Tuesday's Child (Heroines Born on Each Day of the Week Book 3) (20 page)

Gwenifer’s face assumed a demure expression, but her eyes betrayed her amusement. “Dominic, if you accused me of misleading the unwary like pixies, it would not be true.”

Harriet glanced at the brother and sister. She found their banter endearing,  and wished she had a sibling.

Gwenifer faced her. “I hope you will advise me.”

“I am at your disposal, Gwenifer, and promise to give you my honest opinion,” Harriet intervened, on the verge of laughter. “By the way, Mister Markham, I am delighted to tell you I have dismissed my son’s nurse, and Bessie Cooper will return to Clarencieux Abbey tomorrow to look after him.”

“What good news,” Dominic responded. “I am sure it will please Mrs Cooper to have her daughter close to home.”

Harriet looked from him to Gwenifer. It would be a relief to confide in them. To explain she intended to wrest control of Arthur from the earl, but she did not think it would be proper to raise the subject.

At the end of the lesson, breathless with pleasure, not only because  Harriet loved to dance, she gazed up into Dominic’s eyes. “You and your sister are excellent pupils,” she praised them, while he continued to clasp her hand.

“Thank you for the compliment. I shall offer one in return. You, Lady Castleton, are as light-footed as a fairy.”

In response to the unmistakable passion in the depths of his eyes, her breath caught in her throat. For a moment, both of them stood as motionless as the pair of china figurines on the mantelpiece.

Gwenifer cleared her throat. “After so much exertion both of you seem too exhausted to move. Dominic, Harriet, a glass of wine to refresh you?”

Harriet turned her head to look at Gwenifer, who regarded them with palpable speculation.

“Yes, please, dancing always makes me thirsty. Indeed, I am over-heated. I wish I had remembered to bring my fan,” Harriet gabbled, embarrassed by the attraction between herself and the rector, which she could no longer deny.

Edgar, I am sorry, she thought, truly sorry. I never thought I would be drawn towards another gentleman. I intended to remain faithful to you unto death. She sank onto a chair overwhelmed by her sudden desire to be sheltered by Mister Markham’s strong arms.

“Harriet, shall we send my brother to write his sermon in the study, while we partake of wine in the morning room and look at the samples of wallpaper and fabric?”

Harriet nodded, keen to escape the spell the rector seemed to have cast over her.

“Come. “Gwenifer led her into a room with a large trestle table set up to accommodate swathes of fabric and pattern books. “Perhaps a glass of homemade lemon barley water would be more refreshing than wine on such a hot day,” Gwenifer suggested. She looked out of the window. “I am sure the weather will break and thunder will roll tonight or tomorrow. I am glad the wheat from my brother’s glebe has been harvested, and daresay the farmers are making haste to gather the rest of theirs.”

Harriet smiled. “A glass of lemon barley water would be most welcome.”

“Please be seated at the table while it is fetched from the well in which it is kept cool.”

Alone, Harriet pressed her hands to her hot cheeks and thought of the past. She could have married one of the  well-born officers who proposed marriage to her. Unable to imagine replacing Edgar with another husband, she had refused to wed for convenience, though no one would have censured her for doing so. Marriages between widows and men, who wanted the consolation of a wife before possible death on the battlefield often took place. Indeed, some women married four or five times.

Gwenifer returned. “The maidservant is fetching the drink.” She rifled through some papers on the trestle table. “Dominic warned me not to choose a pattern his parishioners would be shocked by, dragons and suchlike, which are so popular due to the Prince Regent’s Chinese décor at his pavilion in Brighton. These are the samples I have cut from the pattern book.” She handed them to Harriet. “I have decided on cream-coloured paint which will set off any other colours to advantage.”

Harriet passed her forefinger over a soft yellow sample with an intricate pattern of cream-coloured urns, from which emerged arrangements of stylised pastel flowers and the pale green leaves.

A maidservant entered the morning room,  and found a space on the table for the tray she carried on her upturned palms.

Gweniver waved a hand at her. “You may go.”

Harriet considered a kingcup yellow sample embossed with gold lilies.

“Here you are.” Gwenifer held out a glass.

“Thank you.” Harriet scrutinised a traditional design of cream and crimson stripes interspersed with narrow, light green ones. She sipped the cool drink while admiring the fourth pattern, a peacock perched on a branch of a tree embellished with leaves and flowers against an ivory background.

Harriet put the half-empty glass down. One-by-one she held up each sample.

Gwenifer sat down. “Which one would you choose?”

