Thursday's Child

By Rosemary Morris

On their way to a ball, eighteen-year-old Lady Margaret is reminded by her affectionate brother, the Earl of Saunton, to consider her choice of words before she speaks. Despite his warning, she voices her controversial opinion to Lady Sefton, one of Almack’s lady patronesses, who can advance or ruin a debutante’s reputation. Horrified by her thoughtless indiscretion, Margaret runs from the ballroom into the reception hall where she nearly slips onto the marble floor.

Baron Rochedale, a notorious rake catches her in his arms to prevent her fall. Margaret, whose family expect her to make a splendid marriage, and enigmatic Rochedale, who never reveals his secrets, are immediately attracted to each other, but Rochedale never makes advances to unmarried females.

When Margaret runs out into the street, out of chivalry it seems he must follow the runaway instead of joining his mistress in the ballroom, where anxious mothers would warn their daughters to avoid him.

Rochedale’s quixotic impulse leads to complications which force him to question his selfish way of life.

Entangled by him in more ways than one, stifled by polite society’s unwritten rules and regulations Margaret is forced to question what is most important to her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Jul 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780228603429

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.

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Thursday’s Child

By Rosemary Morris

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-0-2286-0342-9

Kindle 978-0-2286-0343-6

Amazon Print ISBN 978-0-2286-0344-3

BWL Print ISBN 978-0-2286-0345-0

Copyright 2018 by 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, Barish, a keen footballer and young chef whose smile lights up my day.

Thursday’s child has far to go.

Nursery Rhyme

Anonymous

Chapter One

London

April 2nd, 1818

Ill at ease, the Earl of Saunton watched his eighteen-year-old sister, Lady Margaret, descend the stairs of his house in Cavendish Square. He found no fault with her wheat-coloured hair, arranged in a knot on the crown of her head, or her white silk gown partially covered by a sapphire-blue velvet cloak. Nothing, he admitted to himself, could be more appropriate than her pearl necklace and earrings for a young lady recently launched on the sea of exclusive London society after her presentation at court.

He stepped forward with the hope that throughout the ball his sister would remember this afternoon’s tete-a-tete in the library, when he had not minced words. With justifiable bitterness, he had said. "By God, sister, if you were a young filly I’d have you bridled and keep you on a short rein."

Saunton glanced at his mother who stood near the door with his stepfather.

Her hand pressed over her heart, she smiled at her second husband. Sir Peter. You must agree Margaret is beautiful.

Yes, Hortense, she is, the good-natured gentleman replied.

Mama waved her forefinger at Margaret, who now stood at the bottom of the stairs. "This evening you must keep a close guard on your tongue."

His sister rolled her eyes. Yes, Mama, I shall, but please say no more about that subject.

Saunton’s teeth clamped together. Although he loved Margaret, if it would prevent her from making ill-judged remarks in future he would seize her shoulders and shake some sense into her. He almost groaned, when he thought of four more lively younger sisters for whom it would be his duty to steer through society’s shoals to marriage.

Amelia, his adored wife, who stood next to him, stepped forward to fasten the cloak at Margaret’s throat. It would not do for you to catch a chill. Although it is spring the evenings are cold. She put her arm around Margaret. After Saunton spoke to you this afternoon, I am sure that you will choose your words carefully, so, this evening we may enjoy the Hempstead’s ball.

With less faith in his sister than his beautiful wife, Saunton ushered them outside to his commodious town coach.

Settled inside, their mother spoke. Margaret, I hope you will make a match as splendid as Charlotte’s and be as happy as she is. For your own good, your brother and I have given you good advice.

* * *

Margaret scowled. Maybe Mama prayed for her to marry as well as her older sister, Charlotte, now Duchess of Midland. Rebellious, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. She never wanted to be shackled to a husband. Saunton’s lectures were intolerable. A husband’s animadversions would be worse.

She sniffed, resentful of men’s total power over women. No bride knew how her bridegroom would behave after marriage. He had the right to chastise his wife provided he did not kill her, to confine the unfortunate lady indoors and to control every detail of her life.

