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In my Regency novel, Wednesday’s Child, the
heroine spent Christmas with her guardian’s lively family.
Although
the way Christmas was celebrated during the Regency era was changing, many families
observed the traditional way of observing the season. The first day of
Christmas was St Nicholas’s day, the 6th of December, when small
gifts were exchanged and people celebrated with family and friends. Though
wealthy families enjoyed parties,
suppers and balls they did not forget the poor to whom they gave in charity to,
particularly on the 21st of December, St Thomas’s Day.
On Christmas Eve a
candle was lit, and a Yule log, which burned for as long as possible was
ignited. Spreading warmth and good cheer, It was the heart of family
gatherings, in a house decorated with evergreen garlands and wreaths of
rosemary, bay and laurel entwined with fruit, ribbons and holly berries.
Mistletoe kissing balls hung overhead. When the last berry was plucked from
them kissing ceased. On Twelfth Night,
to avoid bad luck, the greenery was removed and burned.
In 1800 Queen Charlotte set
up a Christmas tree decorated with bunches of sweetmeats, fruit and toys to be
distributed to all the children on the Windsor estate who were invited to a
party. From then Christmas trees became customary.
After attending church, on Christmas day, people enjoyed
sumptuous meals with their families and friends. On the following day, St
Stephen’s day, now called Boxing Day, tenants and servants received Christmas
Boxes.
Festivities on the 5th
of January when people ate, danced, sang and played games, such as apple
bobbing, concluded the twelve days of
Christmas.
About Wednesday’s Child
Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week
Book Three
“Wednesday’s Child is full of woe.”
Quotation.
In 1816, Mrs Bettismore
lies on her deathbed. Her twenty-year old granddaughter, Amelia, is distraught
by the imminent loss of her only relative, who has raised her in an atmosphere
of seclusion and unyielding discipline.
Amelia
inherits her grandmother’s fortune, but after such a sheltered upbringing she
finds herself lost and alone. Her emotional growth, stunted by Mrs Bettismore
she is afraid to do or say anything of which her grandmother would disapprove.
The heiress is unprepared
for her introduction to Saunton, her guardian’s noisy household and his family
of irrepressible sisters.
Will this cause Amelia to
retreat into herself even more, or will a home filled with love and high
spirits change her outlook and encourage her to find love?
Or do the long-hidden
secrets of her birth threaten to spoil everything?
Wednesday’s Child. First Three Chapters.
Chapter One
Weymouth
October
16, 1816
A fatal tumour in
the stomach? Seated in her grandmother’s private parlour, Amelia
Carstairs stared at Doctor Cray almost unable to believe his diagnosis. He must be wrong. Grandmamma cannot be
dying. She sank deeper into a wing
chair upholstered in lemon yellow, one of her beloved grandmother’s favourite
colours.
“But,
before you examined her, on Doctor Sutton’s instructions she has been bled,
blistered and purged, besides drinking seawater with roasted crabs’ eyes, and
bathing in the sea, all of which he assured us would cure her.”
Why did those
treatments fail? Amelia trembled while she waited for the
doctor’s reply.
“Miss
Carstairs, it would be cruel not to prepare you for the inevitable.”
Amelia
refrained from putting her hands over her ears to block out the dreadful truth.
“Whatever it costs there must be something you or someone else can do to save
her life.”
“No, there is not.” His face solemn, the
silver-haired doctor shook his head. “I am sorry to tell you this sad news. Mrs
Bettismore’s life is drawing to an immediate end.”
She
shrank back from the sober doctor, death’s messenger, dressed in black. “Is
there no hope? Another doctor might be able to save her life.”
“You
may consult one if you wish.” Doctor Cray pressed the tips of his fingers
together. “Miss Carstairs, in my opinion, the lady has only a few days, perhaps
hours left and-”
“Don’t
continue! No more, I beg you. I cannot bear it.” An unmarried, twenty-year-old
orphan with no other relatives, she could not imagine her future life without
her grandmother. She gulped. “There must be something you can do to save her.”
