Tuesday's Child (Heroines Born on Each Day of the Week Book 3) (21 page)

Although she would never forget Edgar, perhaps it was time to consign him to the past. To move forward with her life and be grateful for her father-in-law’s protection. Yet she did not, indeed, could not trust the earl. Something extremely distasteful, which she occasionally caught glimpses of but could not analyse, lurked beneath his fashionable façade of powder, rouge and elegant clothes.

Should she confide in Mister Markham? She thought of him as a friend, yet, if she were frank, what would he think? How would he judge her? With surprise, she acknowledged his opinion was important. The clock chimed. Time to partake of nuncheon with the earl, the chaplain and the secretary. Not for the first time, Harriet wished  another lady, with whom she could be friends, lived at Clarencieux. Harriet hoped she would enjoy  her sisters-in-law and Sarah Stanton’s company.

Later, at the dining room table, apart from her thanks to Mister Vaughan for the information, and comments concerning the weather, little was said about the ball.

In response to the chaplain drawing the earl’s attention to an elderly couple, in need of aid, who lived in Clarencieux Village, his eyes steel-hard, her father-in-law, regarded her. “It is for you, the lady of the house, to provide them with a basket of leftover food.”

“I shall be pleased to, Papa.”

Harriet turned her attention to Mister Rivers. “Perhaps you would be good enough to inform me if there are others in need. I know what it is to suffer hunger.”

Pennington’s fork clattered onto his plate. He scowled. “Lady Castleton, in future, you will not refer to your previous situation.”

Embarrassed she looked across the table. Did she imagine that yet again, well-bred Mister Vaughan looked at her sympathetically?

She finished her portion of apple tart and thick cream. “If you will excuse me, Papa,” she murmured. “Gentlemen.”

* * *

In her dressing room, Harriet changed into a cambric gown and, after glancing out of the window the dismal weather, a pale grey wool pelisse trimmed with blue braid.

Ready to leave for the rectory, where she would  give the rector and his sister their final dance lesson, Harriet held the tip of her umbrella while she looked out of the window trying to decide whether or not it would rain again after the thunder storm.

The sky, mottled with grey, hinted at another downpour. Well, if she made haste, the carriage might arrive at the rectory before the heavens opened to soak the ground even more.

The first fat drops of rain fell when the groom hurried to the rectory door to apply the brass knocker. Her umbrella protecting her from the worst of the downpour, Harriet picked her way along the water-logged gravel path.

A young maidservant, little more than a child, whom Harriet saw for the first time, opened the door. “If you please, my lady, the rector’s waiting for you in his study.”

Harriet stepped indoors and unfurled her umbrella,  aware her heart beat a little faster than usual at the thought of seeing Mister Markham. In silence, she cursed her stays which prevented her from taking deep breaths to steady herself.

She followed the maidservant, who led her to the study, where she tapped on the door before opening it. “Lady Castleton, sir.

Dominic closed a large leather bound book. “Ah, good day to you, my lady, I have been waiting for you.” He rose from his chair behind the desk and bowed.

Mister Markham straightened. Why did he frown at her? Due to bad news that would affect her? 

“Where are your wits, Mary?” Dominic asked the maidservant. “Why did you not relieve her ladyship of her umbrella, hat and gloves?”

“Oh, I apologise, my umbrella has dripped onto the floor.” Harriet handed it to the maidservant. She unbuttoned her grey gloves, dyed to match her pelisse. “Please take these, Mary.”

Harriet removed her hat. Rueful she examined a limp ostrich feather. “Oh dear, I hope it is not ruined.” She fingered the curls framing her face. “I daresay the damp has made my hair frizzy.”

“Oh no, you look lovely, my lady!” Mary exclaimed.

“You may go,” Dominic said, his voice stern.

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry sir for speaking out of turn,” Mary gabbled, and  scurried out of the library.

