Page 30 of The Viscount's Pearl
“Surrey is such a lovely part of the world,” chattered Miss Swanson, evidently well briefed by her mama that this would one day be Laurence’s home county. “I am exceedingly fond of Surrey.”
“Do you go there often?” managed Laurence, turning his head to try and see if Frances had come back into the room. She had not. She was still somewhere outside in the darkness.
“I’ve been there only once,” confessed Miss Swanson. “When I was five years old but even then I could see how wonderful it is.”
Laurence only just stopped himself from rolling his eyes at her fawning. Fortunately, the dance was coming to an end, so he bowed and moved away from her as fast as was seemly. He made his way across the room, trying not to look too focused on the door Frances had taken, allowing time to nod and briefly speak with one or two other guests.
Finally, he reached the door. It was not the main door, more of a side door such as a servant might use to bring more ices or candles as the evening wore on. Gently, he pushed against it. It opened. He made his way through it as quickly as possible, not wishing to draw attention to himself.
He had expected to find himself in a side-room, where Frances might have gone to have a few moments of solitude, but instead he was in a short corridor, plainly decorated, very much a servant’s passageway, at the end of which were stairs leading downwards. He followed them, beginning to think he had made a mistake. These stairs were likely to lead him into the kitchens, where the household staff would no doubt be disconcerted tofind a lost guest and wonder what had possessed him to follow the backstairs into what was clearly the staff’s territory.
But the stairs were oddly quiet. He could not hear the clattering of pans or voices from below, no-one passed him on the stairs carrying refreshments. From above, he could hear the opening strains of the waltz. Perhaps Frances had returned to the room without his seeing her and was even now thinking that he had reneged on his promise to her. He was about to retrace his steps when he saw that the stairs ended in front of a small, closed door. Curious, he turned the handle and opened the door, then stopped in surprise.
The room might have been built as a convenient storage room beneath the ballroom, for it was not particularly large, with a low ceiling only a few inches above his head. But three candles had been lit, and the flickering light showed a room where every available surface, including the ceiling and a small section of the floor, had been covered in shells. And standing in the middle of the room, startled by his arrival, was a scowling Frances.
“What are you doing here?”
“I—I followed you here,” said Laurence.
Her frown deepened.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you had slipped out for some fresh air, and I had promised to take you away from the dancing.”
She said nothing.
“Whatisthis place?”
Her voice was very small. “It is where I come to be alone. To breathe. When it is… too much for me.”
He looked about him. The shells were common enough, they were those he had seen her collect on the strandline at Margate. But here, in the soft candlelight, they shone. They had been stuck onto the walls and ceiling, in patterns; some weresunbursts, others rippled waves, spirals or floral shapes. “You made this room?”
She nodded.
“Why is it hidden away?”
“I do not want lots of people to see it. It is mine. Besides, they would think me odd.”
“It is beautiful,” he said, and meant it. Seeing this room was like being granted an entry into a hidden part of Frances, he realised. He had known she collected shells, of course, had even seen them at the rotunda, but this was different, it was a secret place and hers alone, a place of solace to her, a place to give her the courage to continue the evening.
And he was an intruder.
“I should not have followed you,” he said. “I will leave you to rest and when you are ready, if you would like me to, I would be glad to have an ice with you and keep you away from any other dance partners, if they are tiring you.” He stepped backwards, one hand on the door about to pull it shut.
“Stay,” she said.
He hovered in the doorway.
“You may stay,” she repeated. “I only needed… time to myself, to rest.”
He nodded but remained on the threshold.
“You like dancing,” she said. “You look happy when you dance.”
“And you do not like it,” he observed, trying to be as frank as she. “You know all the steps, but you seem to endure the dances rather than taking any pleasure in them.”
She grimaced. “I am always counting in my head, my dancing master used to insist on it.”
“It is hard to follow the music when you are counting.”
