Tuesday's Child

By Rosemary Morris

Harriet Stanton followed the drum until the deaths of her husband and father, army officers in the war against Napoleon Bonaparte. Destitute, on the verge of starvation, she returns to England, with her three-year old son, Arthur. Although she has never met her father-in-law, the Earl of Pennington, with whom her late husband had cut all ties, for Arthur’s sake, Harriet decides to ask Pennington for help. Turned away from his London house by servants, she is rescued by Georgianne Tarrant, who founded an institution to help soldiers’ widows and orphans.

Desperate for an heir, the earl welcomes Harriet, and Arthur whose every wish he grants. At first, Harriet is grateful to her father-in-law, but, as time goes she is locked in a silent battle to control Arthur, who has tantrums if he is denied anything. After Pennington refuses his permission for Arthur to swim in the lake, Arthur defies him. About to drown, he is rescued by charismatic Dominic, Reverend Markham, the Earl and Countess Faucon’s son.

At the lakeside, Dominic meets Harriet. She is so dainty that his immediate impression is of a fairy. Despite her appearance, he is mistaken. Harriet is not a pampered lady by birth. During brutal campaigns, she milked goats and cooked over camp fires.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: May 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781773621876

Rosemary Morris

Rosemary Morris was born in Sidcup Kent. As a child, her head was ‘always in a book.’ While working in a travel agency, Rosemary met her Hindu husband. He encouraged her to continue her education at Westminster College. In 1961 Rosemary and her husband, now a barrister, moved to his birthplace, Kenya, where she lived from 1961 until 1982. After an attempted coup d’état, she and four of her five children lived in an ashram in France.Back in England, Rosemary wrote historical fiction and joined the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Historical Novel Society, Watford Writers and many online groups. To research, Rosemary reads non-fiction, visits museums and other places of historical interest. Her bookshelves are so crammed with historical non-fiction, that if she buys a new book she has to consider getting rid of one. Apart from writing, Rosemary enjoys time with her family, classical Indian literature, reading, vegetarian cooking, growing organic fruit, herbs and vegetables and creative crafts.

Book preview

Tuesday’s Child

Heroines Born On Different Days of the Week

By Rosemary Morris

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-1-77362-187-6

Kindle 978-1-77362-188-3

WEB 978-1-77362-189-0

Copyright 2nd Ed. 2018 Rosemary Morris

Cover Art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Dedication

To my grandson, Ketan, whom I love, and is an exceptionally kind young man, who has won gold and silver medals for swimming, and is a county and national champion.

"Tuesday's child is full of grace."

Quote from Monday’s Child (Nursery Rhyme)

Author unknown.

Chapter One

St James Square, London

Late Spring, 1814

Harriet Stanton clutched her three year-old son’s hand while she waited, with the utmost trepidation, for the front door of the Earl of Pennington’s imposing house to open. In desperate need of reassurance, Harriet glanced at her generous patroness, Georgianne Tarrant, who wore a fashionable cream muslin gown and pelisse. With a sigh, Harriet accepted she looked like an insignificant sparrow, in her shabby, plain black clothes, by comparison to Mrs Tarrant, whose clothes and every movement revealed the self-assurance of a beautiful young matron married to an extremely wealthy gentleman.

Harriet shivered, wary of the two bruisers, employed by Major Tarrant to protect his wife, who stood behind them.

Protect Mrs Tarrant from what? She decided it would be impertinent to ask.

Ill-at-ease on the verge of what might be a significant change in her life, Harriet turned her head to look over her shoulder at the muscular men, and Johnson, an intrepid former soldier, whom Mrs Tarrant employed to help with her charity, Foundation House for the Betterment of Former Soldiers and Their Families.

Well, she was a soldier’s widow, whom, with Johnson’s help, Mrs Tarrant rescued. Yet what would happen if the earl rejected her and her son?

While Harriet fought the familiar panic, which churned her stomach, the glossy black-painted door with brass fittings swung open, revealing the haughty middle-aged butler to whom she spoke on a previous occasion. A quiver passed across his face at the sight of the group on the doorstep. He took a small step back across the spotless black-veined white marble floor. Perhaps they alarmed him.