Doctor
Cray shook his head. “The only thing I can prescribe is laudanum to ease the
pain. I shall return at noon to see how
she is.” He picked up his black bag. “Miss Carstairs, try to be brave and
accept the inevitable instead of clinging to false hope. The only thing in this
world that we may be certain of is that we are born and will die. We cannot
overcome fate.” He hesitated. “For Mrs Bettismore’s sake, no matter how
distressed you are, be calm in her presence and make sure she is comfortable.”
Alone,
Amelia clenched her fists. If she sobbed her eyes and nose would redden and
Grandmamma would ask why she had been crying. Unable to sit still she paced
around the room until she halted in front of one of a pair of tall windows. She
stared out at the bay.
Fierce
wind drove rain from a pewter-coloured sky against the glass. Beyond the
esplanade, the dark grey sea advanced and retreated to and from the sweep of
golden sand where, only yesterday, children made sand pies and castles.
What
would she do with no one to care for her and fulfil her every whim? Amelia sank
onto the floor. She put her arms around her knees and rested her chin on them.
Ever since her entry into polite society, she took pride in her immaculate
appearance. Now, what did it matter if her white muslin dress creased? The
person, whom she loved more than any of her words could express, would not be
with her for much longer was the only significant thing.
Thoughts
whirled in her head. Nothing ever
persuaded Grandmamma to abandon her wig and
old-fashioned gowns. Her
grandmother had told one critic. ‘In
a small bodice and straight skirts, like some,
who should know better, I’d look like a lumpy sack of potatoes’ Rich enough to snap her fingers in
people’s faces, Grandmamma cared nothing for ridicule. The daughter of a London
merchant, her education merely consisted of reading, writing and arithmetic and
learning how to be a prudent housewife. Due to her wealth society tolerated her
despite her common speech and manners. Only she appreciated her grandmother’s
goodness and piety.
How
different her own life would have been if her father were not Oliver Carstairs,
younger son of a baron. His marriage to her mother coupled with her
grandmother’s fortune opened all but the highest stickler’s doors to her. So,
again and again, Grandmamma chaperoned her at Almacks assembly rooms, and high
society’s balls and routs even when her corns tortured her and she looked
longingly at her bed.
Amelia’s
throat ached with the effort of holding back her tears. How could she have been
so selfish, thinking only of her appearance and her own pleasure at dances
where, after the quadrilles, country dances and waltzes, suppers with every
delicacy imaginable were served while Grandmamma suffered?
A
knock on the door. Amelia stood and smoothed her gown, Blythe, her
grandmother’s dresser, entered. “Mrs Bettismore is asking for you.”
* * *
“Amelia, promise not to grieve when I
take my last breath. After so much pain, my old bones will welcome death,” Mrs
Bettismore whispered from her large four-poster bed. The heavy scarlet silk
curtains embroidered with gold thread shadowed her pallid face. “I look forward
to eternal peace with my Maker.”
Amelia
squeezed her eyes shut to prevent tears spilling down her cheeks. She could no
more accept her grandmother’s words than she could accept Doctor Cray’s.
“Grandmamma, please don’t say that. We will consult another doctor who will
cure you.”
“My
dear child, please accept that I am dying,” Mrs Bettismore said speaking with
increasing difficulty. “It’s time for us to be honest. I admit that I’ve failed
you.”
“Never!
Even when you chastised me, it was for my own good.” From her chair Amelia
reached out to clasp her grandmother’s thin hand.
“I
apologise for being too strict.” A few tears trickled down her cheeks. “But
please believe I’ve loved you since the day you were born, even when I applied
the cane if I considered it necessary.”
“Grandmamma,
I love you too. Please don’t trouble yourself. There is no need to say more.”
Her
grandmother ignored her interruption. “I overindulged you. I should have
insisted you marry a gentleman, who would protect you.” Her face a contorted
mask of pain, Mrs Bettismore closed her eyes.
“I
wish I could do something to ease your suffering.”
The
faded blue eyes opened. “So much to explain. So little time left to me. Pay
attention, child. You’ll inherit the cotton factory in Lancashire my first
husband, Mr Belcher, God rest his soul, bequeathed to me,” she rambled with
pauses between each phrase. “Sell it,” she murmured. “Better for you to be a
landowner. You’re only accepted by the ton due to my wealth and your paternal
grandfather’s rank.”
