Tuesday's Child (Heroines Born on Each Day of the Week Book 3) (30 page)

A hand on her boy’s shoulder, Harriet guided him to her dressing room, where she indicated a pair of comfortable chairs. “Arthur, Bessie, sit down, while I speak to Plymouth.

* * *

An hour later, footmen added Harriet and Bessie’s luggage to the piles in the hall, which belonged both to members of Pennington’s family and the Tarrants, who were ready to depart.

Beneath the lofty ceiling, Harriet waited for Mister Markham with, Bessie and Arthur, as well as Plymouth, who had declared her undying devotion, besides insisting on continuing in her service.

Georgianne kissed Harriet on the cheek. “I wish you well and hope that when I see you again you will a happy bride.”

“Thank you,” Harriet responded.

Escorted by her husband, Georgianne stepped outside to take her seat in their carriage.

Jack who, who entered the hall with his mother, ruffled Arthur’s hair. “Good bye, Cousin, goodbye Aunt Castleton, I look forward to seeing you again.”

“Thank you, I hope to see you soon,” Harriet replied sincerely, for she could not imagine he was responsible for the attack on Arthur’s life.

Languid, his mother offered the tips of her fingers to Harriet for her hand to be shaken.

The Stantons arrived and fussed over their son, while the nurse held him in her arms, her face stoical. “Is Frederick too hot or will he be too cold?” Sarah Stanton asked the woman, in a flurry of anxiety.

After husband and wife nodded farewell to Harriet, they departed to the sound of Mrs Stanton’s voice clucking like a fond hen over her only chick.

Relieved to be free of them, Harriet surveyed the stone walls swathed with banners and hung with shields and armaments, and at the stained glass in the lancet windows. Harriet caught her breath. Sometimes she imagined the shades of long dead monks. From time-to-time their former abode seemed sinister. She would be glad to leave.

“Lady Castleton, a moment of your time, if you please.”

Pennington’s voice startled her.

“Yes?” she queried, her voice frigid.

“You returned the jewellery I gave you. Other than family heirlooms, which are part of the entail, there was no need to do so. My gifts are yours to keep. It would reflect adversely on me if my daughter-in-law, the mother of my heir, appears impoverished.” He gestured to a footman. “Give the box you are carrying to Plymouth.” Her father-in-law returned his attention to her. “I am not your enemy. Lady Castleton, you have chosen to leave my protection. You shall not leave as a beggar.”

Pride! He cares nothing for me. His only concern is that society will not have cause to think he has treated his heir’s mother shabbily.

The butler answered an impatient tattoo on the front door. Mister Markham strode inside. At the sight of Pennington, he raised his eyebrows. “My lord,” he acknowledged him in a glacial tone. He inclined his head toward Harriet. “Lady Castleton, I assume you are ready to leave Clarencieux.”

“Yes,” she answered, with a sense of indescribable relief. “Come, Arthur.” In a few minutes, she would leave the shadows, which blighted her life under her father-in-law’s roof, and step out into pure sunshine.

Footmen loaded the luggage onto the roof of the carriage. Mister Markham handed Harriet into it. After she sat, he helped Arthur up the steps.

Harriet poked her head out of the door. “Bessie, there is no room for you in the carriage. Before you come to the Rectory, I suggest you walk to your mother’s cottage to tell her we have left Clarencieux Abbey. Plymouth, get into the carriage. Sit opposite us.”

Before the coachmen could crack his whip, Lady Katherine, dressed in a fashionable, primrose-yellow carriage dress worn beneath a matching pelisse trimmed with spring-green braid and tassels, emerged from the abbey with her husband. Her ladyship did not deign to step up to the carriage; her lord did.

The expression in his eyes compassionate, he spoke. “I wish you well, Lady Castleton and hope Arthur will thrive.”

“Thank you,” Harriet replied. Perhaps, amongst her relatives by marriage, she only trusted him and young Jack. Nevertheless, she warned herself, favourable impressions might be false.

Dominic shut the door of the carriage and mounted his mare. The coachman cracked his whip, the matched pair of chestnuts trotted forward.