Georgianne offered him her card.

The dignified servant did not accept it. Instead, he looked down his nose. His lordship is not at home.

Harriet held her son’s small hand a little tighter. Come, she told him, prepared to turn away from the door.

Wait. Georgianne’s imperious voice halted Harriet.

In response to a graceful flick of Georgianne’s gloved fingers, the burly bruisers stepped forward to stand on either side of the threshold.

I think you should reconsider, the determined matron advised the butler. If you shut the door in my face, my men might prove themselves capable of breaking the door down. Admit us

The butler’s face paled. He stepped back to allow them to enter the house.

Applause, however well-deserved, would be vulgar, so Harriet did not obey her instinct to clap.

Please follow me. The butler glanced at the bruisers and Johnson. Not the three of you.

Georgianne squared her shoulders. It is not for you to decide who accompanies me.

His back rigid with palpable indignation, the butler led them through a hall, perfumed by vases of white lilies and roses. When they followed him up a grand staircase with wrought iron bannisters, light from a circular skylight, set in the ceiling of the top floor, poured onto them. On the first floor, still holding her son’s hand, Harriet walked next to Mrs Tarrant along a wide gallery, hung with oil paintings of ladies and gentlemen dressed in the elaborate clothes of bygone ages.

The butler opened one of a pair of doors. Mrs Tarrant and her companions, my lord, he announced.

Wide-eyed, Harriet stepped into the room. She looked around. No expense had been spared in this house. A crystal chandelier hung above a mahogany table set with hand painted china and monogrammed silver flatware.

While Johnson and the bruisers chose positions by the walls in the room hung with striped pea-green and gold wallpaper, an old gentleman, glared at his visitors from his seat at the table.

With keen interest, Harriet scrutinised the peer of the realm. The earl’s purple turban did not flatter his wrinkled face with dark shadows under his eyes.

Pennington glared at the butler. What the devil, Jarvis? How many times have I instructed you not to admit visitors when I am in the breakfast parlour in a state of undress?

Mrs Tarrant wouldn’t be denied, my lord, the butler murmured, his face ashen.

Harriet glanced from the earl to Jarvis. Why should the man fear the earl?

His lordship smoothed a sleeve of his purple, gold embroidered banyan. Don’t suppose Mrs Tarrant would be denied - glad I did not marry the termagant, he muttered. Jarvis, leave us.

Harriet gasped, amazed by the earl’s unpardonable rudeness. Mrs Tarrant ignored it.

Harriet’s upper lip curled inward. The idea of the elderly nobleman, with prominent veins and dark splotches on his hands, married to a beauty young enough to be his granddaughter repulsed her.

The earl glared at Mrs Tarrant. Why are you here? Your husband will kill me if –

The expression in Georgianne Tarrant’s china-blue eyes hardened. You wanted me to marry you to produce a son. Why, when you already had a legitimate heir?

The colour in the earl’s cheeks deepened. Don’t mention my nephew, Wilfred Stanton. The thought of that clergyman inheriting my title sickens me.

Georgianne beckoned to Harriet to step forward with her son. I shall explain matters after you have the courtesy to invite us to sit.

Pennington scowled. Ladies, be seated at the table.

Faint with nervous anticipation, with her son on her lap, Harriet perched on a chair next to her benefactress.

My lord, I am here to inform you have another heir, Georgianne informed him.

Can it be? Pennington asked in a broken voice.

Yes. May I present him? George Stanton, Viscount Castleton, and his mamma, Harriet Stanton, Vicountess Castleton.

Harriet caught her breath. Would her father-in-law accept them? Surely he would not reject her handsome son. Don’t be shy, George, the gentleman is your grandfather. Please get down from my lap to make your bow.

Her son shook his head and plugged his mouth with his thumb.

