Tuesday's Child (Heroines Born on Each Day of the Week Book 3) (12 page)

Lost in admiration of her ladyship, Dominic realised his intense scrutiny embarrassed her. He looked down into her apprehensive eyes, with the sincere hope his smile would reassure her. He bent forward to take the reference. Lady Castleton’s flowery perfume combined with the sweetness of vanilla and a hint of something sharp, aroused his desire to kiss her pretty mouth. Somewhat shaken, by his involuntary response to the lady, after he took the paper from her small, outstretched hand, he retreated his chair on the other side of the desk.

“You are kind, Lady Castleton,” Dominic commented, after he read the reference.

“Every word is true. Bessie is an excellent nurse. In fact, Arthur told his grandfather he misses her, and asked him if she may return to Clarencieux.”

For several seconds, the sight of the tip of between her lips, while she frowned, increased the rate of his pulse.

“Perhaps my father-in-law will try to persuade Bessie to return,” Harriet mused.

Dominic took several deep breaths before he spoke. “I shall give your reference to her.”

Harriet unfolded several papers and slid them towards him across the desk. “I appreciate your generous offer of help. I have written down everything I know about my parents’ families.” She shrugged. “I know both my father and mother had brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles.” Her forehead wrinkled. My parents only mentioned one or two names, which I cannot remember.”

Who could ignore the frustration in her ladyship’s eyes? Only someone with a much harder heart than his. Conscious of the blessing of his affectionate family, Dominic could scarcely imagine what it was like for Lady Castleton, an orphan dependent on a father-in-law, who seemed determined to alienate his grandson from his mother.

“Lady Castleton, if you agree, to allow me to help you find your relatives, I suggest we begin the search with advertisements in the broadsheets. I also think a search of the church register in the Devonshire parish of Loxbeare might be fruitful.”

“Those are excellent ideas. Mister Markham.” She blinked. “Loxbeare is a long way from here. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

Much addicted to tales of King Arthur when he was young, Dominic imagined being a knight of old to be willing to lay down his life for a lady. He gave himself a mental shake, and, not for the first time, told himself not to be so whimsical. Even a gentleman versed in the ways of ladies would know the young widow’s heart had, most probably, been interred with her husband. Yet, it was more common for widows to marry than not.

“The search will not inconvenience me, my lady. I shall write to the incumbent of the parish and ask him to search the register on your behalf.” He smiled again, in an attempt to alleviate the anxiety on her expressive face. “Most clergymen are willing to help each other.”

“Y…yes, of course, how foolish of me to assume you would seek evidence in person.” Harriet stood. “I must return to Clarencieux.” She softened her abrupt words with a smile.

“If you must, it shall be my pleasure to escort you.”

* ** *

“Mamma often told me how pretty the English countryside is,” Harriet remarked, while she and Mister Markham rode along the leafy lane leading south towards the village. “I think she yearned to return to England with Papa, who would never have agreed to resign from the army until the war ended. When I was a young child I did not understand the depth of her love which compelled her to following the drum. After I married, I fully understood.” At the sound of a squirrel overhead she broke off for a moment. “I should not chatter like that little creature. I cannot think why I did, for I am not in the habit of doing so.”

“I would be pleased to listen with interest to your ... er … chatter.”

“Thank you, Mister Markham. You are patient,” she replied demurely, although he seemed amused.

They rode in silence until they reached the village green, edged on three sides by elegant houses built in the middle of the third King George’s reign. Two drakes quacked, and skimmed the water in the village pond. Further along the high street, they passed a village shop with bow windows. Harriet tried to peer through the glass, marked by whorls, which made it almost impossible to see inside, even from a short distance.

She looked ahead at a square in the centre of which stood a weather worn stone cross encrusted with lichen. Opposite stood an inn, with timbers blackened with age and white walls.

“Should I fetch a tankard of ale, Rector?” a man called from the doorway.

