure all is in order.”

  The manufacturer thumped the table so hard the cutlery clinked. “No, no, Mrs Dalrymple, no lady should see sights not fitting for her.”

  Disinclined to contradict him, there seemed little more to say. Helen glanced at her sister.

  A footman, supervised by Fletcher, served soup to Mister Tomlinson, who spooned some into his mouth, and then took a hearty bite of bread and butter.

  After they finished the meal, the manufacturer left, but not before he again asked Helen to call on Maria.

  * * * *

  17th June

  Soon after midnight, a foot guard, soaked by continuous rain which had replaced the earlier, almost unbearable heat of the day, staggered through the door of Helen’s house, a drummer boy over his shoulder. “All the way from Quatre Bras,” he gasped. “Took a cart, then a carriage, until the horses could go no further.”

  “Let me help you.” Helen rushed forward, her apron long since bloodied by those she had nursed, the hem of her pretty gown dirtied. “Put your hand on my shoulder. Come, you can lay him down on a mattress in the salon.”

  A nun came forward to assist them. She loosened the bloodied stock from the youngster’s neck with deft hands. “Il est mort.”

  The foot guard sank to the floor. He bent his bandaged head. “Poor lad.” Tears rolled down his smoke-blackened face. “I couldn’t save him.” He pulled two pennies out of his pocket, closed the boy’s eyes and placed the coins on them.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  17th June, 1815

  Her eyes blurry with tears, Helen stared down at the body of the drummer boy, and the bloodied foot guard on his knees beside him.

  How could she ever forget the agonised mumblings and screams of the first wounded men who had arrived on a cart? Until now, she had never treated more than a graze or some equally minor mishap.

  At first sight of the soldiers’ hideous wounds, horror held her motionless, until Sister Imelda took her gentl
y by the arm and asked her to write a letter for one of the few Gordon Highlanders who had survived, but looked unlikely to last the night.

  Her throat tightened at the memory of the magnificent men who had danced to the tune of the bagpipe at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. After she wrote his last words, which asked his wife to kiss their bairns for him, he thanked her, closed his eyes and, he too, died. Ashamed, because, until now, she was only aware of her own reaction to the carnage, she found the strength to assist the doctor, a surgeon, nuns, and other women who came to help. Time and again, she reminded herself, a soldier’s daughter must not flinch.

  Helen noticed the life guard mutter something which might have been a prayer; she stooped over him, a hand on his shoulder. Her revulsion turned to pity. She stared at the filthy, blood-stained bandage around his head. “Please get up. Your wound needs to be examined. Don’t reproach yourself; you did your best for the boy.”

  He stared up at her from blood-shot eyes. “There are men in greater need. I can wait.”

  She straightened. The boy’s body must be removed. There were not enough mattresses. Some men lay in rough lines on the floor in the hall, others on the landing in the first storey. The air filled with the sound of many who wept, and screamed.

  Close by, a delirious soldier, whose left arm had been amputated, called. “Mam, Mam, where are you?”

  Helen knelt by his side to hold his hand. “Hush, my poor boy.”

  “Mam, I knew you’d come to your Jamie.” His pale lips formed a smile. He clutched her hand so hard that it seemed as if her bones would break before his grip loosened. Dead! He might have been amongst those whom she watched marching out of Brussels. Beyond tears, Helen bent her head and prayed. A hand on her shoulder startled her. Despite her fatigue she must find the strength to rise and tend another unfortunate. She looked up. “Dalrymple!” A hallucination formed by her exhausted brain? He stooped over to help her stand. She flung herself into his arms. “Thank God you are safe. But what are you doing here?”