Georgianne shrugged before she spoke. My lord, there is no reason for you not to acknowledge your grandson and daughter-in-law. Syddon, my attorney, has examined their claim. He assures me a court of law will uphold it.

Pennington leaned forward. Have you proof? he demanded.

In response to the earl’s sharp tone of voice, the bruisers, who had been standing still as soldiers before a superior officer shuffled their feet.

Yes, I assumed you would be suspicious. With her usual grace, Georgianne beckoned to Johnson, who stepped forward to hand a leather folder to the earl.

Pennington pushed his plate forward to make space for the documents the folder contained. His eyebrows raised, he rifled through them. I accept these are valid because I doubt Syddon, who I know is a famous attorney known for his integrity, would have stooped to forgery or aided and abetted deception.

He stared at Harriet, appearing to come to terms with the idea she and his grandson existed. Embarrassed, she fidgeted. A hot flush flooded her cheeks.

Lady Castleton, why did not you come to me after my son died? the earl enquired, in a tone that seemed to imply she was guilty of an offence.

Intimidated by the harsh old man, her mouth dry, Harriet swallowed before she managed to answer. Despite the longstanding rift between you and my late husband, my lord, I wrote to you many times from Portugal. When you did not reply, I came to England destitute and in despair. In your absence, your servants denied me entry to this house. She summoned her courage, Johnson, a soldier well-known to me and my husband in the Peninsula, approached me in Brighton, she explained, with more confidence. Later, he introduced us to my good angel, Mrs Tarrant. But for him, your grandson and I would have starved, most probably to death.

The expression on Pennington’s face softened, the skin stretched less tightly across his forehead. This is terrible, he responded, in a softer tone than the one he previously spoke in. I did not receive your letters. Last year, after my eldest son died, I searched the Iberian Peninsular, walked the battle fields and visited many places in search of information. I heard rumours that my younger son married, and that after he fell at the Battle of Fuentes de Onoro his posthumous son was born. Alas, I could not substantiate them. No matter how hard I tried, I found no trace of you or my grandson.

Thank you for searching for us. She tried to calm her misgivings with the thought that age might have mellowed her father-in-law. Maybe he was no longer the cruel, unreasonable nobleman her husband once described.

No need for you to tell me more about your desperate situation, Lady Castleton, you and my grandson are welcome here, most welcome. From now on, you shall live with me. His thin lips stretched into a smile.

How kind of him. The tension seeped out of every muscle in her body. Thank you, my lord, she replied, with great relief.

Papa, you must call me Papa. The earl turned his head to look at Georgianne. However much I begrudge it, I am indebted to you, Madam. A malicious glint appeared in his eyes. It seems my sanctimonious nephew, Wilfred Stanton, will not be the next earl. He chuckled. Mrs Tarrant, I can only imagine the expression on his face when the news of my heir’s existence is broken to him.

My lord, you forget I am well acquainted with Mister Stanton whose wife is my cousin. You are unjust. I know Mister Stanton is a God-fearing gentleman worthy of respect from you and everyone else. Georgianne stood. Now, I am sure you wish to make a generous donation to my charity and reward Johnson, who brought Lady Castleton and her son to my attention.

Pennington nodded, a sour expression on his face.

The earl rang a bell. The door opened; the butler preceded a pair of footmen into the parlour.

Jarvis.

My lord?

Instruct the housekeeper to have my late wife’s apartment prepared for Lady Castleton, and the nursery made ready for Lord Castleton. Tell her to arrange for a maidservant to attend to the child until a nurse is engaged.

Harriet shook her head. My lord – she began.

Papa, he corrected her.

Papa, she addressed him with reluctance for this old man could never replace her beloved father. I would prefer to keep George with me until he is familiar with you and your servants.

Very well. Her father-in-law agreed, his grey eyes suddenly cold as the sea on a winter’s day.

They reminded Harriet of tyrannical officers. She shivered.

My lord, I shall take my leave. Georgianne informed Pennington in a neutral tone. Lady Castleton, when I reach home, I shall send your baggage here. Good day to you. She patted George on his head. I hope to see you and your son soon. Please visit me whenever you wish."