Dominic waved a hand at him. “Thank you, Jim, not today, although I know the ale you brew is the best for miles around.”

“Perhaps the lady would enjoy a glass of wine while you drink a mug of ale to put heart into you.”

Dominic laughed. “I hope God has already granted me sufficient heart.”

“No need to dismount,” Jim persisted. “I can serve you outside.”

“No, thank you, Jim,” Dominic repeated. “Good day to you.”

They rode on past a row of cottages. Several women, most of them with small children, who either helped or hampered them, busy tending front gardens in which cabbages, marigolds and other vegetables and flowers grew next to each other. When they noticed Mister Markham, they came to their garden gates to greet him. A very different reaction to the sullen one received by her father-in-law from the inhabitants of Clarencieux Village.

To Harriet’s surprise, when the cottagers gathered on the street, Dominic reined in his horse and spoke to them.

Impressed, because he asked after their husbands by name, and also knew those of each child, she observed him talk to them with the same courtesy he would address ladies of equal rank to his own.

“How are you, Mrs Page?” he asked a young woman, who held a baby in the crook of one arm and a toddler’s hand with her free one. “You have not been to church for several weeks. I hope it is not due to ill health.”

The other women bobbed curtseys and returned to their gardens.

“It’s my ma-in-law, sir. The old woman is as hale and hearty as my husband and me, but claims she’s too ill to walk to church. What’s more, she won’t let me leave her alone in the cottage. So I stay here while my man goes to morning service.”

“I see.” Dominic leant down from the saddle to pat the baby’s head. “Little Benjamin looks well and so does William. They do you credit. Good day to you, Mrs Page.”

“I shall visit the mother-in-law to assess the situation,” Dominic said, after they rode away.

“I am sorry for young Mrs Page, but she is fortunate to have a rector who takes an interest in his parishioners,” Harriet remarked, while they crossed a hump-backed bridge over a stream, with water so clear she could see minnows, sticklebacks and other small fish darting in and out of water weeds.

Harriet could not imagine the inn-keeper in Clarencieux Village having the temerity to invite its haughty vicar to take a glass of ale, any more than she could imagine the man talking so kindly to his flock.

They drew near to the water mill, outside which the miller stood by a cart loaded with sacks. “A fine day, sir,” he called out, and pointed towards a large, thatch roofed cottage on the banks of the placid pond, its waters reflecting the clear blue sky. “I know my wife would be honoured if you and the lady would step inside Mill House and have some refreshment. My Sally has a light hand with bread and pastry.”

“Not today, thank you, but please give her my good wishes,” Dominic called back.

Within less than a mile of pastures, in which fat cattle or sheep grazed, they turned right onto the drive bordered by plane trees, which led to Clarencieux. All too soon they reached the former abbey. Mister Markham dismounted. Harriet swung her right leg over the pommel, and permitted him to help her out of the saddle. Both feet on the thick gravel of the semi-circular drive in front of the grey stone building, she gazed up and shivered at the sight of time-worn gargoyles’ malicious faces.

“What is wrong, Lady Castleton?”

She pointed at the stone images. “I know they are only water spouts, which fascinate Arthur, but I dislike them.”

“I hope they don’t disturb your dreams.”

“I sleep well, though I confess Clarencieux often seems unquiet. I imagine the ghosts of long dead monks linger here. Perhaps they disapprove of my father-in-law’s alterations to the building, both inside and outside, so much that they would prefer their hallowed walls to tumble down.” Uneasy, she laughed. “What a shocking thing to say to an Anglican rector. Please forgive me, you must think I am too fanciful.”

“No, I don’t. To quote from the Merchant of Venice: Tell me where fancy is bred? Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished?”

Surprised by his reply Harriet scrutinised him. “You read the works of William Shakespeare?”

“Yes. Also Pride and Prejudice and Waverley, and many other books besides poetry. Please don’t look so surprised, Lady Castleton. I would not like you to think I am a dull fellow, too academic to read anything other than either sermons or dusty tomes of a serious nature borrowed from my father’s library.”