No! She would not marry. Too often she had seen Mama’s torrents of tears because Papa had kept mistresses, whom she had explained were his special friends.

Before Papa’s death he had gambled so heavily that he was on the verge of bankruptcy.

All of life’s cards were stacked in men’s favour. After Saunton had tied the knot with his wife, he controlled her vast fortune. If he wished, nothing Amelia could do would prevent him from frittering it away until they were penniless.

Pity for Cousin Jane also convinced her she would always prefer to be a spinster. Of course, there were matters she was not expected to know about, but she had overheard their mothers discuss the shocking truth.

Hortense, her aunt had commenced, after Jane refused to… she lowered her voice too low to be overheard then raised it again, the brute beat and kicked her in a drunken rage so badly that she was confined to bed for a month. Although it will be very expensive, her father has decided to pay for her to apply for a separation through the ecclesiastical court.

Margaret could not imagine what her cousin refused to comply with which provoked her husband’s violence. She shuddered. Lady Luck played an important part in the lottery in which a wife’s stakes were high. It was safer not to marry even a gentleman such as Midland’s friend, Mr de Vere the handsome, wealthy nonpareil.

She frowned, glad of the hood of her cloak pulled down over her face and the dim interior that shielded her expression. If Mama saw it, she would warn her it would cause unacceptable wrinkles. In competition with other young ladies and their hopeful parents, to snare a suitable husband during her first London season she was expected to present a picture of demure radiance. What would her mother and her brother say if she told them she would refuse every offer for her hand in marriage?

Margaret. Hortense smoothed her light grey satin frock over her knees.

Yes, Mama.

Remember you don’t have permission from one of Almack’s patronesses to waltz.

Why should those ladies have the right to decide?

Amelia leant across the space between them and clasped her hand for a moment. I don’t know, but if you disobey the unwritten rule, your voucher to attend Almack’s might be withdrawn. It would cause gossip which would damage your reputation.

"I am tired of the regulations that govern the society ton," Margaret declared.

"I daresay, but you will obey them or suffer the consequences," Saunton said with a note of steel in his voice.

His warning confirmed she did not want to marry and be subject to another gentleman. What would you do? Lock me up and only allow me bread and water? she muttered as loudly as she dared.

Her brother’s laughter stung her pride before he spoke. I admire your imagination. Don’t be so foolish. Sweetheart, please understand this. As your guardian I am forced to be strict because I want the best for you.

Hortense nodded. So, do I, but at Mrs Farley’s soiree, when you compared her face to her bad-tempered pug’s you did yourself a disservice.

Margaret wanted to stamp her feet as though she were a child. Why must her mother and Saunton dwell on her indiscretions?

I am sure Margaret did not intend her comment to be overheard and repeated, Amelia said.

No, I did not, and I have apologised to you, Mama, Margaret muttered grateful for her sister-in-law’s intervention.

Yes, you have, but you must not upset Lady Hortense. Is that not right, my little hothouse flower? He gazed at his wife a fond expression. Only her complacent stepfather would make such a comparison. Margaret stifled her laughter while she looked suspiciously at Saunton whose cough seemed to muffle his amusement.

My dear sir, thank you for your elegant compliment, Hortense murmured as she adjusted her diamond necklace.

She should not laugh. After her unhappy first marriage, Mama deserved happiness.

Margaret, remember not to utter one ill-considered word that will cause offence, Saunton said, this time his voice so sharp that it could have sliced effortlessly through a block of ice.

She bent her head to avoid looking at him. Despite Saunton’s tedious lectures, she loved her brother and knew he loved her. I shall not say anything you could object to. Honesty compelled her to add. At least, I shall try not to.

* * *

In the ballroom, Margaret’s feet tapped to the rhythm of The Sussex Waltz. Taught the steps by her dancing master, she longed to be twirled around the ballroom by one of her beaux.

The dance ended. With Amelia, Saunton, one of the most handsome and well-dressed men present, his short black hair arranged to tumble over his forehead, and his cravat tied in the complicated style called Cascade, returned to their seats.