Harriet finished her drink before she replied. “The striped wallpaper is stylish, but the small pattern of gold leaves scattered on it is irritating. I like the plain yellow.” She fingered her the one patterned with magnificent peacocks and thought of Mister Markham. Possessed of a handsome face, an excellent figure and deportment he did not need to dress in jewel-bright colours, yet the magnificent bird reminded her of him.

“This is my favourite.” She handed the sample to Gwenifer. “Should you think your brother will consider it unsuitable, the pale yellow is perfect for this room. Even on the coldest, dullest winter day, the soft shade will give the impression of mellow sunshine.”

Gwenifer clapped her hands. “I think you  are right, Dominic would probably consider the peacocks too ornate for a rectory. More lemon barley water?”

“Yes, please.”

Glass in her hand, her thoughts of Mister Markham consigned to the back of her mind, Harriet helped Gwenifer to choose sage green velvet for the curtains, and green chintz with a pattern of yellow and cream roses and trailing leaves for upholstery.

“Thank you, Harriet. Your choice confirms my own, and I must say that both of us have exceptionally good taste.”

“I am glad to have been of help.” Harriet stood. “If I don’t take my leave, I shall not have time to change my gown before we dine.”

Gwenifer sent a message for Harriet’s groom to bring her horse around from the stable. After they finished their drinks, and Gweniver escorted her to the front door, where they agreed she would return on the following day to give them a final lesson.

Mounted, Harriet waved farewell to Dominic when he looked out of the window of his library. She rode slowly home, trying to banish him from her mind.

At night she dreamt of Dominic in the guise of a fairy prince, who employed his unique magic to enchant unwary ladies.

Chapter Sixteen

Harriet watched Arthur hug Bessie after she had returned to work at the nursery..

The nurse smoothed back his hair from his forehead. “Now, now, my little lord, there’s no need for so much fuss.” She looked out of the window. “Look at those dark clouds. I raced here before the thunderstorm breaks. It wouldn’t be any good going for our usual walk. We would be soaked through. Do you want to play with your toy soldiers?”

“Yes.”

“Look at me, Lord Castleton.” Bessie raised her eyebrows and stared at him.

Arthur shifted from one foot to the other. “Yes, please.”

Bessie smiled. “That’s better, my lord, much better.”

Harriet lingered while Arthur arranged the small lead figures of redcoats in squares, and those of French mounted cavalry opposite them. She clicked her teeth together. Although tales of battles won and lost entranced boys, the sight of her son playing at war always made her uneasy. When he grew up, would he want to follow in his father’s footsteps and distinguish himself in battle? She prayed he would not.

Satisfied Bessie would ensure Arthur minded his manners, Harriet drew him to his feet and kissed his smooth cheek. “I shall return before nuncheon to hear you recite the alphabet, and  practice writing the letters.”

Arthur wriggled free from her and sat down to arrange the little redcoats in a square.

“Bessie, I know I can rely on you to good care of my son. “ She left the nursery, and went in search of her father-in-law, whom she found with his secretary in the library.

She regarded Pennington, whose expression did not offer her a scrap of welcome, and transferred her attention to the document with a red seal which he held. “I apologise for interrupting you, Papa. I did not realise you and your secretary are busy.”

“By now, you should know that after my early morning ridden with Arthur, followed by breakfast, it is my habit to tackle various matters, which Mister Vaughan brings to my attention. It is then my custom to either confer with my bailiff or speak to my steward.”

“I can only repeat my apology and withdraw,” she murmured, in an attempt to seem meek.

“Since you are here you, state your business.”

Harriet did not allow herself to indicate her father-in-law’s change of attitude towards her, so different from when he first took her into his household, unsettled her.

She glanced at the tactful secretary, who seemed absorbed in silent contemplation of the parquet floor.

Pennington raised his monocle. “Why do you wish to see it?”

“To see the names of your guests, and also to ascertain you have invited Mrs Tarrant, to whom we owe so much, and her husband.”

Her father-in-law’s magnified eye did not warm at the mention of her benefactresses’ name. “I have not invited them. The major’s leg was amputated after the Battle of Ligny, so I doubt they would wish to attend a ball.”

Harriet forced herself to smile. “The surgery was carried out over a year ago. By now, I am sure the major is managing well with an artificial limb.

“I am your hostess for the occasion, so, with your permission, I shall invite them.”

She doubted her father-in-law gave his real reason for not sending an invitation to the Tarrants, whose country house, Calcutta Place, was not far from Clarencieux? The seconds during which the earl did not reply seemed long drawn out.

