Page 15 of The Viscount's Pearl
The gulls. They swooped overhead, calling out with their harsh voices, sometimes flying together, at other times entirely alone, wheeling on invisible eddies of air.
The sea. Cold seeping through to her bones yet oddly not unpleasant, its harsh salt smell all about her, in her nose as well as her mouth, but below her a gentle rise and fall, akin to her rocking chair, to the swing she was so fond of, the motion bringing her a deep calm.
She would have stayed for far longer, but she supposed, reluctantly, that she should head back to the shore. More than once, she had experienced concerned bathers dragging her back, all but submerging her in the process when she had been in no danger of drowning, or attendants calling for her in ever more panicked tones, despite her being entirely peaceful and happy. She turned onto her front and began the swim back to shore. The dress she was forced to wear for modesty’s sake was heavy, pulling her downwards, but Frances was a strong swimmer; thenarrow but deep stream on the family’s estate had taught her well over the years.
She headed towards her bathing machine, which in her opinion there was entirely no reason for, why could she not stroll down the beach and walk into the water naked, as the men did? But social conventions were social conventions, so she obeyed them, knowing what a fuss people liked to make otherwise. It was not worth the energy it would take to withstand their protestations. Frances had long since learnt to keep her oddities to herself unless they were truly worth battling for, when she would turn intransigently stubborn. Back at the bathing machine, she gripped the handrail to pull herself up the stairs, her dress three times its former weight, pulling her back towards the sea. Turning her head as she climbed, she saw, not thirty yards away, Mr Mowatt, standing naked halfway up the stairs of his bathing machine, looking her way, an anxious expression on his face. Had he seen her out on the waves, fretted about her? If he had, he had shown remarkable restraint in trusting that she was happy, in not pulling her from the sea, and for that, she was grateful. She nodded to him and he looked away, as though uncomfortable at seeing her in her soaking wet bathing dress, not that there was much of her that could be seen in it. Long sleeves, a long hem, heavy fabric. It was absurd to go swimming in it. At home, she had been wont to swim in only her shift, and sometimes not even in that, to the consternation of the gardeners and the horror of her mother, who had eventually insisted, with dire threats, that Frances must only ever swim in a proper bathing dress.
Peeling off the wet dress with the assistance of her attendant, then carefully rinsed in fresh water, Frances emerged from her bathing machine tolerably well-dressed again, though her hair was still very damp, her ringlets nowhere to be seen.
“Did you enjoy your swim?” Mr Mowatt asked her, meeting herat the carriage, where they waited for Lord Barrington to join them.
“Yes. Thank you for not rescuing me,” she said.
His face flushed with embarrassment. “I did not – that is to say, I saw you but thought you seemed…”
“Content,” she said. “I was perfectly content, Mr Mowatt, and in no need of being rescued. I am grateful you saw that. Not many men would have done.”
Laurence had never had a lady thank him for leaving her alone before, but it was clear that she did not speak in jest and her words made him feel oddly proud that he had seen her strange behaviour and interpreted it correctly. “You are welcome,” he replied, feeling that an answer was called for. “You are a strong swimmer,” he added, meaning to repay the compliment.
She shrugged. “I am not afraid of the deep water. Indeed, further out it is usually less rough, the waves break on the shoreline while out at sea they are often gentler. One feels held by the sea, in no danger of drowning if you do not fight it. If you fight its nature, it is dangerous, but if you understand it and allow it to be itself you will be safe in its embrace.”
“You sound like Uncle Barrington, a true philosopher,” he said.
“He makes a study of human nature. He understands those around him far better than they understand him.”
He wondered if she meant it as a rebuke for his shock over Lord Barrington’s past love life, but she gave a small smile which indicated some degree of friendliness, which he returned.
“I shall be leaving in a day or two,” he said.
“So soon?”
“The Little Season is beginning and I have invitations which it would be rude of me to refuse.”
She looked away. “I have refused plenty, my mama says I am a hopeless case of rudeness.”
He could not help a small chuckle. “I do not think you carewhat thetonthinks of you, Miss Lilley. If you did, you would not be here, gathering shells, you would be fretting at your modiste to make you yet another ballgown.”
She looked at him with a serious countenance, before her lips twisted into a wry smile. “Why, Mr Mowatt, I believe you are beginning to know something of my character. First you do not rescue me from my sea bathing and now you know my secret: that I am only waiting for thetonto declare me a spinster once and for all, so that I may lead the life I wish to.”
He nodded, still surprised at her insistence on not marrying, but pleased that there seemed to be an amicable understanding developing between them. “If I know something of your character and you of mine, perhaps we are becoming friends, Miss Lilley.”
She tilted her head. “Do you have many female friends, Mr Mowatt?”
He thought of the married women with whom he spent his London nights, but they were not what he would call friends. He did not converse with them on any topic other than those which led to compliments and caresses. “No,” he admitted at last. “I believe you are my only female friend, Miss Lilley.”
Lord Barrington arrived and was swiftly made comfortable in the carriage by Andrew and Benjamin, ready for them all to go home.
On Laurence’s last day his uncle gave him a generous sum of money in addition to his usual allowance and followed him to the door, where the carriage stood waiting. “Now remember what you promised, my boy. No rash promises of marriage, not this year at any rate. Wait a while longer and have faith in providence. ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ It may seemresponsible, to marry for practical reasons, but I promise you that love, when it comes, is worth the wait.”
This advice, hopelessly romantic as it was, was well meant, and Laurence held out his hand to Lord Barrington, only to be pulled down for an enveloping fatherly embrace. “Go now, my boy, and enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, Sir. I hope your health will not suffer this winter.”
“That, I can always hope for. Goodbye.”
Behind him, Miss Lilley appeared in the doorway. She did not say anything, only watched him.
“Goodbye, Sir. Miss Lilley.” Laurence gave her a small bow and she returned it with a silent curtsey.