* * *

Thoughtful, Georgianne stepped out of the house into sunshine. Should she have warned Harriet about the earl? No, the young widow must judge him for herself. It would be wrong to prejudice her against her father-in-law. For all she knew, Harriet and her son might be the earl’s salvation. Georgianne ignored her inner voice, which expressed strong doubt. Well, she would keep in touch with Harriet, as she did with many other women who benefitted from her help.

Chapter Two

Hertfordshire

August 1815

Harriet looked out of the drawing room window in Clarencieux Abbey – all stone carving, arched windows and hideous gargoyles - now transformed by her father-in-law into a fashionable gothic mansion. On any other occasion, the view would have delighted her. Beneath a cloudless, azure blue sky, from which the sun poured its welcome warmth, the recently scythed lawn stretched down to the still surface of the large man-made lake fringed by graceful weeping willows on its farthest bank.

Alarmed, she watched the Earl of Pennington, who rode a sleek gelding, and her four year-old son, seated straight-backed on Prince, his strong Exmoor pony, which he doted on. Compared to the eighteen hand dun with black points his grandfather rode, George looked frighteningly small and vulnerable.

No matter how often the earl assured her well-schooled Prince made an excellent riding pony for a young boy, Harriet could not control her fear of an accident.

Moreover, throughout the last year her resentment of the earl’s high-handedness over his grandson’s upbringing, and his total disregard of her wishes concerning it, had swelled to the point of bitterness. Her jaw tightened when she remembered one of his most unwelcome dictates.

My child, his lordship had commenced, shortly after she took up residence with him, in future, my grandson shall be known by his second name, Arthur.

On that occasion, when her anger flared, she managed to control it. She and Edgar, her late husband, had decided that if they ever had a son, they would name him George. Although I agree Arthur is a noble name, Papa, why do you want him to be addressed by it? she had replied, in an attempt to sound reasonable, although her cheeks burned with suppressed wrath.

Perhaps it is lese majesty to admit that due to the present king’s madness and the Prince Regent’s excesses, their Christian name is not one I consider suitable for my heir, her father-in-law declared. After all, my lineage is superior to the Hanover’s. They are nothing more than jumped up minor German royalty with slight claim to English blood. He paused to flick open his tortoiseshell snuffbox. My child, he continued after he indulged in a pinch of snuff, I think, Arthur, the Duke of Wellington’s given name, is more appropriate for my heir."

She was not his child. Although her temper increased until she thought it would boil over, with great effort she managed to contain it and employ guile. Papa, I agree Arthur would be an appropriate name for my son, however- A wave of the earl’s hand silenced her.

You admire our king, who has lost his wits, more than the hero of Waterloo?

No, though I pity His Majesty.

I daresay, but perhaps you condone our future king’s excesses.

She considered the Prince Regent’s shocking reputation and extravagance. No, Papa.

Immaculate in a blue coat, off-white nankeen pantaloons, the intricate style of his starched neckcloth faultless, and his silver hair in perfect order, the earl spoke. We are agreed. From now on we shall call my grandson Arthur instead of George. His triumphant smile deepened his wrinkles in which powder and rouge clung."

Very well, Papa. Grateful to him for saving them from destitution, she consented out of gratitude.

Informed of the decision by his grandfather, when given his pony six months ago, her delighted son did not object. In fact, after jumping up and down with joy, he petted Prince, and from then on answered to his new name. To Harriet’s chagrin, on one occasion, when she called him George, he stamped his small, well-shod foot. Grandfather says my name is Arthur.

When, she asked herself, remembering the occasion, would her father-in-law respect any of her wishes?

The earl’s gentle smile, which masked an iron-will, repulsed her. His generosity and many gifts, for which she was obliged, made it extremely difficult to protest over his determination to dominate her.

This morning, in response to her request for the pair to walk their horses, the earl inclined his head, smiled, but made no reply. Now, without a leading rein, Prince trotted across the sweep of grass dotted with daisies towards the house beside his grandfather’s well-mannered mount. Harriet’s teeth clamped together. Doubtless the small flowers would be cut with ruthlessness to equal anything else that did not please his lordship.