‘Shall I fetch the guest list for Lady Castleton?” Mister Vaughan ventured.

“Yes,” Pennington replied.  Thunder rolled before he spoke again, this time to her. “As my hostess at the ball held in your honour you are welcome to invite Major and Mrs Tarrant.”

Did she imagine Mister Vaughan looked at her sympathetically? After all, it must be as obvious to him that the earl begrudged her position in the household only granted because of her son. “Mister Vaughan, please give it to me later, I must make sure my son is not frightened by the storm.”

“Nonsense, my dear child, you must not pamper my grandson. A mere storm will not frighten Arthur. He is pluck to the bone.”

“He is also very young and, as you have frequently stated, you do not want his spirit to be broken, so if he is frightened, I shall comfort him.” She turned her head towards the secretary. ‘Please ensure I receive the guest list.”

“Yes, I will, it is my pleasure to serve you, Lady Castleton.”

Harriet hurried to her son. Anxious, she flung open the door to the nursery and saw Arthur, his hand in his nurse’s, looking out of the window.

“My, my,” Bessie began, when another clap of thunder sounded, “listen to God throwing his furniture around.” She pointed with her free hand. “And look at,” she continued, when lightning streaked the sky. “God’s making sure He’s got enough light to see what He’s doing.”

Harriet realised, absorbed by the storm, which lashed rivulets against the windows, neither of them noticed her rush into the room. Thank goodness, Arthur was not frightened by nature’s violence. She tip-toed out of the nursery and went to her dressing room.

During the last year, under her supervision, workmen painted the woodwork cream, and hung wallpaper patterned with blowsy pink roses. Whenever Harriet entered her luxurious sanctuary, she admired the dressing table draped in pink and cream chintz, an escritoire, ashwood cabinets filled with delicate china figurines, two  comfortable arm chairs, inlaid tables, and bookshelves laden with her favourite books. Not even the earl would intrude in a lady’s dressing room with a little closet which contained a commode, a large hand-painted jug of water, a matching basin and lavender scented soap.

Here she could be private with Arthur and, if she wished, admit Gwenifer, certain they would not be disturbed by anyone other than Plymouth or Bessie.

Harriet sat at the escritoire, mended her quill and dipped the nib into the ink pot. In the exquisite copperplate handwriting her mother taught her despite many mistakes in her copy book, Harriet penned Major and Mrs Tarrant’s invitation to the ball. While she sealed it with a red wax wafer,

a tap on the door announced Plymouth, who opened it, and handed her a sheet of paper.

“With Mister Vaughan’s compliments, my lady.”

“Thank you, you may go, Plymouth.”

The list of guests in her hand, Harriet settled in a wing chair upholstered in pretty chintz, which matched the curtains. She read the names,  including those of her those of her sisters-in-law, entered according to rank. Harriet scanned it again. Mrs Tarrant’s cousin, Sarah, and Sarah’s husband, Pennington’s former heir, had also been sent invitations. She would not blame them if they did not attend. Losing the inheritance must have been a severe shock.

Harriet put the list down. If all the guests accepted their invitations, approximately a hundred people, some of whom would be accommodated for the night, would attend the ball. Delighted, she read the names of two  married officers and three unmarried ones. Gallant soldiers who still served in her father and husband’s regiment, The Glory Boys. She smiled, pleased because she would not be adrift in a sea of nameless faces. There would also be others whom she knew, Squire Clifford’s daughters, some ladies, who called on her, and also Gwenifer and Mister Markham.”

Despite the dismal weather, warmth invaded her at the thought of the rector. She was fortunate to have made the acquaintance of such a charming, considerate gentleman. If she received favourable replies to the advertisements he placed on her behalf she would be indebted to him forever. Even if there were not, she would still be grateful to him for his attempt to trace the bank.

The list discarded on her lap, Harriet leaned back recreating Mister Markham’s face in her mind’s eyes. No, he should  visualise Edgar. Shocked, she realised it was becoming harder to remember  precisely what her late husband looked like. Of course most  Edgar and most officers in The Glory Boys, stood taller than most men, and Arthur had inherited his curly brown hair and regular features, but not Edgar’s grey eyes, the same shade as his father’s.

What else? Edgar, who inherited his father’s brown, curly hair. Edgar’s face had been tanned by the hot sun which presided over summer in Spain and Portugal. What else.? Oh yes, he usually spoke decisively with the assurance of a seasoned officer. Tears formed in her eyes. Among her treasured her memories of him she could no longer capture his  essence, the pleasing quality which made Edgar different from any other person and caused her to fall in love with him.