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

by Rosemary Morris

  Before she could comment, a footman opened the door and stared at them. She ignored his horrified expression at the sight of them, and sent for Fletcher.

  “Mrs Dalrymple!” the butler exclaimed, obviously shocked by her bedraggled appearance. Almost immediately he resumed his usual impassive expression. “Please allow me to express my condolences, on behalf of myself and the rest of the servants, on the death of Captain Dalrymple.”

  “Thank you.” She wanted to scream her grief aloud at the sound of her husband’s name. “Major Tarrant?”

  “I regret to say his leg has been amputated, but his life is not in immediate danger. The biggest fear is that the stump might become gangrenous.”

  Almost asleep where she stood, Helen issued instructions, and requested Fletcher to tell her sister she would be in her apartment. “And,” she ended, “make sure Thomas is well taken care of, and send Pringle to my apartment.”

  Weary beyond words, she forced herself to go upstairs.

  “You’re wet, madam,” Pringle said, when she bustled into the bedchamber, “and doubtless chilled to the bone. A bath will warm you.”

  While a maid lit a fire in the dressing room, to ward off the cold of the unseasonable weather, more maids fetched cans of hot and cold water to fill the bath, Georgianne burst into the bedroom. “My poor, poor sister,” she crooned, as she held Helen in her arms.

  Helen tensed. She feared a storm of tears. “Please don’t say anything. I am cold, hungry and tired. If you want to help me send for something hot – soup or stew, if there is any. No, don’t look at me so – so reproachfully. Fletcher told me Cousin Tarrant is as well as can be expected.”

  “Yes, thank God he is.”

  Helen looked at Georgianne’s rounded stomach. “You must take care of yourself.”

  Pringle bobbed a curtsey to Georgianne but looked at Helen. “Your bath is ready, madam.”

  * * * *

  A flurry of loud, argumentative voices woke Helen. She rubbed her eyes and then squinted through the half-light at the clock on the mantelpiece. Seven o’clock. It seemed wrong for a heart-broken widow to have slept for so long.

  “Mrs Tarrant, I assure you, Mrs Dalrymple will thank me for my news.”

  She stared at the open door of her bedroom. Mister Tomlinson!

  “If you will tell me what it is, I—” Georgianne protested.

  “No I shall not.”

  “I insist you observe propriety. Wait downstairs while I wake my sister and she gets dressed.”

  “Propriety be damned! Beg your pardon, Mrs Tarrant, but I’m a plain spoken man.”

  “It is outrageous of you to force your way upstairs and insist on entry to my sister’s bedchamber. Give me one good reason why my men servants should not throw you out of my house.”

  “Because I don’t fight like a gentleman. I use my fists, feet and teeth.”

  Helen sat up. What did the manufacturer want? To reproach her for not visiting his daughter?

  “Mrs Tarrant, please listen to me. You cannot imagine the sights I have seen. This afternoon, after the rain stopped, when I rode out of the Namur gate in my carriage to bring more wounded to Mrs Dalrymple’s house, I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw folk from Brussels behaving as though we are not on the verge of another battle. Those native to this country sat at tables, swigging beer and smoking pipes.”

  “Mister Tomlinson, I fail to understand what this has to do with my sister,” Georgianne addressed him in a steel-hard tone.

  Helen pulled the bedclothes up to her neck. “Allow him to speak to me, Georgianne,” she called. “If you don’t, he will not go. Besides, it will relieve his mind to consult me about Maria, after which he might leave us in peace.”

  Georgianne preceded Mister Tomlinson into the bedroom. “This is improper.”

  Helen ignored the objection. “Is Maria having a hysterical fit, Mister Tomlinson? Do you need me to calm her?”

  Mister Tomlinson’s ruddy face split into a wide smile. “I have not forced my way into your bedchamber to speak of my daughter. I am here to tell you I have taken your husband to your house where he is being treated for what must have been a severe blow to his head. My carriage is outside. If you wish me to, I shall take you to him.”

  Helen stared at the manufacturer. Faint, she imagined as if the blood had drained from her body. She had never swooned and would not do so now. “But he is dead…” she faltered.

  Mister Tomlinson laughed. “Nay, lass, he is alive. He is unconscious but with a strong heartbeat.”

  All consideration of decorum gone, Helen thrust back the bedcovers. “How is he? Has he any other wounds?” She swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

  Mister Tomlinson looked away from her. “A couple of broken ribs the sawbones has strapped up and says will mend.”

  “Why didn’t you bring him here?”

