Tuesday's Child (Heroines Born on Each Day of the Week Book 3) (18 page)

“I shall pay him the full amount. What of his other pupils? Perhaps, one of their families would engage him.”

“If you wish,” she responded before she spoke again. “It is time to deal with any misunderstanding. Without doubt, it will surprise you to know my parents ensured no aspect of my education was neglected. I was baptised and confirmed in the Anglican Church. Moreover, I am literate, and I studied simple mathematics. Whenever Mamma and I lived in winter quarters in Lisbon, she engaged music teachers, who taught me to play the pianoforte and the harp. When I grew older, I learned to dance well enough not to put myself to the blush in the ballroom, where I stood up for every dance.”

Surprised, Pennington moved restlessly on his seat, not knowing how to respond.

“And,” his daughter-in-law continued after she took a deep breath, “Mamma, an excellent needlewoman, taught me plain sewing, so I am capable of making your shirts and Arthur’s. She also taught me how to embroider.

“A tutor instructed me in the art of watercolours. My father schooled me until he was satisfied I was an accomplished equestrienne. What else is there for me to say. Ah, yes, I can speak, read and write French, Portuguese and Spanish.” The colour in her cheeks increased. “Furthermore, I am not an ignorant young woman, who does not know how to conduct herself in society. I have spoken to many famous gentlemen, and danced with them, including the Duke of Wellington.”

So, there is far more to Arthur’s low-born widow than I had realised. He tried not to reveal his discomfiture. “Have you finished your account?”

“Yes, Papa, unless you wish to ask me something.”

“No, I don’t, and I confess we are in awe of you, are we not, Arthur.”

Whether or not Arthur understood the question, Pennington nodded.

The barouche drew up outside Clarencieux. Pennington alighted and lifted Arthur out. Hand-in-hand, they entered the abbey.

* * *

Dressed to dine in a black coat, knee length black silk breeches and white stockings embroidered with gold clocks, Pennington sat at a desk in the library perusing the advertisements in The Times.

He sipped claret, appreciative of its excellent quality, while skimming through the advertisements in the broadsheet until one captured his attention. Who placed the request for the late Captain Sidney Loxbeare’s bank to write a letter, addressed To Whom It May Concern  at  the White Hart Hotel in St Albans?

Furious with Harriet, whom he presumed was responsible for it, his hand shook. Drops of wine spilled onto The Times. His breath came and went too fast. Aware it was not good for a person of his years, he took several deep, slow breaths. A gentleman, who prided himself on his self-restraint, must not give way to temptation to vent his spleen on his daughter-in-law.

Pennington beckoned to a footman, and indicated his empty glass. “More claret.”

One day, if he lived for long enough, he would sit in this library and drink wine with Arthur. In the meantime, to preserve his life, he must remain calm when he questioned the troublesome widow.

The footman filled his glass.

Pennington nodded at him.

“My lord.”

“Inform Lady Castleton I wish to speak to her in the library.”

* * *

“Answer the knock on the door, Plymouth.”

The abigail laid the sky-blue evening gown, which Harriet intended to wear, over the back of a chair. She opened the door a fraction and murmured something. The door closed. Plymouth turned around. “My lady, the earl requests you to join him in the library.”

“I hope you told the –?”

“Footman, my lady.”

“Ah, yes. I hope you told him to tell his lordship I shall do so without delay.”

“Yes, I did.” Plymouth picked up the gown and slipped it over Harriet’s head. She stood back. “May I suggest the pearls?”

Harriet nodded. The suite was a family heirloom, part of a collection of other ancestral jewellery, her father-in-law permitted her to wear. Of course, it did not belong to her. One day, God willing, she would hand it on to Arthur’s wife.

Her lips parted slightly. Hard to imagine her precious child not only as an adult, but also as a married man. Harriet hoped Arthur would have children. She sighed for she would like to have more children, but would not because her heart lay in Edgar’s grave, so, she would not re-marry. ‘Yet, how could she be certain?’ she asked herself, when doubt flickered through her mind.