“My apologies,” Dominic began, “one of our experienced maidservant’s jaw is swollen due to toothache, the other is carrying out a commission in the village for my sister. So, Mary, who has only been in service for a few weeks, was the only one available to receive you.”

Harriet liked him all the more for not giving the girl a severe reprimand. “Lud, sir, your need not apologise, besides, although she should not have spoken, the girl paid me a compliment I cannot object to.”

A smile banished Dominic’s gravity. “A well-deserved one.”

“You are too kind, Mister Markham, I know I am not a beauty,” she murmured, aware of her warm blush in response to his compliment.

“You do yourself a disservice, Lady Castleton. Plato wrote ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’?”

Unaccustomed to such praise, Harriet knew that, by now, her cheeks must have bloomed poppy red. Flustered, she managed to reply. “When I look in my mirror it reflects an unremarkable face,” Oh no, she should not have said that. Mister Markham might think she  hoped for more praise.

“Lady Castleton, my view of you is quite different. May I suggest you purchase a more honest looking glass.”

Was the rector flirting with her? It seemed inappropriate for a gentleman of his calling. Nonsense! Even bishops married so, although they were not expected to be profligates, there was no law against ministers of the church – what?”  Harriet covered her burning cheeks with her hands.

“I am sorry, I did not mean to embarrass you, Lady Castleton.”

Ridiculous of a widow, who fended off many amorous officers after her husband’s death, to be put to the blush by Mister Markham’s flattering words. After all, they both knew she was not beautiful. She dismissed her thoughts.

“Lady Castleton, please be seated on the chair in front of my desk.”

The rector’s voice drew her out of her thoughts.

Dominic sat opposite her and drew a piece of paper across the desk towards him. “I daresay you want to know why I instructed Mary to bring you to my library before our lesson.”

“Yes, I am curious.”

He picked up the paper. “This is a letter from London written by an attorney. He requests you to contact him.”

Anticipation of good news rushed through her. “Is there no more?”

Dominic shook his head. “If you write to him, I am sure he will explain why he contacted you.”

“Yes, of course, I shall reply without delay.”

“You sound reluctant.”

“No, I am not-” she began hesitantly. Should she be frank with him?

“I am a clergyman so you may confide in me without fear of my betraying a confidence.”

She stared into his eyes, darker than usual in the subdued light caused by the dull weather. Every instinct told her she could trust him. “I am in a difficult situation. Furious, my father-in-law confronted me with the advertisement in The Times – the one which asked for information about my father’s bank.”

“Ah, you may request the attorney to send further details to this address.”

“I am very obliged to you. I don’t know what I have done to deserve such kindness.”

“There is no need to thank me.” Dominic stood. “Gwenifer is in the drawing room. Shall we join her? After the lesson, perhaps you would like to return here to write the letter, which I shall post.”

“I am grateful for all your help. You must allow me to reimburse you for the advertisements and the postage.”

Dominic shook his head. “Unnecessary. Come.”

Mister Markham cupped her elbow with his hand to guide her out of the room. Startled, she looked up into his eyes in which, for a moment, passion flared.

An ignorant young miss would not read the rector’s unspoken message, but, all her senses aflutter, Harriet knew she had interpreted it correctly.

Chapter Seventeen

“Good day, Harriet.” Gwenifer stood and inclined her head. “Yesterday, my brother scolded me for not dressing in modish gowns for our lessons. My only excuse is that parishioners, the garden, the stillroom and other matters leave me little time to spare.”

“By choice,” Dominic intervened. “If my sister wished, she could do no more than sit in the parlour and sew a fine seam.”

“I admit my brother knows me too well. Before he interrupted, I intended to ask you to observe I am wearing my twilled-silk afternoon gown in honour of our final lesson.”

Harriet laughed at Gwenifer and Mister Markham’s raillery. “You look beautiful. Emerald green complements your eyes.”

