Tuesday's Child (Heroines Born on Each Day of the Week Book 3) (13 page)

Chapter Eleven

Aware of Gwenifer’s scrutiny, when seated at the dining table in Faucon Castle, Dominic made polite conversation with Miss Kershaw, daughter of Baron and Baroness Loughton, one of his mother’s candidates for his hand in marriage. While the attractive young lady mentioned September, when she looked forward to fox hunting, his aversion increased. Not for Miss Kershaw, but for his future elevation to the peerage, the reason for his mother’s introductions to eligible ladies.

While he made polite conversation, his distaste for his mother’s arrangement to introduce him to several well-bred beauties, one of whom she hoped he would marry, increased.

Bored, while he listened to Miss Kershaw, Dominic admired the opulent table setting, with monogrammed silver cutlery, hand-painted porcelain and an epergne with a large crystal bowl filled with hothouse fruit, and smaller ones containing flowers.

A small frown, quickly banished, reproached him for his lack of interest in her plans to join the fox hunt.

What must Miss Kershaw think of his failure to initiate conversation? From the top of her head of pomaded chestnut-brown curls to the tip of her dainty white kidskin evening slippers, no fault could be found with her appearance or her deportment. He should enjoy furthering his acquaintance with her. How old was she? Eighteen or nineteen and, to put it vulgarly, ripe for marriage. Probably, during a London Season or two she failed to secure a husband, although he could not imagine why, unless her dowry would be small. After all, her oval face was flawless, her conversation remained within the bounds of strict propriety, and her manner was not vulgarly flirtatious.

“Papa told me the castle was built in the eleventh century.” Miss Kershaw remarked.

“Yes,” he replied, almost unable to imagine himself as lord of this, his ancestral home, “according to the records it was completed in the year 1090. Yet, over the years there have been innumerable alterations. For example, my grandparents replaced the worm-riddled, linen-fold oak panelling in this room, which dated back to Queen Elizabeth’s reign.”

“Is the castle haunted, Mister Markham?”

“Oh, in common with most old buildings there are tales of spectres, of ladies gliding through the walls, and even of a gentleman who carries his head in his hands.” He chuckled. “I hope you will not be disappointed by my confession that I have never glimpsed sight of one. Besides, the Anglican Church does not believe in them.”

“You are a clergyman, so I suppose you must deny their existence, nonetheless you disappoint me,” she protested, while the first course was removed from the table to make way for the next. Miss Kershaw laughed. “After reading The Mysteries of Udolfo by Mrs Radcliffe, I shall sleep more easily tonight now you have reassured me I have little to fear.”

Dominic’s thoughts returned to Lady Castleton. He believed her when she told him something unnatural on the back stairs at Clarencieux Abbey frightened her. The desire to protect her from all ills welled up in him.

Miss Kershaw turned her head away from him to converse with the gentleman on her right. Dominic sighed and spoke to Lady Elizabeth, the orphaned granddaughter of the high stepper, the Dowager Countess of Farringdon.

Only the most exacting person could find fault with Lady Elizabeth. Dominic remembered reading an ode which compared her glossy hair, ‘black as the darkest night’ and a face ‘star-white tinged with dawn’s first flush.’ Indeed, adorned with a pearl necklace and earrings, and dressed in a white silk evening gown cut low over her full breasts, she could have stepped out of the pages of La Belle Assemble, each edition of which his mother and sisters eagerly perused and discussed in person and by post.

“Are you enjoying your retreat to the country, Lady Elizabeth?” Dominic asked.

“To be truthful, before my parents died, I preferred their Hertfordshire manor house on the outskirts of St Albans, which is near here,” she responded, a little breathlessly. Perhaps she was nervous of him.

Despite their introduction in the drawing room, before the butler announced dinner was served, it must be difficult for any lady to converse for the first time with a gentleman whom they knew their elders regarded as a prospective husband.

