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

Arthur pouted. “I want to go swimming, Grandpapa.”

“No, the lake is too dangerous. You might sink underwater and be caught in the weeds.”

Arthur drummed his heels against the chair rails. “Grandpapa, you said I may have anything I want.”

The earl’s plucked eyebrows drew together. “I did not mean you may always please yourself.”

Harriet wanted to cheer. For the first time, her father-in-law thwarted Arthur’s wishes.

Her son grabbed his solid silver fork and hurled it at his grandfather. “I will go swimming, I will, I will, I will,” he screamed, pounding his small fists on the table.

Horrified, Harriet stood. “Apologise to your grandfather.”

“No.”

“I am ashamed of you. Get up. I shall take you to the nursery where you will stay until you apologise to your grandfather.”

“Shan’t get up, Mamma. Shan’t say sorry. My clothes are too hot. I shall go swimming in nice, cold water.”

On such a warm day, even if Arthur’s skeleton suit, with trouser buttons fastened to a shirt beneath a short-waisted jacket, was unbearably hot, it was not an excuse for ill manners. Harriet pulled back Arthur’s chair and turned it around.

“Don’t interfere, Lady Castleton,” Pennington ordered her. “I admire my grandson’s strength of mind.”

Interfere! How dare he say that, to me?” Papa, please remember that in spite of Arthur’s … er …in your own words, ‘strength of mind’, he should not be rude.” She spoke softly in an attempt to appease him. 

Without undue force, Harriet seized her son’s upper arms to raise him to his feet. When she managed to haul him out of his chair, she released him. ”Look at me,” she ordered. Instead, Arthur sank to the floor and drummed his heels on the flagstones.

Harriet noticed Mister Rivers appalled expression, and heard him murmur something which concerned sparing the rod and spoiling the child. She glanced disapprovingly at him, for she never smacked Arthur and would never beat him.

Pennington, not a hair out of place in spite of his early morning ride, stood. “Arthur, I shall employ someone to teach you to swim, until then, you may not bathe in the lake.” He walked around the table. “Now get up and behave like a gentleman.”

Her son quietened. His delightful smile appeared. He sat and wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hands. “Thank you, Grandpapa.”

Infuriated, Harriet stood still. “To the nursery, Arthur.” She took deep breaths to calm herself.

“But I am hungry.”

“That is your misfortune. In future, unless you promise to behave, you will have your breakfast in the nursery. “ She rarely spoke so firmly. When she did, Arthur knew better than to argue.

“My dear child, I must protest-” the earl commenced.

“Please excuse me, Papa. I fear Arthur has a fever after such shocking histrionics.”

Pennington inclined his head towards her. “You may withdraw.

“Thank you.” Without a backward glance at either her father-in-law, Mister Rivers or Mister Vaughan, Arthur’s hand in hers, she marched him out of the breakfast parlour.

Satisfied that she had acquitted herself well, Harriet pressed her lips into a firm line. Pennington would  ruin her son if she did not find a way to escape from their dependency on him.

* * *

Displeased with his daughter-in-law, Pennington looked at the arched door, which a footman closed after she left the breakfast parlour with Arthur. Although his grandson should not have thrown a fork at him, Lady Castleton should appreciate that when the boy knew what he wanted he went after it with admirable, single-minded determination so like his own. Well, at least his son’s widow deferred to him. Furthermore, she seemed grateful for her maintenance.

In his opinion ladies should be dutiful and obedient. Their families expected them to marry well, defer to their husbands, organise their households, participate in society and amuse themselves with feminine pursuits. Lady Castleton should obey him without either argument or reluctance. Whatever the cost, regardless of the circumstances, he would not allow Edgar’s widow to interfere with Arthur’s upbringing.

Not for the first time, Pennington asked himself why his son married a woman of unequal birth without a dowry. Oh, he supposed, her charm would appeal to some men, for although she was only some five foot two inches in height, she kept her back straight and moved gracefully. After a moment or two’s thought, he conceded she had some good features – thick brown hair, bright blue eyes, which Arthur inherited from her, besides a good complexion. Yet, he concluded, she was not remarkable.