She clutched a fold of her expensive sprigged muslin morning gown, paid for from the generous allowance allotted to her by Pennington. Guilt and resentment warred within her. Guilt because before the earl acknowledged her and her son, they experienced such hardship that she prayed for death to claim them. Resentment because her strong-minded father-in-law insisted on taking charge of every aspect of Arthur’s life.

In spite of the luxury surrounding her, while she watched Pennington and Arthur ride, her anger increased. The earl doted on Arthur. Indeed, he pandered to him so much that her son had become a small tyrant.

Her hitherto obedient, sweet-natured little boy now indulged in shocking tantrums if his demands were refused. To make matters worse her father-in-law interfered whenever she attempted to discipline the child. Harriet clenched her jaw. Regardless of what Arthur did, the earl did not even allow Arthur’s nurse to punish him.

Harriet wiped angry tears of frustration from her eyes. Her memories could not be wiped away so easily. If only her handsome, debonair young husband, a captain in The Glory Boys, had survived his last battle. Since Edgar’s death, not a day went by when she did not yearn for the sound of his deep voice, his ready smile and their tender, passionate, love making. Even now, Harriet visualised him, magnificent in his black hussar uniform embellished with gold and scarlet. She could almost hear his words. Smile for me, Harriet, I shall always return to you sound in limb, and in the best of spirits. Until his demise Edgar evaded the grim reaper so many times that she had believed in her husband’s invincibility.

Harriet closed her eyes, trying to erase the memory of the mental and physical agony of giving birth to a fatherless child in the best quarters in Lisbon, the best her father, a major in the Glory Boy could afford for her. She squeezed back involuntary tears at the recollection of the day on which she received the dreadful news of Papa’s death in the Battle of Toulouse, the final engagement in the campaign against Napoleon before his exile to Elba. Until she glimpsed her child’s frightened face when he returned from a walk with his nurse, for a week she neither ate more than a morsel nor stopped crying.

Until her father’s died, she and Arthur enjoyed his protection. Afterward, although in desperate need of a protector, she refused several marriage proposals. Of course, out of expediency, many army widows did remarry soon afar their husbands’ funerals, but Harriet rejected her suitors.

In spite of her impoverished circumstances, she never considered replacing Edgar in her affections, and marry without love she would not.

Now, at the age of four and twenty, at the thought of what might have been if Edgar lived, tears filled her eyes. After wiping them away with her handkerchief, she watched Arthur and Pennington dismount. Her son laughed in response to something his grandfather said.

Harriet knew she should not be unappreciative of her father-in-law, nevertheless, she resented her separation from Arthur by the nurse appointed by Pennington, in his words to relieve her of the tiresome task of caring for a child. Despite hardships she never found it tiresome to care for Arthur. Fortunately, she approved of Bessie a young woman, whom Arthur liked, who took excellent care of him.

* * *

Mamma, Arthur shouted when he entered the breakfast parlour, Grandpapa and I went riding. Arms outstretched he rushed towards the table set with Wedgewood china and an array of monogrammed flatware.

Relieved to see him safe, Harriet stood. Regardless of the risk of her starched muslin gown being crushed, she spread her arms wide to embrace him.

Her father-in-law stepped forward. Be good enough to remember your station, Arthur. You are not a cottager’s brat. One hand, marred by age spots gripped the child’s shoulder to prevent him from running forward.

Arthur looked up at his grandfather, a trace of anxiety in his large eyes, the intense blue of the sky on a summer’s day.

Harriet’s eyebrows twitched. The earl did not have the right to insist on formality. Since Arthur’s birth she had cuddled and kissed him and would continue to do so.

The earl smiled down at the child. Make your bow, to Lady Castleton.

Arthur’s shoulders drooped, but he obeyed.

Her father-in-law’s eyes gleaming with unmistakeable triumph, he glanced at her over the top of Arthur’s head of shiny brown curls.