Even on her death
bed Grandmamma concentrated on her property and ambition. “No
need to speak of these matters now. You need nourishment. Shall I send for your
gruel?”
Mrs
Bettismore tried to raise her hand. “No, stop trying to fatten me up like a
Christmas goose and listen. After I die don’t allow any of my husbands’
relatives or your future father-in-law to hang onto your coat sleeves.”
Amelia
thought of Sir Bartholomew, her maternal grandfather, who bequeathed all his
considerable property to Grandmamma, which she did not want to inherit if it
meant death. Tears down rolled down her cheeks. She wiped them away.
“Amelia.”
Her grandmother struggled to breathe, her pale, sunken cheeks suddenly
poppy-red but she managed to whisper. “I loved Mr Bettismore, not my other
husbands.”
“Yes,
I know. Please be quiet. I don’t want you to exhaust yourself.” She poured a
glass of wine then held it to her grandmother’s dry lips. “Sip this.”
With
an unexpected burst of strength, Mrs Bettismore pushed the glass aside. The
ruby red wine pooled on the gold silk counterpane.
“I’ll
send for a maid to change the bed covers.”
“No,
don’t fuss, child,” her grandmother said with sudden energy. “There’s more
important things than spilt wine. I’ve safeguarded you in my will and given
instructions to my secretary. He’s an honest man. You may trust him.” Her head
lolled on the pile of lace-trimmed linen pillows. “There’s something very
important I should have told you-” She broke off. Her breath rattled in her
throat.
“Grandmamma,
what do you want to tell me?” Amelia trembled. She stared into the half-open
eyes shining with love. At first, she did not realise they were sightless.
When
she understood her grandmother had left her body, she covered her face with her
hands and sobbed.
Chapter
Two
On the morning after her grandmother’s
death, Amelia Carstairs lay on the goose feather mattress of her tent bed, eyes
swollen, her throat raw from crying. Nothing other than her grandmother’s death
concerned her.
“You
must eat something, Miss,” Blythe said her voice hoarse.
“No,
food would choke me,” Amelia replied her eyes shut.
“Mr
Leigh sends his condolences and asks if he may consult you.”
“Why?”
“About
the arrangements for Madam’s funeral.”
Funeral! A
dreadful word. She could not bear the idea of the body being committed to the
grave. Until the last two months, when the tumour grew rapidly, sucking the
life out of its victim, her grandmother had been so…so active, so exuberant and
enthusiastic. Amelia could not tolerate an image of her alone in the cold, dark
bowels of the earth for all eternity. Surely not. By now, Grandmamma must be in
heaven. Amelia did not want her to be. She needed her here on earth to look
after her.
“Miss,
if you give him permission Mr Leigh will organise everything.”
A
sodden handkerchief clutched in her hand; tears poured down Amelia’s cheeks.
She wanted to howl like a wolf she once saw and heard in a menagerie.
A
knock on the door. She buried her face in a pillow.
“Come
in, Mr Leigh,” Blythe said her voice gruff.
Footsteps
clicked on the parquet floor.
“Draw
the curtains, Blythe,” the secretary ordered. “Please accept my apology, Miss
Carstairs. You have refused to leave your bedchamber so I am forced to
intrude.”
Her
hands still over her ears, Amelia could not block the sound of his
well-modulated voice.
“Miss
Carstairs,” he continued, “Mrs Bettismore left specific instructions. I am the
executor of her last will and testament. It is my duty to carry them out.”
“Oh,
Miss, do sit up and listen to Mr Leigh.”
Amelia
did not need to open her eyes to know Blythe spoke. She recognised the
determined tone. Unable to face the day she shook her head.
“Yesterday,
you didn’t allow me to help you to change into your nightgown,”
Blythe said with a hint of irritation in her voice. “Please be sensible, Miss.
If you bathe, change into fresh clothes and have breakfast you will feel much
better.”
Nothing could
raise her spirits.
“For
now,” Blythe continued, “I’ll order hot chocolate and bread and butter to be
served here.”