Thoughtful, he kept himself well in hand while he finished his breakfast. As for the nurse, his grandson was not a common boy. How dare she pinch Arthur’s soft round cheeks. What was more, she did not have the right to withhold his silver mug from him. Well, it would be ungentlemanly to chastise the child’s mother for her protest when he had announced his decision to dismiss Bessie Cooper. His daughter-in-law’s objection would not alter his decision.

Unruffled, he ate the last morsel of kidney, dabbed his mouth with a monogrammed napkin and stood with no more effort than a young man. At the age of sixty he prided himself on his slim figure, which, unlike so many of his contemporaries, did not require stays. Congratulating himself on his own elegant appearance, he shuddered at the thought of the Prince Regent’s corpulence.

Chapter Three

Dominic Markham watched his elegant mother leave the dining room, followed by Gwenifer, his widowed sister, who kept house for him.

“Well, my boy,” began his father, who sat opposite him at the table, “when you arrived, I was pleased to see you and your sister looking so well.”

“And I am glad to see you in good health,” Dominic replied. Indeed, his father, Joshua Markham, Earl of Faucon. was in fine fettle for a sixty-eight year old man.

“Left your curate in charge, while you visit us?”

Dominic nodded.

“How long can you stay? Your mother hopes you can spare us a few days.” Joshua sipped his port. To judge by his silence, before he spoke again,  it seemed something pressed on his mind. “Several families you might wish to become reacquainted with have left London and come to Herefordshire for the summer months. Unfortunately, they include the Earl of Pennington, whom I would not choose for a neighbour. By the way, the latest news in the area is of his  daughter-in-law, Lady Castleton, and her son - what-is-his name? - ah, yes, Arthur, of whom little is known. They are living with the earl? Your mother has decided we must call on them,” he ended, with a note of disapproval in his voice.

Dominic knew his parent well enough to sense Pennington and his family were not the matter uppermost in his father’s mind. “I can stay until Saturday  when I shall return to my parish to deliver my sermon on Sunday.”

“Good.” The earl cleared his throat. “I must speak to you concerning a painful matter.”

Dominic sat a little straighter. “I hope gossip apropos my ill-doings has not come to your ears,” he teased, in an attempt to lighten his father’s mood.

“No such thing, my boy. As befits a gentleman in holy orders, so far as I know your behaviour is irreproachable, and your good reputation is intact.” Joshua reached out for the silver bowl of nuts on the highly polished surface of the mahogany table. “Delicate matter to discuss.” He helped himself to a walnut. “However much I wish your brothers survived, we must face facts.”

“Yes, I know,” Dominic agreed, in a subdued tone of voice.

After so many years, he wished he could help his father come to terms with grief. Yet, although he was a thirty year-old rector, it seemed futile to remind Papa The Lord giveth. The Lord taketh. Blessed is the name of The Lord.

Joshua passed a hand across his eyes. “If only Denzil had not died in the Peninsular, and Pascoe at the Battle of Trafalgar, I would not have a conversation with you in which we must face the truth”

The truth? Dominic sat a little straighter. So many fine men, including his brothers, had sacrificed their lives when they fought against France to preserve the Rule of Law. What more was there for his father to say on the subject?

Joshua sipped some wine before he spoke. “Painful although it is, I must speak out. You already know that after twenty years of childless marriage your older brother and his milk-and-water wife are estranged.”

Dominic opened his mouth to reply. Joshua shook his head to silence him and continued. “There is no possibility of them presenting me and your mother with a grandson.”

After Joshua refilled his glass he slid the decanter across the table.

Dominic poured wine into his crystal glass, sensing worse would come. If only his ancestors, whose portraits hung on walls papered in rich red, could fend off the verbal axe, which he knew hovered over his neck. “Is there no hope of my brother and sister-in-law being reconciled?”

