Page 1 of The Viscount's Pearl
Chapter 1
The Spinster
Frances lay on the cold floor. She was aware of water trickling nearby, the leaves rustling in the late August breeze as she gazed at the pattern above her. It had taken hours of painstaking work, standing on a tall ladder while her mother had wrung her hands, forcing two of the footmen to stand holding it hour after hour while Frances reached upwards till her arms ached. But now it was complete, and she could happily lie here in the rotunda forever. Modelled on a Greek temple, the delicate open building boasted twelve columns and a floor of white marble, topped with a domed copper roof which had started out shining and was slowly acquiring the desired green patina. A pretty addition to the grounds of Woodside Abbey, situated next to a waterfall sculpted from the natural stream which criss-crossed the estate. Frances’ father, Viscount Lilley, was keen that nature should be shaped to his will, and sothe grounds were under the strict supervision of an army of gardeners as well as his watchful eye. Frances’ odd interest in shells had been grudgingly given a home here, more than four thousand of them set into a spiralling pattern within the domed roof.
Round and round and round…
The spiralling pattern was the only way to block out the word also going round and round in Frances’ mind.
Spinster.
The word most dreaded by all theton. A curse, the worst insult one could throw at a young woman. It was whispered by those of mean spirit if a young woman was presented at court but then too many seasons passed without receiving a suitable marriage proposal. Or indeed any marriage proposal, in Frances’ case. And how many seasons were too many? This would be her fourth season. Too many. Now that summer was drawing to a close, the household was already planning for London, her mother talking endlessly of new modistes and fashionable milliners, as though their combined efforts would somehow change Frances sufficiently to accomplish the marriage proposal which three previous seasons had failed to achieve.
Spinster.
To Frances, lying on the cold marble floor, the word was appealing. No parties, balls, picnics, rides along Rotten Row. No modistes and milliners. No tickling ribbons and scratchy lace and ballrooms either too hot or too cold. The exhaustion of coming home with aching feet and ravenously hungry after eating almost nothing so as to seem ladylike. Above all, no small talk on tedious subjects like the weather, minor ailments or the latest gossip. Spinster. Frances stared up at the spiralling cream shells. She could have a house, somewhere by the sea, and a handful of servants who would care for her. She could walk on the beach every day and have somewhere to keep her findswithout people interfering with them. She could spend whole days without being required to speak. She could curl up in a rocking chair with books by the fire and have a hot chocolate or tea brought to her without asking, at a set hour. In the summers, the breeze would fill the house and the sound of the sea would reach her wherever she was, its soothing rhythm keeping her calm.
“Miss Lilley?” The anxious voice of one of the footmen, Nicholas.
With a sigh, Frances sat up. Nicholas was standing just outside the rotunda, dark green and gold uniform immaculate, looking worried.
“Yes, Nicholas?” She knew why he was here.
“Her ladyship would like you back at the house, Miss Lilley. The visitors have arrived.”
Frances suppressed a groan. Already the spiralling shells above her were losing their power to soothe. “Coming.”
She trailed Nicholas back to the imposing grey stone house, surrounded by immaculately tended lawns and intricately cut box hedges before the gardens swept into the wider grounds where the stream and waterfall, rotunda and other decorative follies were situated. As Frances entered the hallway, her lady’s maid Deborah appeared from the shadows where she had clearly been lurking to catch her.
“Her ladyship said I was to make you… that is, dress you for the visitors, Miss. Come quickly, they’re already in the drawing room.”
Make you presentable, was the phrase she had bitten back, thought Frances, following the maid up the stairs. Her mother knew her too well. If it had been down to Frances, she would have entered the drawing room as she was, in dirty boots and a dusty dress from lying on her back in the rotunda.
In the bedroom, Deborah set about Frances in a flurry, tuggingoff her boots and replacing them with dainty cream kid slippers, muttering over the buttons as she lifted away the plain blue cotton dress and replaced it with a floaty muslin in a shade of pink which Frances detested, adding a delicate fichu for a modest neckline which made Frances want to scratch.
“I don’t have time to do ringlets,” Deborah said. “I’ll use the combs.”
Frances’ shoulders sagged. Much as she disliked the process of creating ringlets at the front of her face, she despised the false hairpieces attached with tiny combs even more. The thought of someone else’s hair attached to her scalp was even worse than the endless fussing and curling required to make her hair look fashionable.
Deborah hastily added a pearl necklace and Frances made her way downstairs, taking a deep breath before entering the drawing room where, as she had expected, she was met with a waft of strong perfumes, emanating from her mother as well as from the visitors. Frances found perfume too strong at the best of times, and scents mingling from multiple sources made her nauseous.
“Ah there you are, Frances,” her mother said, her lips smiling while her eyes glittered a warning. “Have you been walking? She issofond of nature and fresh air,” she added to the guests. “Such a country girl.”
Lady Ridlington and her daughter Miss Ridlington nodded approval. Lady Ridlington’s son was on the market for a wife, and very much a country man himself, preferring hunting and fishing on his estate to balls and life in London. Frances gave a curtsey and seated herself at her mother’s side, opposite the two women, as instructed by her mother in a briefing before the visit, “So that they can look at you,” her mother had said. Frances hated being stared at.
“Such a shame my son could not come with us,” began LadyRidlington. “It is the end of the shooting season, so I could not drag him away from his guns. But he will find time to pay a call very soon, I hope. What are your interests, my dear?”
“The natural world,” said Frances. She had been trained to say this by her mother, as apparently “shells” sounded too blunt and obsessive.
Lady Ridlington beamed. “How delightful. Do you draw?”
Lady Lilley gave Frances a dig in the ribs. Frances obediently got up and fetched her drawing portfolio, which she handed over to Lady Ridlington.
Lady Ridlington opened it. “Oh, how pretty,” she said. “Shells. From a visit to the seaside? Brighton, perhaps?”
“Margate,” said Frances quietly.
Lady Ridlington nodded. Brighton was more fashionable of course, but Margate was not without its charms.