Harriet shook her head. “No, no, I assure you I don’t consider you tedious, I only fear you consider me too imaginative.”

“No, I don’t. To be honest, I now fear you will think I am a frippery fellow because I read fiction.” Dominic looked into her eyes, every trace of amusement banished from his. “Lord Jesus Christ cast out demons. In His name, whether living or dead, they can, in theory, be exorcised. However, in my opinion if gentle ghosts haunt their previous dwelling places they should be ignored.”

Harriet thought of the staircase at the rear of the abbey, a shortcut from the second storey to the back of the building. On the only occasion when she descended it, in spite of the hot day, icy cold enveloped her, the hairs on the back of her neck quivered, and a sense of malevolence terrified her.

Mister Markham’s eyes seemed to pierce through hers.

“You are pale, Lady Castleton. Has something frightened you?”

She shrugged. “Yes, there is one place in the abbey which I avoid because it seems…seems... Oh I cannot describe my impression. Even if I could I am sure you would think I am foolish.”

“I doubt it.”

“You are kind, but, for now, I must bid you good day. Thank you for escorting me, and for your help.”

Dominic inclined his head. “It is my pleasure, Lady Castleton.” He mounted his horse, waved his hand in a gesture of farewell and rode away.

While Harriet handed the reins of her mare to a groom, she watched Mister Markham, who rode in perfect rhythm with his horse’s gait. Something deep within her fluttered. She took a quick breath. The rector aroused something in her which, after Arthur died, she never again expected to experience? She thrust the thought away and tried to recall every detail of Edgar’s handsome face. After a brief struggle with guilt, she acknowledged he slipped farther away from her every day.

Unfortunately, Arthur’s only knowledge of his father would be hearsay. Harriet shook her head. No, she would not indulge in self-pity. She must look forward instead of backward.

* * *

Deep in thought, Dominic rode slowly back to the rectory. Unlike his older brothers he never consorted with ladies of questionable virtue or with members of the demi-monde. He had also rejected severable opportunities to have affairs with married women.

After his introduction to the ton at the age of eighteen, he had met several young ladies he admired. Yet, since his rejection by a young girl, which, at the time, he believed broke his heart, until now, he had never met a lady whose charms induced him to consider exchanging his contented bachelor’s life for a married man’s.

Without enthusiasm, Dominic raised his hand in acknowledgement of those he knew, whom he rode past. His head filled with thoughts of Lady Castleton he passed by the Cooper’s thatch-roofed cottage on the outskirts of the village.

The more Dominic saw of Lady Castleton the more he admired her. He struggled to convince himself only a desire to help the widow drew him to her. In vain he castigated himself for his admiration of her fairy-like appearance. Ridiculous to be inexorably drawn her as though she were a magnet.. Every time he saw Lady Castleton, spoke with her and walked by her side, and when he rode with her today, the lure of her graceful form and delightful personality tugged him towards her. He must not hint at how much he was inexorably drawn to her, while keeping his promises to try and trace her father’s bank and her family. For his own sake he should not favour her any more than any other Christian soul who needed his help. Yet, could he manage not to?

For the second time in recent days, Dominic reminded himself of his parents’ expectations of him. Unless Robert made an unlikely, miraculous recovery, Dominic believed that if he chose a wife of unequal birth it would not only distress his father, mother, but disappoint all of his relations, even distant connections. Yet he could never enter into a tepid marriage with a suitable lady to please his family.

“You know your duty. What of your heart?” his silent, cynical, inner voice objected,

How would his parents react if he introduced Lady Castleton to them as his prospective bride? Could he depend on her charm to make a favourable impression?

He had no concern about the succession, for her ladyship had given birth to one delightful son. In spite of her delicate appearance, there would be no reason for his father and mother to doubt Lady Castleton would have more healthy children. So, apart from the hurdle of their inequality of birth, why should his family object to him marrying the widow?