Tuesday's Child (Heroines Born on Each Day of the Week Book 3) (15 page)

So does intense dislike, Dominic thought, with Robert and his sister-in-law in mind.

“Apart from you choosing a bride, we have much to discuss,” Joshua rattled on. “I suggest for the time being you remain the incumbent of Saint Michael and All Saints, and resign from your other two parishes. It will not be difficult for me to replace you. I also suggest you delegate more of your parish duties to your curate, and familiarise yourself with the business of the estates you will inherit.”

Dominic smiled wryly, comparing himself to a hermit crab reluctantly forced to find a new shell because his present one was too small. Would his parents lurk near it in perfect agreement about his future? The thought struck him with annoyance. However, he would be less than human if he did not appreciate his inheritance. The future was not entirely bleak. He liked children and hoped to become a father. Dominic imagined his sons and daughters playing within and without Faucon Castle.

He decided to do his best to find an agreeable young lady of impeccable birth to whom he could offer if not his heart, his hand in marriage. If she accepted him, he would do his utmost to ensure her happiness. Moreover, why should he not be happy with a beautiful wife to preside at his table, entertain his guests, participate with him in society and encourage him when he took his seat in The House of Lords? His pulse quickened at the thought of speaking out against the ills besetting the poor and uneducated, as well as the evils of slavery, to the peers of the realm. Maybe some good would follow the waste of the life of a brother whom he loved, despite Robert’s riotous living that led to an incurable disease.

“Another glass of wine, before we discuss the Faucon estates?” Joshua asked.”

Much later, the butler entered the library. “My Lord, Mister Markham, my lady asked me to tell you nuncheon is served.”

With his father, Dominic made his way to a small dining room, in which the family preferred to enjoy their meals when guests did not join them.

Seated at the table spread with silver cutlery and delicate china, Morwenna smiled at them, an elegant sight in a pale blue cambric morning gown, and a lace-edged muslin cap on her head. “I hope the three of us are in perfect accord.”

Joshua bent to kiss her cheek. “I think so, my love.”

With a wave of her hand Morwenna dismissed Fisher and two footmen. “Dominic?” she asked, after the door closed behind them.

He dismissed a mental picture of Harriet in the role of their daughter-in-law. “Yes, Mamma.”

Morwenna narrowed her eyes. “I hope you are not set on remaining a bachelor because you are attached to a female your papa and I would disapprove of.”

Dominic nearly choked on his mouthful of a lamb sandwich. His mother was unnervingly perceptive, particularly where her sons and daughters were concerned. During their childhood, no matter how hard they tried, they could rarely conceal anything from her.

Gwenifer! Did she suspect he more than admired Harriet? Had she mentioned her hunch to their mother?

Uneasy, he looked across the table into Mamma’s watchful eyes.

“Dominic, the three of us are in agreement. You will relinquish two of your livings, familiarise yourself with your father’s business, and help him to supervise the estate with his bailiff’s help. And, of course, you will choose a wife.”

He held back a deep sigh. No one knew better than Mamma’s children how determined the tough breed of Cornish ladies could be. And no one could guess what it cost her, a good Christian lady, to reconcile herself to God’s will.

Inwardly, he groaned. Surely, the waste of Robert’s life was due to his weak will not God’s.

* * *

After Harriet had refused to go to London to choose her ball gown, the earl had summoned, Madame Celeste.  A refugee from The French Revolution, now one of the most sought after modistes in London, only an exorbitant sum had enticed Celeste to Clarencieux.

Madame clapped her hands. “Parfait, Lady Castleton.”

Perfect? In her dressing room, Harriet turned around to look at her reflection in the mirror framed in ornately carved, gilded wood. For a moment, Harriet imagined she stared at a stranger. A young woman dressed in a gold net ball gown with a gold tissue rouleau at the hem. Worn over aquamarine satin, it was a tribute to Celeste’s skill.

Harriet executed some lively dance steps, her skirts swirling around her ankles. “You are a genius, Madame. This gown is as heavenly as your name.”