  “I supposed you would still be with the wounded at your house.”

  “How can I ever thank you? You are all goodness! Your heart is pure gold!”

  To judge by his grin, Mister Tomlinson was exceptionally pleased with himself.

  “Pringle!” Helen yelled as loudly as a vulgar hawker. “Come here! I must dress!”

  * * * *

  25th June, 1815

  Helen smiled again and again. She sat on the edge of the bed and gazed into her husband’s eyes. With relief, she noted they now focussed on her. He seemed aware of his surroundings. “At last, you are awake. How are you?” She continued to observe him, her heart filled with gratitude to God for sparing his life.

  “For how long did I sleep?” He touched the large lump at the back of his head. “I have a fiendish headache and my right side hurts, but apart from that I don’t think I have any injuries.” He winced. “I don’t understand why I am here. The last thing I remember is when I swung to the side on my horse a brute of a lancer almost skewered me.”

  “Mister Tomlinson brought you here in his carriage, long after Langley saw you tumble to the ground. He believed you were dead.”

  “That was good of Tomlinson.” Dalrymple frowned as though he tried to make sense of her words. “I don’t blame Langley. The rain was falling like a curtain. I could only see a foot or so ahead. The lancer who charged at me seemed to come from nowhere.” He grimaced, obviously in pain, but managed to smile, his eyes scrutinising her face. “I hope you are glad to see me.”

  Throughout the anxiety of recent days, including those when, due to Doctor Longspring’s grave verdict, she feared Dalrymple would not regain his wits, his words broke her calm. Hands across her face, she wept as she had not since her father died.

  “My heart’s love, please don’t cry.” Dalrymple leaned forward from the bank of pillows behind him. Despite his broken ribs, he drew her into his strong arms.

  Although she rested her head against the smooth linen covering his broad chest, it took her a long time before she regained control of her sensibilities. “What must you think of me?” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. “I am sure you don’t want a watering pot for a wife.”

  His dimples revealed themselves when he smiled. “Watering pot or not, you are the only wife I want. Thank you for marrying me.” He explored the bump of his head. “Forgive me, I am a little dizzy, not to mention my sore side.” He lay back against the pillows.

  “Dizzy or not, you are the only husband I shall ever want.”

  “I should hope so.” He studied her face. His eyes gleamed. “I promise you that when I recover, my arms shall be your haven and we will share the delights of marriage in our bed.”

  She trusted him and looked forward to becoming his wife in more than name. Unfamiliar but not unpleasant tension coiled deep within her.

  The expression in his eyes sharpened. “The battle?” he asked. “Trapped by my pleasure at being with you, I forgot to ask. What sort of an officer am I to forget my men’s welfare? What of Langley and Makelyn?”

  “Langley has no more than a wounded
arm. Makelyn died leading a charge. I am told a bullet went through his head so he did not suffer for more than a moment. She looked down at the quilt. She could not bear to speak of more losses which The Glory Boys had suffered. “The final battle was fought and won at a Waterloo, although I hear Wellington said, ‘It was a near run thing.’ If the Prussians had not arrived in time to take part, who knows whether he would have triumphed.”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Has lost his leg, but my sister says, it is a small price to pay for his life. I don’t know if Cousin Tarrant agrees. However, he says only having one leg will not prevent him from riding with his son or daughter. Now, what may I do for you?”

  “Love me for so long as we live.”

  “I shall.” A long, happy sigh escaped her. She leaned forward to kiss him. “I love you, Marcus.”

  The End

  Rosemary Morris books published by Books We Love

  Historical 18th Century

  The Captain and the Countess

  Far Above Rubies

  Regency

  False Pretences

  Sunday’s Child

  Monday’s Child

  About the Author

  Rosemary Morris was born in 1940 in Sidcup Kent. As a child, when she was not making up stories, her head was ‘always in a book.’

  While working in a travel agency, Rosemary met her Indian husband. He encouraged her to continue her education at Westminster College.

  In 1961 Rosemary and her husband, now a barrister, moved to his birthplace, Kenya, where she lived from 1961 until 1982. After an attempted coup d’état, she and four of her children lived in an ashram in France.

  Back in England, Rosemary wrote historical fiction. She is now a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Historical Novel Society and Watford Writers.

  Apart from writing, Rosemary enjoys classical Indian literature, reading, visiting places of historical interest, vegetarian cooking, growing organic fruit, herbs and vegetables and creative crafts.

  Time spent with her five children and their families, most of whom live near her, is precious.

  www.bookswelove.net