Not
only did Amelia want to stay in bed forever, the thought of food made her
nauseous, but her throat was dry. With a wave of her hand, she indicated the
jug of lemon barley water on a pier table near her bed. “Give me some, Blythe.”
She
pushed her hair back from her face.
“Miss
Carstairs.” Mr Leigh bowed.
Amelia
sat up. Her nostrils flared. He should not be in her bedchamber. Apart from
unimportant footmen, the only male who ever entered it was the doctor on the
rare occasions when she had been ill.
Mr
Leigh’s steady grey eyes assessed her. “It is my task to obey Mrs Bettismore’s
instructions. The first is to summon the gentleman to whom you were once
betrothed.”
Amazed,
she stared at him. “Viscount Langley!”
“Not
a viscount, his father is dead. He is now Earl of Saunton,” Leigh corrected
her.
She
stared at the middle-aged gentleman, a picture of propriety in a dark blue coat
and buff pantaloons, with not a hair of his head out of place. “Why must you
send for him?”
“I
am the executor of Mrs Bettismore’s will.”
Amelia
shook her head. “No, it is too much to bear. I order you not to send for his
lordship.”
She
never again wanted to see the earl. After Napoleon escaped from Elba, Langley
re-joined the army. A high-handed major, he had told her he expected her to
accompany him to Brussels where he would join his regiment. She still shuddered
at the memory of Saunton expecting her to follow the drum. Her drink spilled
down the front of her crumpled muslin gown.
Mr
Leigh exchanged a glance with Blythe. “Miss Carstairs, I am bound to follow
your late grandmother’s instructions, so I must summon him.” He turned the
silver ring on his index finger around and around. “Last night, Blythe kept
vigil over Mrs Bettismore’s body.”
“Why?”
“R…rats,
Miss,” Blythe stuttered her face drained of colour, except for her puffy, red
eyes.
Those disgusting creatures! Soon after the rat catcher cleared the
house of them than more arrived. The full meaning of Blythe’s explanation
struck Amelia as hard as a blow. In reponse to her mental picture of the disgusting creatures feeding on her
grandmother's body she almost vomited.
“Today
the funeral furnisher I contacted will send two women to wash and dress Madam’s
body,” Leigh informed her. “You have no female relatives to keep vigil so I
have instructed him to provide women to watch over her until her mortal remains
are committed to the grave on Friday.”
“So
quickly! Why?”
Mr
Leigh looked away from her, obviously reluctant to speak. “It will be painful
for you to hear what I am about to say. I assure you it is not something I wish
to explain to any delicately nurtured lady. It is necessary to inter Mrs
Bettismore before the body decomposes.”
Shocked
and sickened she widened her eyes in response to his explanation. “But I need
more time to mourn Grandmamma and-” She broke off.
With
an effort Amelia forced herself to speak again. “I don’t understand! How can
everything be prepared so soon?” Her voice cracked. “The coffin, and… and
everything? When old Mrs Wragg died it took eight days for the funeral
furnisher to do his work.”
“In
winter, the icy cold weather … er … helped to preserve the body.” Mr Leigh took
a deep breath. Perhaps he feared her sensibilities would be overcome. “Mrs
Bettismore confided in me. She knew the tumour would cause her death. Three
months ago, she ordered a lead lined, elm coffin, which is in a storeroom
beneath the house.”
“But
she will need a shift,” Amelia protested.
The
secretary shook his head. “No, she wished to be buried in the gown she wore
when you were presented at court. She said it was her greatest triumph.”
“But
when Mrs Wragg died much more needed to be arranged.”
“The
funeral furnisher will provide everything necessary.” He cleared his throat.
“Mrs Bettismore’s regretted you have no male relative to advise you, which is
why she ordered me to summon the earl. For now, I shall leave you in Blythe’s
care. Later, we shall discuss your affairs. Before then you should prepare to
receive visitors, who will come to offer their condolences.”
A
maid carried a tray into the bedroom.
Blythe poured hot chocolate into a gold-rimmed
porcelain cup. She picked it up and held it out towards Amelia. “Please drink
this and eat some bread and butter, Miss. Afterwards, I suggest you bathe and
eat breakfast to give you strength for the day ahead.”