“Merci.” Celeste smiled, obviously appreciative of the play on her name.

Harriet beckoned to Plymouth. “Please help me. It is time to try on my other new clothes.”

Her father-in-law did not approve of her saying please and thank you to servants. Regardless of either his or anyone else’s opinion, she had no intention of being top-lofty.

Two hours later, delighted with jaconet, silk and plain and sprigged muslin gowns, some made in fine wool, suitable for colder weather, and silk, crape, and velvet evening gowns, Harriet sank onto an armchair

Celeste held up the skirt of a Prussian blue riding habit embellished with braid a la militaire. “Zis needs to be ‘ow do you English say it? Oh yes, adjusted. ’Eet is loose at ze waist. Time try those on.” Celeste indicated the pelisses, spencers and a dark blue cloak lined with cream-coloured silk on the chaise longue.

“Later, Madame.” In need of refreshment, Harriet sank onto a comfortable chair in the corner of the room. She gestured to the accessories in a small trunk, mob caps and cornettes trimmed with bewitching lace and ribbons, hats and gloves, reticules and much more. ‘You have brought me riches beyond counting.”

“A pleasure, Lady Castleton.” One by one, Celeste displayed hats for daywear and satin fillets, lace caps and turbans for evening wear. “When you come to London, milady, I hope you will give your custom to Mademoiselle Yvette, the milliner, whose creations are sought by the most fashionable members of the ton.”

“Yes, I shall.”

“Milady is too kind,” Celeste murmured.

The clock chimed eleven. Time to have nuncheon with her father-in-law.

“Plymouth, please arrange for Madame to be served with food and drink in the housekeeper’s parlour. Afterwards, I shall try on the rest of the clothes.”

* * *

Harriet sat opposite her father-in-law at the foot of the dining room table.

Pennington gazed at her across the large expanse of the white damask tablecloth. “The arrangements are underway for the ball, which is to be held on the night of the next full moon.” He took a ham sandwich from a silver dish held out by a footman.

Puzzled, Harriet frowned.

“Ah, you have not been in England for long enough to know highwaymen and footpads prefer dark nights, so moonlit nights are safer,” Pennington explained.

Harriet bit into her sandwich, remembering the pair of lady’s pocket pistols her father gave her. She smiled at the memory of practicing hour after hour until Father was satisfied. “For your protection,” he murmured, whenever she complained she was tired of shooting at the targets.

Her father-in-law eyed her. “You are amused by my mention of such dangerous criminals?”

“No, Papa, I remembered my dear father drilling me in the use of firearms.”

The earl raised his eyebrows. “Drilling you, like a common soldier?”

Harriet’s nostrils flared. He should be grateful to all the soldiers, common or not, who fought against Napoleon’s army. “No, my father made sure I could defend myself if necessary” Harriet decided to send someone to Brighton to retrieve the pistols and other items she pawned in order to survive.

“Invitations to the ball have been issued,” Pennington informed her. “If the fortunate recipients accept, I daresay forty couples or more will participate in the country dances.” He paused, presumably to give her an opportunity to express admiration.

“Splendid,” she responded.

“Invitations, he continued, “have been sent to the gentry, Mister Markham and Lady Gwenifer, their parents, the Dowager Duchess of Farringdon, her granddaughter, Lady Elizabeth, the Kershaws and other important landowners.”

Harriet thought of both the impromptu and magnificent formal dances in Portugal, where she and her husband had been popular. “I look forward to your splendid ball.”

“Good.” Pennington’s rare smile appeared. “I have employed a dancing master, who will arrive this afternoon. I expect you to apply yourself to your lessons.” His crafty eyes gleamed. “I fear you will have less time than usual to devote yourself to Arthur. Don’t concern yourself. He shall be well-cared for.”

Insufferable of him to assume she did not know how to dance, and to reduce the hours she spent with her son.

“I expect you to be a credit to me,” Pennington continued. “Of course, you have not time to learn the minuet so the ball will not commence with one.”