With overwhelming relief, Harriet imagined she could breathe properly for the first time since she arrived at Clarencieux. In her mind, the once peaceful monastery, from which the monks had been turned out during Henry VIII’s reign, seemed to have acquired a dark personality. One which brooded while it waited for a tragic event to occur.

No, such thoughts too fanciful. It is my father-in-law, not an inanimate pile of stone and mortar, who impresses a sinister personality on the building.

* * *

Aware of the guarded expression in Lady Gwenifer’s eyes when she smiled, embraced and congratulated her, Harriet thanked her, and added. “I shall endeavour to make Mister Markham happy.”

Arthur hopped up and down. “May I go to the stables to see my pony?”

“After nuncheon,” Dominic suggested.

Gwenifer gave instructions to a maidservant for the meal to be served in the garden, and for Plymouth to be fed in the kitchen.

“And Bessie Cooper, Arthur’s nurse, who will arrive soon, may join Lady Castleton’s abigail,” Dominic instructed the girl.

Unlike her son, who devoured ham sandwiches and apple pie with a healthy appetite, so much had occurred during the last few days, not the least of which was her agreement to marry Mister Markham, that Harriet could eat little.

Arthur swallowed his last mouthful. “Prince! May I see him now?”

Dominic looked at his sister. “Gwenifer, if you have finished your meal, perhaps you would be kind enough to take Lord Castleton to the stable. I don’t want to entrust him to a servant.”

Gwenifer stood. “Yes, of course. I daresay you and Harriet have much to discuss.” She smiled at Arthur. “Come with me, Child.

Alone with Mister Markham, Harriet studied the crumbs on her plate as if nothing in the world interested her more.

“My lady,” Dominic began, “if you agree, instead of taking you to Faucon House, I shall take you to London where you may meet the attorney, who wrote to you on behalf of your cousin, his client.”

Harriet peeped up at him through her eyelashes. “If I may be honest-” she began, then broke off reluctant to risk offending him.

“Of course you may. I hope you will always be. We should have no secrets from each other, either now or when we are married.”

“Oh,” she began, aware of warm colour creeping across her cheeks, “it is not a secret. I am merely aware Lady Gwenifer disapproves of our … agreement to marry.” Harriet considered her words before she continued. “I assume you have decided not to take us to Faucon House because our betrothal will dismay your parents.” She hesitated while gathering her courage and studying his lustrous green eyes. “If you regret your quixotic proposal of marriage, I shall understand if you wish to cry off.”

Dominic’s eyes blazed. “Don’t you want to marry me?”

By now my cheeks must be red as a boiled lobster’s. Which lady in her right mind would not want to become this compassionate, handsome, intelligent man’s bride? “Yes, I do want to be your wife, but I don’t want to take advantage of you. “She put her finger to her lips. “No, please allow me to finish what I want to say. When I was seen in your arms, it was good of you to say we are betrothed. The question is, do you want to marry me?”

Dominic’s tender gaze warmed her. “I do. Shall we go to London?”

“Yes. Where will we put up?”

“For propriety’s sake, I shall stay at my parents’ London house in Grosvenor Square. You may put up at Mivart’s Hotel in Brook Street.”

“Brook Street?”

“Ah, I forgot, you are not familiar with London. The street is in Mayfair.”

“I thought it is improper for a lady to stay at a hotel.”

“Not, I think, for a lady to put up at Mivart’s, where accommodation for wealthy visitors to London is rented, by the month not by the night. I shall reserve a comfortable suite for you.”

“I cannot afford-”

“I can. Don’t look so worried. You need not fear the embarrassment of taking your meals in the public rooms among strangers. You shall be served in your suite.” A slight frown formed on his forehead. “Of course, it would cause gossip if I visited you in your apartment, so I shall call at the hotel to take you out in my carriage. When we reach London, I shall write to my parents to inform them of our betrothal, and also announce it in the broad sheets.”

His eyes seemed to penetrate her own, seeking the key to the depths of her being, while he continued to address her with formality and behave formally.

