Page 3 of The Viscount's Pearl
“Frances Diana Charlotte Lilley! You arenotgoing to be a spinster. If it comes to it, your father and I will choose a suitable husband for you and arrange a marriage that will see you respectably wed. There is to be no more talk of spinsters!” And with that, Lady Lilley swept from the room, her cheeks pink with annoyance, while Frances escaped to the familiar comfort of the rocking chair in the library next door and rocked the hours away until dinner, staring out at the neatly clipped lawns and wondering how she might persuade her parents to let her live as she wished and not subject her to yet another miserable season.
Her hours of thought bore fruit, however, and after dinner, in the drawing room, she made her move, sidling over to a writing desk in a corner of the room.
“May I write to Uncle Barrington?”
“If you wish, dear,” said her mother distractedly from behind a copy ofLa Belle Assemblée,which boasted a new fashion plate she was considering. “I am not sure about yellow gloves with a rose-pink dress…Is it too bold? I favour cream gloves, myself…”
Frances ignored the wholly uninteresting and uninspired fashion advice and sat down at the desk to compose a letter to her godfather, which she then sealed and gave to one of the footmen to post before her mother could ask to see the contents.
Dear Uncle Barrington,
Please will you write to Mama and invite me to Northdown House for as long as ever you can? She talks of nothing but London and my fourth season and I can’t bear it. Please send for me.
Your respectful goddaughter,
Frances
A week went by. But as Frances had hoped, Viscount Barrington could be relied upon.
My dear Lady Lilley,
Will you do an old man the great pleasure of sending my beloved Frances to stay with me in Margate for the duration of September and October? I am here for my health as you know, but the days are lonely and conversation with a young spirit would do me good. I hope you will do me this kindness.
I remain your faithful servant,
Barrington
“Your godfather wishes you to visit him,” said Lady Lilley.
“Does he?” said Frances, trying to maintain a tone of surprise. “In Surrey?” she added disingenuously.
“No, in Margate.”
Frances waited, holding herself back from looking too eager.
“I suppose,” began Lady Lilley, “we could send you there once we reach London. The main season is not until March anyway and if you were with him for what is left of September and October, there will still be time to take you to a modiste in November and engage in some parties and balls before Christmas.”
“Whatever you think best, Mama,” said Frances in her best meek voice.
“But you are to make yourselfagreeable,” fretted Lady Lilley. “He is in want of conversation, he says, and you…” she paused.
“Oh, we do talk together,” said Frances quickly. “We are both so fond of shells and the natural world, we walk on the beach every day and his gardens at Northdown are very fine. We spend a great deal of time conversing.”
Her mother looked as though she found this hard to believe,but reluctantly agreed and put the plan to Lord Lilley, who generally went along with whatever Lady Lilley decided was suitable when it came to Frances.
“You must take Deborah, of course,” Lady Lilley decreed and although being obliged to have a companion with her everywhere she went usually annoyed Frances, in this case, once at Northdown, her maid would mostly leave her be, for she was fond of one of the footmen there and would take every opportunity to disappear below stairs or to some other room and see him. Besides, Deborah was something of a snob when it came to anywhere that was not London and would therefore, if coaxed, allow her to wear her plainest clothes, without fussing so much over ringlets or ribbons. The thought of being back in Margate, of walking on the beach every day and collecting her beloved shells, made Frances tingle with happiness.
Over the next week, she was on her very best behaviour, agreeing with everything her mother said and even managing to make polite conversation at the table. Deborah, likewise, became tractable, turning a blind eye when Frances removed jewellery and all but the plainest bonnets from the boxes and trunks she had packed.
The journey from Berkshire to London in the Lilleys’ carriage was always slow and tedious, but at least this time, when they arrived in Berkeley Square, Frances would only be spending one night there and would then depart for Margate with Deborah, who had travelled behind in the second carriage with the luggage. She could therefore ignore her noisy older brother, who was greatly looking forward to a season in town, and would avoid seeing her two older sisters, who would no doubt be visiting regularly, along with their boring husbands. Frances was fond of her nieces and nephews but her sisters’ constantreferences to Frances’ unmarried state were hard to bear for long.
The following day, with Deborah at her side, Frances travelled by post-chaise to Margate. The journey took another dreary day, but at last Frances saw the welcoming gates of Northdown Park and shortly thereafter the familiar sight of Northdown House. It was a fine house, both inside and out, but not grand in the way that Lord Barrington’s main estate Ashland Manor in Surrey was, nor overly imposing like Woodside Abbey. Instead it maintained a comfortable feel, a lived-in warmth of which Frances was very fond. This was how a home ought to be. When she had her own home, after however many more seasons she had to endure before her parents accepted her spinsterhood, she would make the grounds like those at Northdown House. Its flowering meadow-like gardens were filled with fruit trees and a hothouse full of roses, orchids and grapes, in stark contrast to Woodside Abbey’s clipped lawns and geometric hedges, which did not allow for any rest for the eye, drawn endlessly to its repeating patterns in shades of green and to trying to solve its maze-like layouts.
The carriage pulled up outside and Frances and Deborah stepped down. Jeremy Barrington, or Viscount Barrington to give him his correct title, made his appearance in the hallway, manoeuvring his bath chair, with its two back wheels and one at the front, with practised ease. As his legs had slowly lost their strength, Northdown House had been altered over the years to accommodate the viscount’s chair, so that his bedroom was now located on the ground floor, in what had been a little-used morning room, leaving the upper storey of the house largely unused. Approaching his seventieth year, with greying hair and a lined face, he wore his customary kindly expression as he greeted his goddaughter.
“I have something to show you,” he said, dispensing with anyfurther niceties, a habit of which Frances heartily approved. “Come.”
She followed him as he rolled along the corridor. A footman sprang to attention to open the side door leading to the gardens, which had been fitted with a wooden ramp which allowed him to roll out, unlike the grand stairs at the front door. Unlike most gardens, which favoured gravel paths for keeping one’s feet clean even in wintertime, Lord Barrington had commissioned a wooden walkway, built from the side door all the way around the gardens, including a deviation into the hothouse, allowing him to make his way around without assistance until he had to re-enter the house. A footman was always positioned there to help him back up the ramp.