Amelia
obeyed the affectionate, but firm, tone of voice she was familiar with childhood. Despite
her misery, she accepted it was time to get up and try to get on with her life.
Chapter Three
With sympathy, Percy Marriot, the seventh
Earl of Saunton’s secretary, glanced at the pile
of bills the improvident sixth earl incurred. Loyal to the backbone to his
employer, under whose command he served during the final conflict with
Napoleon, he despised the late earl who had gambled until he faced bankruptcy.
“My luck must change,” he had cried out
seated at a table in Crockford’s where the stakes were always high. “I wager my
daughter, Lady Charlotte’s hand in marriage.”
“Shame,” other card players muttered
though they would never refuse a stake.
Fate in the form of the young Duke of
Midland’s intervention had spared the lady.
Fortunately, an illness, which caused his
hands to tremble too much to bet on the turn of a card, prevented the late earl
losing Longwood Place, his family’s ancestral home.
Percy admired his patron. On the verge of
going to Belgium to join his regiment, Saunton arranged for the sale of his
family’s heirlooms at Christie’s. Combined with his winning the lottery after
the battle at Waterloo it saved Longwood for posterity.
“Although I gave orders not to be
disturbed, am I so formidable that you must hover nervously by my desk instead
of speaking?” Saunton asked, his voice mild.
“No, sir.”
“If it is not too much trouble, please
explain why you have joined me in the library.”
The earl’s imperious dark eyes, set in a
face weathered by years in the Iberian Peninsula fighting the French, might
have intimidated someone who did not know him well. Yet even if there were some
claims to the contrary, the earl was not top-lofty. Nevertheless, he knew how
to stand on his dignity when necessary.
Percy resisted an impulse to salute. “I
apologise for disturbing you, sir, but a groom rode post haste from Weymouth to
deliver this.” He handed the earl a letter.
Saunton raised an eyebrow. “Do we know anyone who resides there?” he asked
facetiously.
Percy wanted to chuckle but managed not
to. “The king made the town as popular as the Prince Regent is making Brighton,
and Princess Charlotte favours it. To answer you, sir, I daresay we are
acquainted with any number of people who are there.”
Saunton looked around the library, where
spaces left by the removal of valuable oil paintings revealed the original
colour of the faded crimson wallpaper patterned with gold. “The question is,”
he murmured, “is there anyone whom we wish
to know in Weymouth?” A wicked gleam in his eyes, he grinned. “I hope my mother
has not left Margate and gone there with my sisters.”
Percy picked up a silver letter opener
and held it out towards the earl.
“Ah, you are always percipient. I should
read this.” Saunton turned the missive over. “I am intrigued. Who could it be
from?”
“May I suggest you open it?” Percy asked,
aware of the necessity of scrutinising bills that arrived with monotonous
regularity since the sixth earl’s demise over a year ago. The task bored his
employer, who always refused his offers to deal with them and relieve him from
the tedium.
The earl broke the red wax seal.
The
letter was from an old-fashioned person who preferred dripping red candle wax
onto folded paper to modern wafers.
His lordship’s slanted eyebrows drew
together across his forehead.
“Hell, and damnation!” Saunton threw the
letter down onto a neat pile of unpaid bills.
“Sir?” Percy knew better than to either
reveal his surprise or comment on the rare occasions when the earl was out of
countenance.
“Send the messenger to the library.”
* * *
Amused by the groom’s flamboyant
peacock-blue and green livery laced with gold, Saunton regarded him.
“Did your mistress send you here?”
“No, sir, I mean my lord; it’s
said Miss Carstairs is in bed crying her eyes out.”
Saunton raised his eyebrows. “Who sent
you?”
“Mr Leigh told me to give you this pair
of gloves.”
A low whistle escaped Saunton. According
to custom, a gift of black gloves, signified death. He looked from the toes of
the groom’s mud-splattered boots to his untidy neckcloth. “Who is Mr Leigh?”
“My lord, he served Mrs Bettismore and is
now Miss Carstairs secretary. The funeral’s five days from now.”
“So soon! How the deuce has Leigh managed
to arrange it so quickly?”