Another knock on the door. Again Plymouth answered the summons.

“You need not tell me the earl is impatient.” Harriet wrinkled her nose. What did her father-in-law want? She picked up her ivory fan.

* * *

When she entered the library, the earl stood and inclined his head.

“Lady Castleton, please sit by the hearth. I shall sit opposite you.” An impatient gesture dismissed the footman.

The glacial expression in her father-in-law’s grey eyes did not bode well. Harriet sensed he held his temper on a tight rein. A tremor disturbed her. To compose herself, she took some time to arrange her skirts when she sat down.

“A glass of wine, my dear child?” Pennington asked. “Ratafia or perhaps madeira?”

Harriet mistrusted him, and disliked it, when he patronised her with the term, my dear child. “Thank you, Papa, a glass of sherry. Please don’t trouble yourself, I can pour it, unless you wish to ring for a footman..”

“No need, I shall serve you.”

“Thank you,” she repeated, when he handed her a full glass. She placed her feet side-by-side, and wriggled her toes as she had when a child nervous about some wrong-doing. Ridiculous! What could Pennington reproach her with?

“I received a severe shock when I read a notice, or should I say advertisement?, in The Times that appertains to your late father.”

Harriet straightened her neck and looked across the space between them.

“Have you nothing to say?”

“No, Papa, I have not seen it.” She frequently forced herself  to call him papa, with the hope it would please and placate him.

“Did you place it?”

“No.” Harriet forced herself not to clutch the arm of her chair. With forced calm she sipped a little wine.

“Surely you know who arranged for the advertisement?” her father-in-law persisted.

Harriet shrugged, well-aware he intended his frigid manner to intimidate her. She kept herself well in hand, and gave no outward sign he succeeded.

“Come, come, child. You must know who is responsible.”

She willed herself to appear guileless and smile. “A well-wisher, I assume.”

“You may be sure I shall discover the truth. Tomorrow, I shall send a message to The Times. The editor will not refuse to divulge the name of the person responsible to a gentleman of my rank.”

A gentleman merely by birth, not  nature, Harriet thought, undeceived by her father-in-law’s gracious veneer. No gentleman would have angrily accused her of being an unfit mother in the presence of witnesses. She prayed there would be a favourable reply to the inquiry.

“And,” Pennington continued, “ I shall instruct the proprietor of the White Hart Inn, where replies are to be sent, to forward them to me. I doubt he will dare to disoblige an earl. In the meantime, my child, if you are short of funds please apply to my secretary. I shall instruct him to supply whatever you need.”

Harriet did not trust him, and almost reproached herself yet again for ingratitude, but thoughts of Arthur prevailed. She and her father-in-law were locked in a battle over her son, one which she was determined to win.

Should she confide in Mister Markham in case anything untoward took place between these ancient walls that seemed to hug dark secrets?

The butler entered the library. “My lord, my lady, dinner is served.”

* * *

After they ate, Harriet went to the nursery. By now, Arthur would be asleep in his bedroom, but she would peep at him before she joined the earl in the drawing room. 

Harriet nodded at the nurse, who sat by the window,  taking  advantage of the remaining daylight while she mended a small shirt. “My lady,” the woman began, “the earl gave orders for Lord Castleton not to be disturbed by anyone after he retires for the night.”

“I am Arthur’s mother.” Harriet emphasised each word and stared hard at  the woman to intimidate her.

Nurse folded her needlework, then put it in her wicker work basket. She stood and bobbed a curtsey.  “I beg your pardon, my lady, his lordship’s orders include you.”

How dare he? Deliberately at her haughtiest, Harriet tilted her chin and raised her eyebrows. “I repeat I am Arthur’s mother. I shall see him whenever I wish at any hour of the day or night.”

The nurse stared down at the wood floor. “I beg your pardon, my lady, I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

Harriet entered Arthur’s bedroom. To her horror she saw a candle burning on a low table by his bed. From the doorway she spoke too quietly to wake Arthur. “Nurse, why did you not snuff out the candle?”