Harriet caught her lower lip between her teeth. No matter how much the earl provoked her, she would not engage in a direct battle over Arthur.

She released her lip. Nonsensical for her father-in-law to have said Lady Castleton instead of your mamma to Arthur, and to have prevented him from running to her for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Aware of a surge of angry colour, which heated her cheeks, Harriet made up her mind neither to allow the old man to wean her son away from his affection for her, nor to permit him to be in full control of her son.

Oh, Papa, what harm can it do if Arthur embraces me? she asked, looking down to give the earl an impression of a submissive daughter-in-law. Without waiting for a reply, she continued to hold out her arms. Come, my boy, give me my morning kiss.

Her son looked up at his grandfather for permission.

Arthur, Pennington commenced, Lady Castleton forgets you no longer wear skirts. You are a little man in your trousers and short jacket. In future, you must remember gentlemen are not forever hugging and kissing ladies. Take your place at the table.

Harriet looked up at her father-in-law. Confound it, none of her ploys to charm the earl ever succeeded. Well, in her son’s presence, she would not wrangle with him like a fishwife. She checked her desire to express her indignation. Instead she smiled at Pennington, pretending to be unaware that he did not consider her to have been a suitable wife for his late son.

Although she was not a nobleman’s daughter, her parents had taught her how to conduct herself with decorum. Moreover, she prided herself on the good English blood she inherited from them. By birth, she had nothing to be ashamed of, even if she were ineligible to be considered to be a member of the ton – the so called upper ten thousand persons considered the cream of society - amongst whom the earl numbered.

At the round table, her father-in-law seated himself opposite her with Arthur on his right. The elderly chaplain, good-natured Mister Rivers took his place on the earl’s left.

Her spine stiff, Harriet sat between Arthur, whom the earl insisted should sit next to him, and the secretary, Mister Vaughan; a young man of approximately twenty-five years of age, whose eyes more often than not nursed a merry sparkle, in spite of his patron’s haughty disposition.

No one spoke while the butler supervised the footmen, who put a silver coffee pot in front of Harriet and food on the table.

While Mister Rivers intoned a short grace Harriet wondered what the sycophantic man of the cloth thought of the stone-pillared room decorated in the gothic style.

Harriet’s gaze strayed beyond the arched window, through which she glimpsed the rose garden, bordered by low box hedges, basking in sunshine. Coffee, or ale, my lord? Harriet asked.

Coffee, my dear child. Despite that gentle smile which Harriet considered artificial, his forehead creased. On numerous occasions, I have already requested you to call me, papa.

Although she could not imagine him ever replacing her beloved father in her affection, his request was not unreasonable. How foolish I am, Harriet replied with false meekness intended to soften his heart. I beg your pardon, Papa. She poured the fragrant beverage into a porcelain cup, hand-painted with Wedgewood’s famous Kutani Crane design.

A footman stepped forward to hand it to his lordship.

Will you partake of coffee, Mister Rivers?

Yes please, Lady Castleton, you are too kind, too gracious.

Harriet suppressed her desire to giggle at such obsequiousness.

Yes, Arthur piped up, while a footman served Mister Vaughan with ale, Mamma is always gentle not like Nurse, who pinches me.

What did you say? Pennington asked his quiet tone at odds with the outraged expression in his eyes.

Arthur stared down at the table.

The wrinkles on Pennington’s face deepened. Castleton, I expect you to answer me when I address you, he reprimanded Arthur, his unusual severity with his heir emphasised by addressing him by his title.

Mamma is kind but my nurse is unkind. She won’t let me drink from my silver mug. He scowled. She said it is too good for a naughty boy, and I didn’t like it when she pinched my cheeks.

How dare she! Pennington exclaimed, his cheeks puce beneath the light layer of rouge. Lady Castleton, I shall dismiss Bessie Cooper without a reference. My grandson’s pluck to the backbone. I will not allow him to be turned into a coward afraid of his own shadow. Damn the woman.

Mister Rivers murmured an almost