Gwenifer spread her skirts wide and executed a brief curtsy. “Thank you. I admit I hoped the colour would when I chose the material.” She tapped her brother on the arm. “Dominic, why did you not insist on Harriet taking off her wet pelisse?” Light-footed, Gwenifer stepped across the floor to her. “Allow me to help you.”

When Harriet tried to fend her off with her hands, Gwenifer batted them away, and undid the silver buttons fastening the garment from neck to ankle. She clapped her hands. “How stylish, Harriet. Your hyacinth blue gown is a perfect match for the braid on the pelisse. You always dress in the height of fashion. I shall consult you before I buy my winter clothes.”

Harriet laughed. “The credit goes to the modiste and my abigail. If you continue your flattery, I fear becoming guilty of the deadly sin of pride.”

“No,” Dominic objected softly, “you will not, for you are too modest.”

She lowered her eyelashes unable to think of anything to say, while Gwenifer seated herself at the pianoforte. “Shall I play so you can practice?”

With Dominic’s left arm around Harriet’s waist and her right hand clasped in his, it seemed they were immersed in an enchanted world. The first, fast notes of a waltz sounded. She whirled  around the room. Lost in the joy of dancing with a man she liked, her breath shortened, and her heart throbbed. By the time the music ended, Harriet needed to breathe evenly before she spoke, not only because of the energetic pace.

”You are an admirable pupil, Mister Markham – so light on your feet, unlike some gentlemen. When those clodhoppers step on the hem of a gown they tear it. When they tread on toes it is extremely painful -,” she rolled her eyes, “But I shall say no more on the subject.” She smiled at him. “If you continue to practice with your sister, both of you will acquit yourselves well.”

Gwenifer twirled around. “I am looking forward to waltzing at your ball.”

Harriet sank onto a chair. “I am sorry to say you will not have the opportunity because my father-in-law disapproves of the dance.”

Dominic handed her a glass of ratafia.

She smiled up at him. “How thoughtful, thank you.”

“Although we cannot waltz, I hope you will reserve both the supper dance and  the first cotillion for me,” Mister Markham replied, a warm glow in his expressive eyes.

“I shall enter your name on my dance card, and you must ask your sister to enter it on her dance card.”

“She never lacks partners, so I would be fortunate if my name found a space on it.”

Gwenifer looked sideways at her brother. “Lady Castleton, are you shocked because I enjoy balls too much to refuse to dance? Perhaps you think widows should forgo the pleasure.” Her laughter rang out while she sat down.

Dominic shook his head at her. “You are prattling, Gwenifer. Some ratafia?”

“Yes please.” Gwenifer exchanged glances with her brother. “Lady Castleton, please forgive me, my tongue, which my brother considers foolish, frequently runs away with me. Of course, there is no reason for us not to dance.”

What would it be like to have a brother of Mister Markham’s calibre? Harriet scrutinised him. Brother? No, her reaction to him was far from sisterly. A tiny shake of her head dismissed her thoughts. She stood, her empty glass in her hand. “If I may make use of your library, Mister Markham. Gwenifer, please call on me at Clarencieux whenever your wish.”

“Thank you.” Gwenifer stood. “I hope you will visit us again, perhaps with your son. Now, please excuse me, I must call on one of my brother’s parishioners. Dominic, maybe I should add a bottle of wine to the basket of food I instructed cook to prepare.”

“If you wish, I leave such matters to your discretion.”

“As you please, Dominic.  Harriet, good day to you.” Gwenifer turned to leave the drawing room, her skirt and petticoat swirling around her ankles.

“Lady Castleton,” Dominic began, after the door closed. “In spite of her chatter, Gwenifer is discreet.” The expression in his eyes tender, he looked down at her. “No gentleman could ask for a better sister. She is much loved by the villagers, and can be trusted never to betray a confidence. I am indebted to her for the help she gives me in my parish.”

“And she is fortunate to have a brother of your calibre.”

Dominic shrugged depreciatingly as he opened the door. “To the library. After I make sure you have pen, paper and ink, I shall leave you to write your letter.”