Tuesday's Child (Heroines Born on Each Day of the Week Book 3) (11 page)

Gwenifer stared at her with obvious astonishment. “You would prefer not to be waited on by a flock of servants?” She looked around the shabby dining room. “Can you imagine how much work you would have to do? In spite of my brother’s servants I often help in the kitchen or dairy.”

“By choice, not because it is necessary,” Mister Markham intervened.

His sister ignored his interruption. “And now, Harriet, we are to refurbish the Rectory. My brother insists I must not order the wallpaper with a Chinese design because it might offend some of his parishioners.” Her eyes shone. “Nevertheless, I am looking forward to choosing the material for new curtains, fresh paint and -”

Dominic raised his eyebrows. “Gwenifer, I fear you will bore her ladyship.”

The rector’s smile removed a possible sting from his rebuke.

“I am not bored, Mister Markham. You cannot imagine how often Mamma and I wanted to redecorate our quarters. Alas, we never settled in one place for long enough to make it worthwhile. I also helped in the kitchen. Even now, I know how to make a Portuguese soup called caldo verde, with potatoes, kale, and spicy sausage. I also know how to cook salted cod, which is a favourite in Portugal, and a delicious desert, arroz doce, rice pudding sprinkled with powdered cinnamon.” She leaned forward. “I have not milked a cow. I have milked many goats. So please disabuse yourself of the notion that I am a fine lady.”

Gwenifer’s jaw gaped for a moment. “Your life in foreign lands was quite different to my life in England. I suppose there were many ladies obliged to-” she broke off, obviously unable to think of something tactful.

Dominic’s shoulders heaved. “Be careful, Gwenifer, you are floundering in a quagmire from which there is no escape.”

Gwenifer tapped her brother’s knuckles with the end of her spoon. “Well, Harriet, if you will not take offence –”

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, pretending she hurt him. “My dear sister, be careful, not to end what seems to be the beginning of a new friendship with imprudent words.”

“Do be quiet, Dominic.” Gwenifer rapped him across the knuckles again, this time a little harder. “Harriet, at the risk of offending you, may I advise you not to mention cooking and milking at the ball Dominic told me your father-in-law will hold.”

‘Thank you for your advice.” Harriet replied, although she was not in the habit of mentioning such subjects. She had only mentioned them in response to Gwenifer’s admission.

Her hostess clasped her hands together, her eyes and cheeks glowing. “I hope Pennington will invite us, it seems so long since I danced.”

“I shall make sure your names are on the list of guests to be invited. If they are not, I will ask the earl for permission to include them.” Harriet glanced at Mister Markham. She would be delighted if he asked her to dance.

Like a child, her hostess clapped her hands, stilled them and smiled at her. “Harriet, are you sure I cannot tempt you to have another piece of pie?”

Harriet shook her head. “It is delicious, but I have eaten more than enough.”

Gwenifer glanced at her brother. “Some more, Dominic?”

“No thank you, but please compliment Cook on an excellent nuncheon.” He stood. “Lady Castleton shall we visit the church?”

“Yes, please.”

“Before we go, would you like me to put your papers in my library?”

She nodded.

Bright-eyed, Gwenifer looked at her. “Afterward, perhaps you would like to help me choose one of the three wallpapers I like for the drawing room.”

“I came to consult Mister Markham, so I doubt I will have time to do so today. But I would be delighted to visit you again, and help you choose.”

“I shall look forward to it.” The door opened. “Ah there is my brother, his hat in hand, ready to conduct you to the church.”

Harriet stood. “How kind of you Mister Markham.”

After Harriet arranged her hat, and pulled on her gloves, Gwenifer opened the front door. “While you admire St Michael’s and All Saints, I shall busy myself with the herb bed. No, no, Dominic don’t say it isn’t a task for a lady. You know I enjoy gardening.”

“Don’t forget to wear your wide brimmed straw, your skin burns easily,” he cautioned his sister, all brotherly concern. “Besides, Mamma will scold me if the sun darkens your complexion.”

Goodness, what would Mister Markham have thought of her sun tanned when she was in Portugal and Spain? She peered into a mirror on the wall, grateful to the abigail, whom the earl engaged for her, who suggested various creams and lotions to lighten her complexion and her hands.

Mister Markham settled his round black hat on his head of slightly disordered hair. “Shall we go, Lady Castleton? It is only a short distance to the church.”

Harriet nodded and ignored her urge to smooth back the curls on his forehead.

Chapter Nine

Side by side Harriet and Dominic walked along the neatly raked gravel path to the garden gate, which he opened for her. In the lane, which separated the Rectory from the sun-baked one leading to Queens Langley Village, they followed the line of the flint stone wall that enclosed the front garden.