Mother, who sat next to her on a gilt wood chair, exchanged a few words with Lady Sefton, one of Almack’s Lady Patronesses.

Margaret stood to make her curtsey.

Are you enjoying the ball, Lady Margaret? the amiable countess, appreciated for her kindness, asked.

Yes, thank you, Lady Sefton, but I would like to waltz, and don’t understand why I need permission from you or one of Almacks’ other patronesses to do so.

A pretty child, but too forward, it would be unfortunate if her voucher is withdrawn, the countess murmured as she walked away.

Hortense sank onto her chair and fanned herself vigorously.

With mingled anger and indignation, Margaret looked down at her. What right does that woman have to threaten me?

Silence, Hortense hissed. You will be ruined.

Too angry to obey or consider the consequences, Margaret glared. Why should she be accepted as one of the arbiters of polite society and have the power to decide if I may waltz?

Heads turned. A few people, who had overheard her outburst, seemed amused. The majority appeared shocked.

Margaret, you have said more than enough. A white line formed around Saunton’s mouth. You have disgraced yourself. Anger blazed in his eyes. We will return home at once to consider your immediate future, he said too quietly for anyone to overhear.

Where would he send her? Margaret pressed her hands against her hot cheeks. Why could she never resist the temptation to speak out? Why had she allowed her indignation to triumph over good sense?

Margaret turned around. Unable to bear the attention her comments had attracted, she ran past De Vere, through a crowd of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, and down the stairs into the large reception hall. She nearly slipped on the marble floor. A gentleman caught her in his arms.

Alexander Symonds, Baron Rochedale at your service, ma’am.

Thank you, sir. I mean, not for your service, but for saving me from a tumble.

She gazed up into a pair of large dark eyes in a handsome face, the only blemish a scar from his right cheekbone to his square jaw.

The gentleman chuckled.

To calm herself, Margaret took a deep breath. Appreciative of his cologne, lavender with an unmistakeable hint of lemon, something pleasurable and unfamiliar stirred within her. Confused she gazed into his eyes. They seemed to burn a pathway into hers. She should not stand here in the arms of the tall, muscular gentleman. If anyone of consequence saw them and gossiped, her reputation would be in shreds and Saunton would never forgive her. Please let go of me, sir.

You are trembling. Are you certain you want me to release you? I don’t wish you to fall.

Yes, she answered, although she did not understand why she wished to remain in the circle of his arms.

In a second, he freed her. She stepped back then fled into the street away from her handsome rescuer, and her unpardonable folly.

* * *

Rochedale hesitated for a moment. The reason for the young lady’s precipitous flight was not his concern. He half turned around to go upstairs.

Confound it, who knew what harm might come to a proverbial damsel in distress alone in London after dark. If he had a daughter in the same situation he hoped someone would rescue her. Out of chivalry, it seemed he must follow the runaway instead of joining his mistress in the ballroom, where doubtless anxious mothers would caution their daughters to avoid him.

Chapter Two

Outside the Hempstead’s house, Rochedale looked along the wide street lit by new-fangled gas lamps. At the corner, he sighted his quarry fleeing towards Regent’s Park. His anxiety increased. If she were not assaulted by a lusty man, a kidnapper might take her to one of London’s many brothels.

A horse. He didn’t have a kingdom to exchange for one, but ahead of him a boy held a chestnut’s reins. Without compunction, Rochedale snatched them and mounted the horse. His lips twitched with amusement as he compared himself to a gallant knight of old, albeit a somewhat reluctant one, prepared to save the lady from any dragons she might face. He laughed. Never, even in the furthest reaches of his imagination, could he have envisaged himself playing a hero’s part.

Oi, yelled the boy. What about my three pence for looking after the gentleman’s horse?

Rochedale fumbled in his pocket and found a coin. He tossed it to the urchin. Gold glinted.

Lawks! the child exclaimed.

Rochedale frowned. By now, Caroline Clifford, his voluptuous mistress, who had promised to save him the dance before supper, would be furious.