Before she could speak again, her father-in-law forestalled her. “Besides, the minuet is no longer popular.”

Despite his portrait, that hung in the gallery, she looked at him unable to imagine him in his youth.

Her father-in-law picked up his wine glass. “Cole, the dancing master, will ensure you have learned the steps of country dances, the cotillion, which is now less in fashion than it used to be, and the popular quadrille. I hope you are both grateful and pleased.”

“Yes, I am, Papa, but-”

“Not a word of protest. In view of your parents’ shocking elopement, you should thank God on bended knees for my generosity. Without it, you would never be able to be introduced to polite society.” Pennington dabbed his mouth with his napkin.

“I was not going to protest.” For Arthur’s sake she must tolerate the humiliation. She could not imagine what the repercussions would be if she provoked the dictatorial old man. “I merely intended to remark you did not mention the waltz.”

Would he sanction the dance, which many people considered a shocking threat to morality?

“Certainly not!”

“I beg your pardon?” She did not dare to explain the dance had been her own and Edgar’s favourite, for, it was the only one which gave a couple the opportunity to concentrate on each other. “I asked because, since army officers introduced the waltz in England, it has even been sanctioned at Almacks.”

“No more on the subject.” Pennington held up his hand to silence her. “My instructions to Cole don’t include him teaching it to you and the other young people; and, at the ball, I expect you to conduct yourself with utmost propriety.”

Harriet’s temper flared. Although her parents and Edgar were now in God’s keeping, she would never knowingly disgrace them. Her stomach churning, she suppressed an angry retort.

Harriet supposed the earl meant well, yet no matter how hard she tried, she could not like him. In fact, she disliked him more than any other person, living or dead.

“There is so much to arrange.” Pennington helped himself to a small plum tart. “I am certain of one thing, my guests at the ball, must be served white soup.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Made with Jordan almonds and other expensive ingredients, few can afford to serve it to so many guests. Apart from it, I have planned a sumptuous repast. Lobsters and prawns, roast meats, pineapples, peaches and raspberry ice to name a few of the dishes on the menu.”

* * *

Seated in the drawing room at the rectory, Harriet smiled at Gwenifer, relieved to have escaped from the confines of Clarencieux. Indeed, Harriet liked her hostess, and hoped they would become close friends.

“Some wine or would you prefer orgeat?” Gwenifer asked.

“Thank you. A glass of orgeat.”

“The ball to be held at the abbey is the talk of the neighbourhood.” Gwenifer poured their drink into glasses and handed her one.

Harriet pressed her free hand to the side of her head. “Please don’t mention the subject to me. I have been turned this way and that, pricked and jabbed with pins while my ball gown was fitted, and now I am at the mercy of a dancing master.”

Gwenifer raised her eyebrows. “Why? Don’t you know how to dance?”

“Yes, I do, but my father-in-law-” Harriet realised she should not criticise him, so she broke off, instead of explaining the earl only assumed her parents neglected her education, and refused to listen to her when she tried to protest.

“Doo you know how to waltz?” Gwenifer asked. “I hear the dance is popular on the continent. Sadly, in this country, many still consider it scandalous.”

“Well, it is quite different to country dances and quadrilles, in which each participant must co-operate.”

Gwenifer stood and assumed a pose. “Last time I visited London, where I stayed with my sister Rozen, our cousin, an army officer, taught her how to waltz in the privacy of her house.” She blushed. “I admit to confusion. Part of me cannot imagine being in such close proximity to a gentleman, who might be a stranger. The other part tells me I wish to learn such a dashing dance.”

“Which one?” asked Mister Markham from the threshold.

Captured by his deep, well-modulated voice, Harriet turned her head to look at him.  Intensely aware of his well-made figure in a black riding habit heat flooded her cheeks.

The rector approached her, every inch a gentleman from the tip of his riding boots to his intricately arranged cravat. “Forgive my rudeness, Lady Castleton, I should have greeted you before I put a question. Good day to you, I hope you are well.”