“Indeed, Lady Castleton, if you agree, since there is no impediment to our marriage, I suggest we marry in a few days by special licence.”

So quickly? Did his eyes burn like flames, revealing unsuspected depths?

“If we marry, I shall be in a better position to protect your son.” The colour in Dominic’s cheeks heightened. “However, we have known each other for only a short time. So, if you would prefer us to become better acquainted before I become your husband in fact as well as in name, I shall understand.” He cleared his throat. “I hope my shockingly plain speech has not offended you.”

“No, indeed it has not. In fact, I appreciate it.” She spoke slowly, remembering Edgar’s impatience, which matched her own desire, to possess her on their wedding night. “Surely every bridegroom expects –” she broke off, afraid he would consider her immodest. Confound modesty! She looked forward to his kisses, shivering with an unexpected thrill and wondering what the touch of his bare skin against hers would be like.

Dominic’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “When husband and wife have married in haste, perhaps some bridegrooms, including me, are prepared to wait before they claim a husband’s privileges in the matrimonial bed.”

Never had she imagined such a considerate gentleman. Her eyelashes fluttered. Yes, he was right. Immediate marriage would enable Mister Markham to protect Arthur. She smiled at him. “You are all goodness, we shall marry without delay.” Harriet hoped it would not be long before he claimed what he called ‘a husband’s privileges’, but did not want to risk shocking him by saying so.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Harriet stretched on the comfortable mattress of the mahogany tent bed, with hyacinth blue silk curtains trimmed with gold fringes and a multitude of tassels. She relaxed, with a welcome sense of well-being, for she had  slept soundly for time since she went to Clarencieux Abbey.

The bed, large enough for two or three people, was another example of the luxury throughout Mivart’s Hotel. Would she and Mister Markham spend the first night of their married life here, or would he take her elsewhere?

Her stomach tightened. What would the rector expect of her? Surely he would not expect a widow to be as shy as a virgin bride. 

Her eyes misty, she remembered being alone with Edgar in a bedroom for the first time. She had not been bashful. To the contrary, she matched his passion without reservation.

Harriet sat up and punched one of her pillows.  The first time she saw Edgar, a blinding light seemed to dazzle her and make her oblivious to everyone else.  Now, she knew love came in many guises. Degree by degree, her love for Mister Markham increased until it lodged deep within her. Yet a shadow seemed to cross her heart.

Despite Mister Markham’s kindness, not once had he indicated he reciprocated her love. If he did not, she would suffer the ‘tortures of the damned’. How could she bear it if he never treated her with more than gentle consideration?

Her hands gripped together, Harriet sighed, considering the first problem. She could not find delicate words with which to indicate Mister Markham would be welcome to share her bed on their wedding night? Giggles forced themselves from her at the image of herself, an eager bride, coaxing her blushing bridegroom to delight in fulfilment of one of the marriage vows. With my body, I thee worship.

Harriet frowned. Were clergymen more restrained than other men?  She doubted it. After all, the Anglican priest and poet, John Donne, had  not only written poems extolling love, he had fathered twelve children, and expressed his grief in poignant verse when his wife died.

The bedroom door opened. “Good morning, my lady,” Plymouth greeted her. “You asked me to wake you at nine o’clock, but I see it’s unnecessary.” At the window, she looped back the blue velvet curtains with a gold cord. “Although it rained during the night, it’s a beautiful day.” She turned around. “Shall I fetch hot chocolate, tea or coffee and some bread and butter?”

* * *

Propped up by pillows in smooth linen cases edged with lace, Harriet balanced a silver tray on her lap. She sniffed appreciatively after pouring chocolate and raised a hand-painted porcelain cup to her lips. What did Mister Markham prefer to drink at breakfast? Ale, coffee, hot chocolate or tea? Well, a lifetime lay ahead in which to look forward to getting to know each other’s likes and dislikes.

A deep sigh escaped her. The rector announced their betrothal in order to save her reputation. Should she, in turn, be honourable and release him from their betrothal? No she must preserve her good name for her boy’s sake.