Ahead of him, half way up the long street three men emerged from steps that led from the basement of a house. One of them grabbed their victim. Damn them to hell, Rochedale swore and spurred the sluggish horse forward.

Easy pickings, another rascal gloated.

The lady’s captor yelled when she kicked his calf.

Rochedale whistled. A damsel with high spirits.

Help! Let go of me. You will go to the gallows for this.

Too intent on their prey to be wary, one man caught her from behind. Another grabbed the neckline of her tiny bodice with such force that her frock ripped from her bosom to her waist.

She swore at them as though pursued by the hounds of hell.

Rochedale drew level with them. He sprang from the saddle onto the pavement. Guttersnipes! Unhand the lady.

He rushed forward and aimed a blow at one of their faces. The small, skinny man yelled and ran away followed by one of his companions, but the third attempted to drag his victim in the same direction.

With skill learned at Jackson’s famous Academy for Gentlemen Pugilists, Rochedale, aimed short arm jabs followed by a horizontal blow straight from the shoulder. The criminal yelled, his nose flattened. Blood pouring down his face, spitting out dislodged teeth, he fled after his companions.

Rochedale turned towards the young lady, who was trying to draw the edges of her torn gown together across her stays. Embarrassed by an involuntary surge of lust at the sight of her partially revealed breasts, he concentrated on undoing the last button of his black, tight-fitting evening coat. He tugged his arms out of the sleeves, then held the coat out to her and helped her to put it on.

Her hands shook too much to fasten the buttons.

With your permission. He did them up with unsteady fingers, still conscious of the exquisite curves of her bosom.

The girl stepped back. I shall never forget the horror inflicted on me by those animals and their stink.

Rochedale admired her. Although she shook from head to toe she had tried not to sound cowed. This was not the moment to point out she should not have run out alone onto the street. Please give me your address, I shall take you home in a hackney.

Wide-eyed, she shook her head.

The scent of her fragrant perfume reminiscent of a summer garden further titillated his senses. He resisted a strong temptation to forget that, despite the gossip about him, he was an honourable man, Ah, you have been warned not to travel in a hackney and to never be alone with a gentleman other than a close relation.

Yes, I have, but I would go with you if I could go home.

Rochedale frowned. If?

I cannot return to my family. I am ruined.

No such thing, you are not to blame for the attack on you.

"You don’t understand. I am sunk beneath reproach. They will never forgive me for my indiscretion, which is why I ran away from the ball."

Her hair loosened in the struggle tumbling over his coat, she seemed little more than a child. I don’t believe whatever you did is past redemption. By now, your relatives must be very worried.

Gaslight revealed her tearful face. You are mistaken, sir. My father is dead. My mother, who remarried, cares little for me. This time, my guardian, who frequently scolds me, will punish me with extreme severity.

Rochedale imagined a cruel custodian who might apply the cane to this delicate young lady. He stroked the scar on his face with his forefinger. Have you no relative you may turn to?

She hesitated. Not one who would help me.

By now, it must be long past the time for his rendezvous with his hot-tempered mistress. Because he had neglected her, if he were not wealthy, out of pride she would probably threaten to end their liaison. Thoughtful, he looked up at the night sky embedded with stars over which the full moon presided. Did he care enough to placate her? Perhaps not. Maybe it was time to sever their relationship. In recent months, the married lady’s indiscretion and possessiveness annoyed him. Besides, he did not wish to be challenged to a duel by her husband.

He hesitated for a moment before he offered her a carte-blanche. If you will permit me, I shall provide for you and protect you.

She smiled. Thank you for your kindness.

Do you understand what my suggestion entails?

A pair of large hazel eyes gazed into his. Yes, sir, it means you will take care of me.

Indeed, I shall, he confirmed, but questioned whether she really understood the full implication of his offer. He shook his head. His conscience stirred. Should he retract his offer to this young, well-bred lady? Suspecting he might live to rue this day, Rochedale decided to take her to his house on the banks of the River Thames.

The boy from whom he had snatched the horse’s reins ran around the corner.

Oi, give me back me ‘orse.

Rochedale complied.