Dominic paused by the lych-gate beyond which stood the large, solid church with a tower faced with flint. “Look up at the inscription, Lady Castleton.”

Harriet gazed at the weathered, wooden roof shaped like an inverted V, and read the carved words below it. “This is the Gate to Heaven.”

She looked at the graveyard in front of the church. The sight reminded her of Edgar, her father, friends and many soldiers. A shiver down her spine unsettled her. Many fine men lay buried, not in alien soil instead of their homeland, often with little more than a hastily made wooden cross to mark the place.

Harriet gestured to the nearest tombstone. Another shiver ran down her spine.  “I hope everyone, who once worshipped in St Michael and All Saints and are now interred here, passed through the Gate to Heaven.

“Amen.” Dominic gestured to the church door.  “This way.”

She stepped along the wide flag-stoned path. A posy of blood red roses on a child’s small grave tore at her heart. Never, ever, could she repay the rector for saving her son. If Arthur had drowned she doubted she would have found the strength to live.

Dominic pushed open the door. Inside the church, he led her through a large vestibule to the nave.

Harriet gazed up at a stained glass window above the chancel, which depicted the archangel Michael, the leader of heavenly hosts, a golden halo around his head, and a flaming sword in his hand. ‘It is glorious.”

“Yes, my lady, it is exquisite. The colours glow. Whenever I see it, I can only thank God for a miracle.” He shrugged. “Papists believe Saint Michael is the protector of the church. Perhaps, he intervened to prevent Cromwell’s soldiers from desecrating this church. Anyway, I am grateful because the window is intact. I am also thankful because they spared the angels overhead.”

Harriet tilted her head to look up at twelve life-sized wooden carvings of plump-cheeked, curly-haired angels, each of which played a different musical instrument. Arranged opposite each other, one pair’s hands were folded in prayer, four others inclined their sculpted heads towards the soaring roof, while two, seemed to gaze at her compassionately, as though they understood how sorry she was for herself. 

She took a deep breath. My parents disapproved of self-pity. I should be grateful for what I have and not to complain about whatever I lack. After all Arthur and I have a roof over our heads, fine clothes, enough to eat and much more. If only my father-in-law-”

“You seem sad. May I be of service to you?”

The Rector’s voice brought her back to the present. She forced herself to smile before she chose her words carefully. “You have already offered to help me. I don’t intend to impose on you by asking you do more.”

“Please don’t consider me impertinent for saying that although the Earl of Pennington provides for you and your son, I understand that, apart from your son, you feel alone in the world.” He gestured towards the altar. “Perhaps prayer would help.”

“Maybe.” Harriet looked down at the flagstones made uneven by those who walked along the aisle for centuries. She should have made a more gracious reply, but, previously, she had prayed on her knees for hours in the hope God would help her? And when He did, nothing could have prepared her for her autocratic father-in-law. 

“Lady Castleton. If you wish to pray I shall wait outside for you.”

“No, thank you, at the moment I don’t wish to,” she replied, somewhat flustered because he might condemn her lack of piety. “I might pray later at Clarencieux.” As she spoke she had resisted the temptation to cross her fingers behind her back. “Now, please tell me about Saint Michael and All Saints. Is it very old?”

“Yes, it is, according to Reverend Jamieson, the previous incumbent of the parish, who interested himself in its history. The tower, which is flint-faced, was built by Anglo Saxons. The font is Norman and there is a medieval monument to one of my ancestresses, who died at the age of twenty giving birth to her son. Apart from that memorial, there are two seventeenth century black and white marble tombs in which the sixth Earl of Faucon and his wife are interred.

“Deaths and more deaths.” Harriet muttered, unable to conceal her bitterness.

“Which are inevitable, Lady Castleton. We should not grieve for departed Christian souls. Before he laid his head on the block, the first King Charles said he would go from a corruptible world to an incorruptible one? Let us comfort ourselves with his words.”

With an effort, instead of dwelling on her losses, Harriet forced herself to ask a question. ‘Has your family been linked to this area for a long time?”

“Yes, since the eleventh century.”

Chills shivered up and down her spine. She wondered if the ghostly apparitions she sensed were imaginary.

“It is a little cold in here, shall we go out into the sunshine and then return to the Rectory?” Dominic asked.

“Yes please,” Harriet answered, eager to leave the spectres, who might haunt the church. In step with Dominic, she walked back through the graveyard with its grim reminder of mortality, and retraced her footsteps through the old lych-gate.

The rector gestured to the left. “Opposite St Michael’s and All Saints are the alms-houses built on the orders of the eighth Earl of Faucon to house twenty of the deserving poor.”

Harriet observed the neat line of single-storey buildings with thatched roofs and gardens crammed with fruit, vegetables and colourful flowers. “Are all of them occupied?”