“The earl doesn’t want Lord Castleton to wake and be frightened.”

Harriet clenched her fists. She wanted to lash out at her father-in-law. If Arthur woke at night and toppled the candlestick onto the floor, the carpet would catch fire. The consequences were too dreadful to contemplate. “My son has never feared the dark. In future, extinguish the flame after you put him to bed.”

Nurse opened her mouth. Before she could protest, Harriet forestalled her. “I shall visit the nursery every night. If you dare to defy me I shall dismiss you. Now, leave us.”

After the woman closed the door, Harriet stood by Arthur’s bed, furious with her father-in-law. The steady flame shone on his hair. She stooped to brush a curl back from his forehead.  His skin bloomed with health, his cheeks were rosy. If only Edgar had lived to see their son, he would have loved Arthur and been proud of him.

‘Well,’ Harriet thought as she drew the quilt up over Arthur, ‘she would protect her child from Pennington’.

Aware of the rise and fall of Arthur’s chest while he breathed, Harriet sat on a chair by the bed. What was she to do? If she fled with Arthur and pawned some of the heirloom jewellery, without doubt, Pennington would pursue them, and she might be convicted of theft and sent to jail.

Every day, she would write her book and, when it was finished, pray it would be published and provide her with a modest income. In the meantime, she hoped a bank would reply to Mister Midhurst’s advertisement on her behalf. ‘Money,’ she thought, ‘is a powerful weapon. One which, would enable me to escape from Pennington’s tyranny.’

Harriet leaned towards her son. She drew her finger down his petal-smooth cheek. If financial difficulty forced them to remain at Clarencieux Abbey, all too soon he would have a tutor. When he did, she would see even less of him. Tired, and dispirited by their situation, Harriet kissed Arthur’s cheek. When he turned over, and muttered something,  she hoped his dreams were agreeable. She straightened, and snuffed out the candle before she left Arthur’s bedroom.

With slow footsteps, Harriet made her way downstairs to preside over the tea tray. She did not like the nurse. Somehow or other she must persuade the Coopers’ eldest daughter to return. Bessie would have consulted her about the wisdom of leaving a lighted candle at night in a child’s bedroom. Apart from this, although Arthur had not complained, she sensed he disliked his new nurse. She sighed, her suspicion, that Pennington’s influence on her beloved child made him reluctant to confide in her, brought angry tears to her eyes. She wiped them away and left the bedroom.

When Harriet entered the drawing room, and gave orders for the tea tray to be brought, the earl remained seated. His chaplain and secretary stood.

Her father-in-law indicated the pianoforte. “I am exceedingly fond of music. Since you assure me you know how to play on, please entertain us while we wait. I daresay the instrument is superior to any other you have ever played on.”

Mister Vaughan, the earl’s secretary, placed a candelabra on the pianoforte. Without a pretence of coy modesty Harriet sat on the stool and played Thomas Moore’s composition Oft In The Stilly Night from memory.

Mister Vaughan began to clap enthusiastically. He ceased when the earl waved his hand to silence him.

“I do not care for Irishmen and their airs,” Pennington remarked.

“Papa, do you mean you do not care for the Duke of Wellington’s mannerisms, for he is Irish,” she addressed him with feigned surprise. “’Pon my word, you even insisted my son should be known by his second name, Arthur, in  honour of the iron duke because he was the victor at Waterloo .”

Pennington sniffed. “Great man though he is, he did not win the battle single-handed.”

“No, indeed he did not, Papa, before the battle, he pointed to a soldier and said words to the effect that victory depended on the troops.”

A footman put the contents of a tea tray on a low, marquisate table. Harriet, who knew each gentleman’s taste, took her place before it, and then poured tea into porcelain cups, two of which Mister Vaughan presented to his patron and Mister Rivers.

* * *

On the morning of the following day, Harriet woke at eight o’clock, and rang the bell vigorously for her abigail to serve hot chocolate.