“Even if they put their troubled past behind them, it would be useless. There is no way to soften this news, although, I daresay a clergyman can bear it better than most men. Robert’s health has deteriorated. I am sorry to tell you that, at the most, he has no more than a year to live.” Joshua’s hand shook. A few drops of blood-red port fell onto the table.

Did the doctor apply loathsome leeches to Robert? Dominic quaked at the thought. My older brother whom I always admired is on the verge of death! He reeled from the blow of the imaginary axe. “Are you sure, Papa, I knew Robert was ill but did not imagine his condition is fatal. What is the cause of his malady?”

“Loose living,” Joshua explained, his voice bitter. “Don’t plague me for details, I cannot bear to speak of them.”  He gulped his port as though it were a lifeline.

“Surely a cure can be found,” Dominic protested, while he struggled to come to terms with the news.

Elbows on the table, Joshua propped his head on his hands. “The best doctors and physicians have been consulted. They all say Robert’s case is hopeless. That is why I sent for you.” His eyes suspiciously moist, Joshua drank more port.

The youngest son of the family, Dominic had never imagined wearing a coronet and robes of state. He had neither been trained to become the future Earl of Faucon nor to accept the responsibilities it would entail. Faced with the prospect, he did not know if he was capable of the challenges that would arise. “I might predecease both of you,” he murmured, unable to visualise himself taking a seat in The House of Lords.

Very much the aristocrat in his blue morning coat, primrose yellow waistcoat, perfectly arranged cravat, pale pantaloons and black shoes, Joshua held up an admonitory hand. “I have nearly reached my allotted lifespan of three score years and ten. Before my seventieth birthday I hope you will have married and presented me with a grandson.”

Dominic studied the vivid colours of the Aubusson carpet’s hexagonal pattern. Although he could neither condone nor understand the reason for the plunge into degradation, which brought his eldest brother so low, he sympathised with him. Poor Robert entered into a disastrous arranged marriage, which drove him to take ever-increasing consolation in alcohol and opera dancers. Indeed, last time he saw him, Robert looked much older than his forty-two years, and  suffered cruelly from gout besides being liverish.

“Dominic.” Again Joshua’s voice broke into his thoughts. “It is your duty to father the future Earl of Faucon. Unless you have a suitable bride in mind, your Mamma will introduce you to eligible young ladies.”

Dominic understood why his father emphasised the word ‘suitable.’ His future wife must be a flawless diamond. Nevertheless, he would not enter an arranged marriage, which might prove as disastrous as Robert’s.

His poor brother! He should offer him consolation. “My lord, I must visit, Robert.” He used his father’s formal term of address to stress his determination.

Joshua shook his head. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “He refuses to see any of the family. I think it is because he is either too ashamed of his folly, or because he does not want our pity.”

“I must see him,” Dominic repeated, tactfully pretending he had not noticed his father’s tears. “Maybe he will recover.” He clutched at an unlikely straw. “There might be a miracle.” He suppressed his grief. Shocking enough to see his proud father succumb to anguish without adding his own.

* * *

Three days after he left Faucon House, Dominic sat at his desk in the spacious library in the rectory at Queen’s Langley in Hertfordshire. He dipped his goose quill into the ink pot. After a moment’s thought, he added a few lines to his sermon, on the subject of  “It Is Better to Give than Receive”, in elegant copperplate handwriting. He would deliver it on Sunday from the pulpit of the Church of Saint Michael and All Saints.

He tried to concentrate and failed. The prospect of an arranged marriage did not appeal to him. Only once, soon after he graduated from Oxford, had he fallen in love. It came to nought. Afterwards, despite the lures cast at him, no other lady ever tempted him to exchange his single status with matrimony. He repressed a smile at the thought of young ladies, who pursued him. Even when chaperoned by their mothers, they tried to find an opportunity to be alone with him.

Dominic knew females admired his good looks, which he placed little importance on. He also knew their parents would not reject a suitor with an income from three parishes, who had also inherited several legacies from relatives. On the marriage market, he was considered ‘a good catch’. The question was, did he want to be caught? No, he did not, but regrettably love for his father and duty to his family demanded the sacrifice of his comfortable bachelor existence..