* * *

Saunton watched his mother, who continued to fan herself vigorously. Oh, my poor child. My dearest Margaret, where are you?

Calm yourself, my love. Dismiss the ungrateful girl from your mind. Sir Peter stroked her hand. Do you need your smelling salts?

Saunton ignored them. Amelia, please find out if Margaret is in the ladies’ retiring room.

Foolish girl! He doubted Lady Sefton would accept even the most abject apology, but even if she did many doors would now be closed to Margaret.

He clenched his fists. Since Charlotte’s marriage ceremony, when he gave her away to her husband, he had looked forward to giving Margaret in holy matrimony to a gentleman who would love and cherish her.

When he found Margaret, he would send her to Longwood Place. At his country estate, she would have time to reflect on her folly. He would ask his wife’s former chaperone, Mrs Deane, to accompany her. He clamped his lips together. Alternatively, he could send his sister to their formidable Great Aunt Augusta. If anyone could tame Margaret, she could.

Aware of glances at them, he sank onto the chair beside his mother, who applied her tiny silver flask of smelling salts to her nose. Mama, please try to overcome your distress. We must make light of Margaret’s thoughtlessness. After all, she expressed an opinion which many other people probably share.

I daresay, but none of them would express it in a loud voice at a ball. She has ruined her good name, Hortense whispered. Oh, the shame of it. I shall never recover. People will think I am an unfit mother.

His selfish parent would overcome the humiliation, but her words proved her unworthiness. She cared more about the effect of his sister’s latest indiscretion on her than on Margaret. His nostrils flared. As for Sir Peter, he took no interest in any of his unmarried step-children. Saunton decided they would make their home with him and his wife.

Once more he resented the responsibilities he inherited from his spendthrift father, but he loved his siblings too much to shirk his duty as their guardian.

Filled with self-reproach he shook his head. When he served in the 26th Hussar Regiment, his junior staff accepted his reprimands and did not repeat their errors. So, why did he fail to find a way to persuade his eighteen-year-old sister not to be bold and imprudent?

He forced himself to remain seated instead of leaving the ballroom to search for Margaret, thus giving rise to more gossip and speculation.

Elegant in her ice blue French silk, diamonds around her slender throat, and a silver tiara set with the same precious stones, his wife returned from. She looked at him across the crowd and shook her head almost imperceptibly.

His throat constricted. When Margaret ran out of the ballroom where did she go? He must make discreet enquiries.

When Amelia returned, he watched her pause to speak to acquaintances as though nothing were amiss.

Sir Peter stood. He opened his gold snuff box ornamented with a heart pierced by a Cupid’s arrow on the lid. Try some my boy? Blended it myself. Tell me what you think of it.

Saunton shook his head. Sir Peter should be concerned about his step-daughter’s whereabouts not the quality of his snuff.

Sorry to say it. Margaret is shocking bad ton. I have told her ladyship to marry her off. Your sister has a long way to go, dash it, but there is still hope. With her beauty and a large dowry, you can find a gentleman in need of funds who would welcome a brood mare in his bed.

Saunton contained his outrage. At this moment, to take umbrage with his step-father would serve no useful purpose.

Sir Peter looked sideways at his wife. Depend on you, Saunton, not to repeat my words to your mother. She might not like it. But you understand me, don’t you? Must not upset a delicate flower of womanhood like my wife, must we? Our duty is to protect the fair sex.

Damn the man, he should be prepared to help him find his sister. Before he could fire the first quietly spoken round at Sir Peter, someone touched his hand.

He turned around and stared into eyes filled to the brim with laughter. Amelia!

I am sorry, I should not be so amused by Sir Peter’s description of his wife when we are so worried about Margaret, she whispered. My grandmother frequently warned me about dangers that threaten a lady alone in London streets.

He hoped his wife had not heard Sir Peter’s comment about a brood mare.

Margaret is not in the lady’s withdrawing room, Amelia continued. The maid on duty there has not seen her. She looked anxiously at him. Although Margaret has not collected her cloak, I fear she might have run out of the house. Perhaps you should make enquiries in the hall. She clasped his