“Yes, by decent parishioners fallen on hard times, who have no family able to support them. The only stipulation is, that unless they are too unwell, they must attend the church service on Sunday mornings.

“If they are sick, my sister makes sure they are well looked after, and  gives them baskets of food suitable for invalids.”

“She is good.” Harriet’s conscience goaded her. She should see to the welfare of villagers on her father-in-law’s estate. Along with privilege came obligations, which she suspected the earl neglected.

Dominic led her forward. “On your right, my lady, is the school built on my father’s orders. It is attended by the sons of shopkeepers, farmers and the like.”

“Do you teach the children?”

“I prepare them for confirmation by teaching them the catechism, but not how to read, write and figure. Of course, I ensure that, according to my father’s wishes, they and their families attend church on Sundays.”

“Do their sisters receive an education?” Harriet asked, grateful to her parents for ensuring she received a good education in spite of many difficulties.

Dominic shrugged. “I prepare them for confirmation. Apart from that most of them are taught at home in accordance with their parents’ wishes.”

“The villagers’ children?”

“They attend the dame school.” Dominic looked down the road at a pair of horses trotting towards them. When the riders drew rein, he doffed his hat. “Lady Castleton, may I introduce Squire Clifford’s daughters. Miss Clifford and Miss Emily?” he asked, the expression in his eyes rueful.

“Good day.” Harriet tilted her head back to look up at them.

“So, you are the Earl of Pennington’s daughter-in-law, and you have a handsome little boy called Arthur! I’ve seen him riding with his grandfather,” gabbled Emily, a plump girl, who could be no more than fifteen or sixteen years old.

Harriet presumed her arrival in the area must have caused a great deal of gossip.

Miss Clifford frowned at her sister. “Lady Castleton, I beg you to forgive Emily for prattling. I hope you’re not displeased.”

“No, I am not. How could any mother be irritated when someone says her son handsome?”

“I can only imagine she wouldn’t.” While Miss Clifford addressed her, she fluttered her long, thick eyelashes at Mister Markham “Lady Castleton, I’m sure our rector will not think it immodest of me if I say I hope to have a child one day.”

A swift glance at the rector sufficed for Harriet to ponder on the quizzical expression in his eyes.

Emily leaned forward in the saddle. “Lady Castleton, does the Earl of Pennington intend to hold a ball to introduce you to his neighbours? If he does, I hope I will receive an invitation.”

“Emily, you’re too forward!” her sister exclaimed. “Even if you received one, Mamma would not allow you to accept it. You’re only a schoolgirl.”

The younger girl pouted before she spoke again, a cunning expression in her amber eyes. “Our mother would allow you to accept it. And I’m sure you would like Mister Markham to dance with you.”

“Hush.” Miss Clifford did not look entirely displeased. Her eyes luminous and soft, she gazed at the rector with palpable admiration.

“Oh,” he responded, “I doubt a mere clergyman is of sufficient importance to be invited to a ball.”

“I disagree.” Miss Clifford tapped his shoulder with her riding crop. “I don’t think the earl would slight you.”

A twitch of Mister Markham’s eyebrows revealed his irritation, that Harriet noticed, but she doubted either young lady did.

Dominic inclined his head. “You must excuse us, Miss Clifford, Miss Emily.”

Harriet wondered if she imagined the squire’s older daughter looked at her with dislike in her expressive eyes, for the impression quickly faded.

“Good day to you, ladies.’ Dominic inclined his head to the squire’s daughters. “Lady Castleton, my sister is waiting for us.”

Harriet waved her free hand at the sisters. “I daresay we shall see each other again,” she murmured, although she did not care whether they would or not.

Mister Markham led her down the path to the Rectory. “A fortunate escape,” he muttered. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Castleton.” His laughter made him seem like a carefree young man. “At the risk of sounding conceited, I am always glad to escape from one of the Band of Hopefuls.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Gwenifer’s name for young ladies, who lay traps in an attempt to snare a husband.” He sighed. “Even from the pulpit, I am aware of them. I dread being compromised, so I remain constantly on my guard.”

Until this moment, Harriet merely admired his appearance. Now, she completely appreciated his exceptional good looks. Taller than most men, with an athletic figure, legs shown off to perfection in his skin-tight, perfectly cut pantaloons, his abundant black curls would tempt any female to run her fingers through them. Heat scalded her cheeks. At the thought of one of the ‘band of hopefuls’ snaring Dominic Markham in a well-laid trap she suffered from a jealous pang.

“Are you overheated, Lady Castleton? Would you care for some refreshments?”

“What time is it?” she asked, thankful because the observant gentleman could not read her mind.

Mister Markham consulted his pocket watch. “Nearly half past one.”