Would he ever meet another lady with whom he would be as much at ease as he was with Lady Castleton? An unexpected vision of her ladyship presiding at his table, concerned for his comfort, and at his side in bed for the rest of their lives overwhelmed him.

After a moment lost in the charming image, Dominic forced his attention back to Lady Elizabeth’s pretty face. Since he must marry to please his family, perhaps an innocent young lady would be an excellent choice for his companion through life. One he could expect to become a gracious hostess, a careful mother and an attentive wife, whom he could help and guide.

“May I cut a slice of the chef’s excellent plum tart for you, Lady Elizabeth, or would you care for a wedge of game pie?”

“Thank you, I would like a small slice of plum tart.”

Dominic thanked God he was not a lady obliged to wear stays which would impair his appetite. At the thought of so intimate a garment, he imagined dismissing Lady Castleton’s abigail, and untying the laces to reveal beguiling flesh. Confound his lusty thoughts, unworthy of any clergyman, which had plagues him in his youth.

He served Lady Elizabeth simultaneously making polite conversation. Out of boredom, he sighed inwardly.

At long last, the final course was removed. His mother stood to lead the ladies into the drawing room, and leave the gentlemen to enjoy their port. To Dominic’s dismay, the conversation turned to the Earl of Pennington’s daughter-in-law and grandson. This led to army officers, who fought in the Iberian Peninsula and at the Battle of Waterloo, expressing their sympathy for the earl’s loss of his younger son, and mention of the happy chance, which united him with the widow and his grandson.

While The tragedy of Sir John Moore’s death, early battles and England’s final triumph, due to her brilliant commander in chief, the Duke of Wellington, were rehashed while the port passed around the table, for gentlemen to refill their glasses.

Dominic listened, his sympathy Lady Castleton, and his admiration of her growing. What did gently reared females such like Miss Kershaw and Lady Elizabeth know about unpleasant aspects of life? Matters, he came into contact with through Lady Castleton, and countless destitute veterans, who tramped across the land in search of work.

His father stood and raised his glass. “To the ladies, God bless them.”

All the gentlemen rose and held up their glasses. “The ladies,” they chorused.

“Shall we join them?” Joshua turned around.

With the other male guests, Dominic followed his father to the drawing room.

Reluctant to seat himself next to any of his mother’s contenders for his hand in marriage, Dominic stood with his back to the crimson brocade curtains drawn across the windows.

“Some music will pass the time pleasantly,” Morwenna suggested.

In spite of the dismay on some of the gentlemen’s faces, his mother shepherded everyone into the music room. “Lady Elizabeth,” she began, after everyone sat, “will you play for us?”

After several protests, and in response to a nod from her grandmother, Lady Elizabeth walked across the beautifully woven carpet towards the harpsichord. She sat, blushed, plucked the first strings, a prelude to playing and singing the melancholy ballad Last Rose of Summer. After a competent performance, she returned to her chair next to her grandmother to the sound of polite applause.

Morwenna seemed to glide across the room towards Miss Kershaw, who looked alarmed. “Would you favour us with a song?” 

The young lady shook her head. “I regret my voice would dismay you.”

“I am sure you are being too modest.”

No one knew better than his family how determined his mother could be so, with amusement, Dominic waited to see if she would prevail.

“No, no, my lady, I am not being modest. When I sing, I sound like a frog croaking.”

“I can hardly believe it because, when you speak, your voice is charming.”

Miss Kershaw blushed. “Thank you Lady Morwenna.”

His mother looked at him before she continued. “Perhaps you would play for us. My son, who is an excellent tenor, will sing to your accompaniment.” She looked at him with mingled affection and pride., her eyes bright in the candlelight. “Is it not fortunate for a clergyman to have a fine voice with which he can praise The Lord?”

Mamma and her schemes! To refuse would be unmannerly. Dominic escorted Miss Kershaw to the musical instrument, and pulled out the stool for her to sit.