The groom shuffled from one foot to the
other. “I don’t know, milord.”
“Thank you for delivering the message.
You may go to the kitchen to eat and drink before you return to Weymouth.”
“Thank you, milord.”
His thoughts disordered, Saunton walked
to the pier table on which plain glass decanters and glasses stood. Foolish to
regret the sale of the crystal and other family heirlooms auctioned at
Christie’s. He removed the stopper from a bottle of brandy, poured a glass and
drank the fiery liquid with appreciation.
Too restless to return to his chair he
paced the bare floorboards. The clicks made by the heels of his black, highly
polished shoes irritated him. He stood still. Damn the responsibility thrust on
him.
Memory recalled Saunton to the occasion
when Amelia Carstairs claimed she needed fresh air. To oblige her he led the
acclaimed beauty from the over-heated ballroom onto a balcony. Later she
admitted she had pretended to faint. Fooled, he caught her and supported her in
his arms. Discovered in the compromising situation by her outraged grandmother
and a gaggle of guests Miss Carstairs snared him. On the following day, he
proposed marriage to preserve her good name. It did not take long for him to
realise the eighteen-year-old’s main interest was her appearance, the latest
fashions, and attending all the delights the London Season offered. In his
opinion, her head had probably remained as empty as any one of his sisters’
beautiful dolls. And now, damn it-.
Saunton replenished his glass with
brandy. Confound it, in her long letter Mrs Bettismore explained she esteemed
him because he allowed her granddaughter to end the betrothal.
‘Nothing,’
she wrote, ‘would have persuaded a less
noble gentleman to agree to the termination of his betrothal to an heiress, who
would inherit a great fortune. In my last will and testament I have appointed
you both as my only grandchild’s guardian and one of her trustees. I am
confident you will act with utmost good sense and propriety.’
To that burden, Mrs Bettismore added, ‘I hoped to live to see my dear
granddaughter married to a gentleman with a faultless reputation equal to yours
and, if God willed it, the father of my great-grandchildren. Should you wish to
disregard the conventions, tie the knot with my granddaughter while you are
still her guardian. To allay gossip if you do so, I have informed her other
trustees, Mr Syddon, my attorney, and Mr Armstrong, my banker, of my wish.’
Outrageous! Since Helen Whitley, his
closest friend’s sister-in-law, the only lady he ever loved married Captain
Dalyrymple, he had never wished to replace her in his affection and he did not
wish to do so now. Moreover, two healthy younger brothers meant he did not need
to father an heir.
Saunton paced up and down the library.
Curse the vulgar Mrs Bettismore, he would not be outwitted by her from beyond
the grave. He took several deep breaths to calm himself. Such anger and
resentment might have cost him his life on the battlefield. Even now it would
not serve him well. He halted in front of the window. Before him stretched the
long drive. Absent-minded he noted it needed an additional layer of gravel to
suppress weeds.
There were never enough funds to provide
for Mamma and his siblings, to restore the house, to overhaul the tenants’
farms, repair the farm labourer’s cottages, and make the home farm productive.
To make matters worse he could never turn away an honest man in need of
employment. ‘Yet,’ taunted his inner voice, ‘if you married Amelia Carstairs-’
“No!” The word exploded from him. ‘But if you were her husband,’ the silent
voice continued, ‘you could solve all your monetary problems and provide your
sisters with dowries large enough to ensure they married well.’
Saunton ignored the devious voice. He
must travel to Weymouth in the hope of arriving in time to attend Mrs
Bettismore’s funeral.
Afterwards, where and with whom would
Miss Carstairs reside. It would be unthinkable for a young, unmarried lady to
live without the companionship of a gentlewoman.
His mother? Should he ask her to include
his ward in her busy household? No, recently freed from obligatory mourning for
his father, Mamma would be busy with her plans to present Charlotte at court
during the next London season. In the meantime, with five other daughters to
care for, he doubted she would welcome Miss Carstairs when she returned to
Longwood Place.
So, who could he turn to for advice? Of
course, he would ask for help from Mrs Tarrant, the wife of his closest friend
with whom he served in the army.
Wednesday’s Child is available from these retailers.
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