“I should return to Clarencieux. The Earl might be worried because I did not return for nuncheon so.”

“You could send your groom with a message to inform your father-in-law where you are, and tell him I shall escort you back to the abbey. In the meantime, you might enjoy some tea or barley water, which is very refreshing in this hot weather. Or, perhaps, you would prefer a glass of wine. ”

“Thank you for the suggestion, which I accept. Barley water would be welcome. Afterwards, with your permission, perhaps I may give you my reference for Bessie, and also show you the notes I have made about my family.”

“By all means, Lady Castleton.”

They strolled through the house, and a pair of open doors into the beautiful garden, with beds of herbs and flowers contained by low box hedges. 

With appreciation, Harriet breathed in the scent of roses and honeysuckle. “This is like Mamma’s description of the garden at her father’s house.”

“My sister’s domain,” Dominic explained. “Please sit at the garden table, and excuse me for a moment while I send for your barley water, and some of cook’s excellent gingerbread, to which I admit I am very partial.”

Harriet admired his easy gait as she watched him retrace his footsteps. A long forgotten, but familiar flutter, stirred within her. Shocked by her reaction to Mister Markham, Harriet half rose in her chair. It was so long since she conversed at any length with any gentleman that – What?

She completely understood why Mister Markham’s handsome appearance, enhanced by clerical black coats and pantaloons,  and his good manners drew young ladies to him like bees to a honeypot. Harriet straightened her back. She would not be one of an attentive hive of admirers. Her hot cheeks were due to the weather not-

“I hope Gwenifer, will join us in a few minutes.” Dominic’s well-modulated voice startled her.

“Good, I am delighted to have met your sister, and look forward to furthering our acquaintanceship.”

Dominic’s eyebrows twitched. What did her face reveal when she looked up at him? Harriet sought for something to say. “Er, Miss Clifford is a beautiful young lady.”

“Not as young as you might think. I believe she is twenty-one.”

Harriet’s jaw tightened. How old did he think she was? What did it matter? Why should he spare a glance for a twenty-four-year-old lady? Lud, what was she thinking? Why should she want him to pay her particular attention? Yet she could not banish the hope he would attend the ball and dance with her.

* * *

“More lemon barley water, Harriet?” Gwenifer asked.

“No, thank you although it was cool, and very welcome, and so was the gingerbread. Please congratulate your cook. It is delicious,” Harriet replied.

Gwenifer stared over Harriet’s shoulder. “Yes, I will.” She seemed distracted.

Harriet turned around on her chair to find out what engaged Gwenifer’s attention. Oh, Miss Clifford and Miss Emily had returned. She turned back to look at her hostess.

“Drat them,” Gwenifer breathed.

Miss Clifford curtsied. “Mister Markham, Lady Gwenifer, please forgive our intrusion. I lost my locket during my ride. I thought that if it fell off near the rectory, someone might have been kind enough to bring it here for safe keeping.”

Harriet bit her lip to prevent herself from laughing at the look of dismay in Mister Markham’s eyes.

Gwenifer rang a hand bell. She stood. “The servants have not mentioned anyone leaving it here.” She glanced at the maidservant, who answered the summons. “You may clear the table.” Gwenifer inclined her head to the squire’s daughters. “Please excuse us, we have some urgent business. If the locket is handed in I shall send it to the Manor.”

“Thank you,” Miss Clifford answered, obviously downcast because she and her sister had not been invited to join them.

Harriet noticed Miss Emily shift from one foot to the other. Perhaps Mister Markham’s next sermon should be on the subject of deceit.

The squire’s daughters curtsied. Arm-in-arm, they walked across the lawn towards the side of the building. Before they turned around the corner, Miss Clifford looked back at the rector and smiled mischievously at him.

“Minxes!” Gwenifer exclaimed.

“Thank you for rescuing me from them.” Dominic laughed. “I fear I am an unworthy vicar for not reprimanding you for fibbing on my behalf.”

“My dear brother, next time a lady tries to foist herself on you I shall leave you at her mercy instead of saying you have urgent business.”

“My sweet sister, not even you could not be so hard-hearted.”

Gwenifer chuckled. “Could I not?”

Chapter Ten

Dominic indicated the pair of straight-backed chairs opposite his desk. “Please be seated, Lady Castleton.”

“Thank you.” Harriet sat, the tips of her toes, sheathed by her riding boots, visible on the chair rail.

An unexpected desire to protect her surged through Dominic. “Ah,” he began, surprised by the vehemence of his sudden impulse, “here are the papers which you entrusted to me.”

“Thank you. I have written Bessie’s reference.” Harriet untied the ribbon around the packet, withdrew a paper, and offered it to him, at the same time looking intently at him. “Mister Markham.” Her voice sounded unsure.