“Mister Markham, what should I play?”

Dominic leafed through some sheet music. “The Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill?” he suggested.

After she nodded, he stood behind her. On cue, he began to sing the popular song claimed to be one of the third King George’s favourites

On Richmond Hill there lives a lass,

More bright than May-day morn.

Whose charms all other maids’ surpass,

A rose without a thorn.

When they completed their performance, a moment’s silence followed, before applause thundered around the music room. Dominic bowed to the audience. Even if Miss Kershaw could not sing in tune, the short piece proved she was an accomplished musician, and if he denied his voice excelled, it would be a case of false humility.

“An encore,” Joshua suggested.

Miss Kershaw shook her head.

Delighted by the song, Dominic sat next to his sister. The words, “a rose without a thorn”, repeated itself over and over again in his mind.

Harriet was the only perfect rose he yearned to pluck.

A footman held out a tray laden with glasses of wine.

“Dominic,” Gwenifer prompted.

He handed her a glass.  Dominic sipped his wine, thoughtfully looking across the room first at Miss Kershaw, next at Lady Elizabeth, and then at several other belles, gently bred, beautiful, accomplished young ladies carefully brought up to become gentlemen’s wives. It would be unreasonable of him not to make polite conversation with all of  them. If he did so, perhaps he would be drawn to one of them.

After an hour or more, during which several ladies and gentlemen sang and played, Morwenna led her guests back to the drawing room, where she poured tea.

Gwenifer bent her head towards Dominic’s ear. “Don’t allow Mamma and Papa to bully you,” she whispered. “I don’t regret a single day of my marriage. To have wed to please anyone other than myself would have been worse than being sentenced to deportation or imprisonment.” She stood, put her empty wine glass on a tray, and approached Lady Elizabeth and her grandmother. “Goodnight, madam.” She curtsied to the old lady and smiled at the young lady.

After the last visitor left, his mamma patted his hand. “Dominic, I am too tired to talk to you now. Tomorrow morning, please come to my bedroom to share my hot chocolate.”

When she kissed his cheek, a drift of the familiar violet perfume he associated with her, surrounded him. 

* * *

After an early morning ride through the quiet countryside with his father, Dominic changed from his riding habit into a well-cut black coat and pantaloons, before he visited his mother.

To be honest, the fresh air increased his appetite, so he would prefer to join his father at breakfast. Instead, he approached his mother’s bedroom well-aware she would quiz him.

He tapped on the door. Fisher, Morwenna’s devoted abigail opened it. She curtsied, and then retreated through a door on the furthest side of the room, which gave access to his mother’s boudoir.

“Good morning, Mamma.” He stepped across the carpet, woven in shades of green, to the bed with looped back, sea-green velvet curtains, which matched those at the window.

Morwenna put down a letter. “Good morning, Dominic, I hope you slept well.”

“Yes, thank you,” he answered, although anxiety over Robert, his duty to marry and have a son, as well as irrepressible thoughts of Harriet kept him awake for a long time. He looked around the bedchamber at the pale green silk lining the walls, hung with a large oval mirror and water colours of him and his siblings. Nothing in the luxurious room seemed to have changed since his childhood.

He leaned over to kiss her smooth cheek, once again appreciative of the lingering scent of violets from her favourite perfume.

“Ah, you smell of fresh air, Dominic, did you go riding?”

“Yes, with Papa.”

“You must be hungry.”

“Somewhat.”

Morwenna indicated a tray on a table by the bed. “Help yourself to hot chocolate, and some bread and butter.” She rang a bell. “Fisher,” she began, when the door from the boudoir opened. “Mister Markham is famished. His breakfast is to be served here.”

“Pull up a chair and sit by the bed,” Morwenna suggested after her abigail left the bedroom. She smoothed the wide satin ribbons fastening her lace-edged nightcap beneath her chin. “Now, tell me if you admired any one of my delightful young guests more than another.”