Page 29 of The Viscount's Pearl
He emerged from behind the paper. “My dear?”
“We are to hold a house party.”
“Why?”
“So that we can choose a handful of suitable young men and encourage Frances to get to know them better in the comfort of our home. Then we shall pick the most likely and be done with it.”
Her husband nodded agreeably. “If you say so, my dear.”
And so Lady Lilley set about planning a house party to find Frances a husband. There was to be no more of this shilly-shallying. No more seasons ending in humiliation. She would choose the most likely candidates, invite them all for a week, and then encourage the least offensive to Frances to offer for her hand – and there would be no refusal permitted. There was, after all, only so much indulgence that could be bestowed on the girl. Lady Lilley herself, as a girl, had not been allowed such nonsensical ideas. She had been wed in her first season to the future Lord Lilley, an excellent match approved by all. And her marriage had not been so bad; her husband treated her with the sort of kindly respect he might have offered had his best hunting dog been combined with their excellent and long-standing housekeeper. He was not tight-fisted, nor inclined to violence when in his cups, so there was nothing Lady Lilley could complain about. Yes. It was time Frances grew up and took her place in society as a married lady, after which her odd ways would be her husband’s to manage and Lady Lilley could turn her mind to her son’s altogether easier nuptial arrangements. Out of courtesy, since he had suggested the idea, she also invited Lord Barrington to the house party. She hoped he might make a generous bequest to Frances when she married, so it was best to keep him apprised of progress in that quarter.
A week later his reply arrived. She opened the letter, looking over it with growing interest.
My dear Lady Lilley,
You are too kind to me. I regret I cannot attend your house party, for my health will not permit it. May I send my nephew, Mr Mowatt, in my stead? He is my heir, as you know, and will make a charming guest, far more suited to a house party than my aged and infirm person.
I remain your faithful servant,
Barrington
This response was most agreeable and indeed something of a relief to Lady Lilley, for hosting Lord Barrington, with his inconvenient chair, was always difficult, since all the bedrooms of Woodside Abbey were on the first floor. She was well aware of his nephew and heir, who was always seen at the best parties and who had an easy charm about him, always first to dance at balls and a safe pair of hands for young ladies. Shehadheard the odd whisper or two about his escorting married ladies about town, but that was perfectly respectable, after all. What a married lady chose to do was none of anyone’s business, as long as there was a veneer of propriety in her manners and no awkward questions about her youngest children’s parentage. She added Mr Mowatt to her list of guests and began preparations.
Frances had at first been delighted to be told they were leaving London, then horrified to hear of her mother’s plans. A house party would mean her home invaded, guests at every turn, with no escape. Worse, her mother would choose young men who would then be all but flung at Frances. There would be no escape from a ball pleading a headache, instead she would be forced to make dull conversation all day and evening. It was a suffocating thought.
By the time the house party came around, Woodside Abbey looked at its best, for Lady Lilley was gifted at arranging flowers and other decorative touches and Lord Lilley was generous when it came to housekeeping accounts. Frances’ two sisters, with their families, had also arrived to help host the many events and were eager to assist in marrying off their younger sister. Frances, meanwhile, was regarding with horror the endless events Lady Lilley had seen fit to arrange. There would be dinner each night, a picnic by the waterfall on one of the sunniest days, and a ball on the last night. To fill the rest of the time there would be card parties, drives to local beauty spots, a few pleasant walks and, of course, in the evenings there would be parlour games, music, perhaps singing. The guests would be well cared for.
Frances’ worst fears were promptly confirmed. With Lady Lilley and her two older daughters making a coordinated effort, there was not one moment of the day when Frances was alone, from the moment she arrived downstairs for breakfast until she retired at night. Her only snatched moments of silence were when she must change her clothes for the next activity, and she began to actually look forward to being dressed for dinner each evening, even sitting perfectly still for Deborah to curl her hair, having already begged the maid not to speak unless she had to.
At each activity Frances found herself with one or another of the young men invited, each of them doing their best to engage her in conversation, while Frances did her best to stay quiet. The result was one failed outing or activity after another, with awkward silences becoming more and more common. By the time the last day arrived, and with it the ball, Frances could hardly even bear to descend to the ballroom.
The ballroom was filled with daffodils and pussy-willow buds, as well as hundreds of beeswax candles, so that it smelt deliciously of honey. Laurence looked about him with approval. Even he, who regularly attended balls, thought this one looked particularly charming. The room was pleasantly full of the house guests without being stifling as often happened at public balls and now he spotted Frances.
She stood with her back to the far wall, her demeanour that of a deer about to take flight. Her mother must have fought to have her way as regards her wardrobe, for she was wearing a sea-blue silk which suited her, with white silk roses in her hair and delicate diamond drops in her ears. She was tugging at her long gloves, as though she found them uncomfortable, and not paying much attention to the room, so that when a young man approached her and bowed she startled, jerking backwards and flushing a blotchy pink about her neck and shoulders, then giving a stiff curtsey and reluctantly holding out her dance card for him to add his name.
Since Frances was the daughter of the hostess, naturally her dance card was rapidly filling up, and by the time Laurence reached her she could only offer a quadrille or a waltz.
“Please don’t pick the waltz,” she added in a fervent whisper when she saw him about to add his name there. “I don’t like it. It’s too…”
Intimate, thought Laurence, but he nodded and instead chose the quadrille, which was about to start. He held out his hand and led her to take their place amongst the couples squaring up for the dance. Neatly arranged into four couples for each square, they began the repetitive formations required, whereby each person would dance with every other, criss-crossing the square between them and holding hands to turn about. It wasnot a dance made for much in the way of conversation, nor for paying attention to one’s partner, since it called for dancing with the other three ladies as much as with Frances herself. Laurence contented himself with performing the steps well and offering a ready smile to the other ladies, all of whom had pleasant countenances except for Frances, who kept her face free of any expression. She did not miss a step, but showed no pleasure in the dance, her body wooden. Laurence, who enjoyed dancing and was often complimented on his skills in the ballroom, was sorry for her. The season must be hard indeed if neither dancing nor speaking were of pleasure to a person and yet must be endured, night after night, day after day, knowing oneself to be judged and found wanting at every turn, no matter how much effort was expended.
The dance ended with bows and curtseys all round.
“With whom will you dance the waltz?” he asked, before she could step away.
She shook her head. “I will say I am faint and ask someone to take me for an ice instead. If I’m slow about it, I can waste enough time and won’t have to dance it at all.”
“If you need someone to take you for an ice, I’d be happy to oblige.”
She gave one of her shrugs. “If you have nothing better to do.”
From another woman, it would have sounded churlish, as though he had offended her and now must fawn over her to make up for his rudeness, but she was only stating things as she saw them; she considered taking a young lady for an ice a boring task and did not want him to waste his time.
“I insist,” he said. “I will return to you when it is time. You may tell anyone who asks that you are engaged during the waltz.”
She nodded, then turned away.
Laurence kept an eye on her for the next few dances, saw her pass through the arms of each partner without unbending andalmost without speaking, could see her mother’s pinched look of growing disapproval. The waltz would be the next dance and he was ready to act on his promise to rescue her from the ballroom floor. He was dancing with a Miss Swanson, when he noticed Frances slip out of a side door, almost sliding along the wall to keep from being noticed.
