Page 32 of The Viscount's Pearl
“No, of course,” she said and walked past him to the door. “You may follow when I have been gone a few moments.”
Left alone, Laurence stood amongst the shells. Why had he been so aloof with her just then? He was not sure. Something she had said had bothered him. His eyes wandered across the shapes and patterns, before he gave a quick blow to the three candles, extinguishing each in turn so that the room was plunged into darkness. He made his way back out into the passageway by touch, fingers running across the swirling shapes.
Only when he reached the ballroom again and saw Frances in the arms of one of the other young men did he realise that it was her comment about future partners that had made him feel uncomfortable, the idea of her dancing more gracefully and easily with other men, of taking pleasure in the experience. It was unfair of him to resent something that might help her find a husband this season. Dancing was, after all, a way to grow more intimate with someone, and she could probably do with all the help she could get. He would make sure to offer to dance with her again, to end the evening on a friendly note.
For once, Frances was not counting. She allowed the music to guide her and kept her mind on her shells, surprised that Mr Mowatt’s guidance on this had been so effective. When she thought of her shells it was as though her whole body had exhaled, leaving her body loose and more easily attuned to her surroundings, rather than suffering them as an invasion of her senses. It made the dancing feel like rocking or swinging; she could feel a kinship to it which she had never before noticed, despite many hours of practice under the eyes of more than one frustrated dancing master. She would not say it was enjoyable yet, but it was more comfortable. For just a few moments in her room of shells, with Mr Mowatt guiding her, she had glimpsed a joy to it, which had not remained once in the arms of whoever this young man was, she had forgotten his title. But then her shells were not all around her, that was what must be making the difference.
The dance ended and she curtseyed, then swiftly withdrew to a corner of the room, close to where Elizabeth was standing, speaking with Lady Honora. Frances could not catch all of the conversation, but Lady Honora’s lips tightened at something Elizabeth had said.
“Mowatt wants to marry me and he’d be a decent catch for anyone,” she said.
“Then I wonder you do not hasten to marry him,” said Elizabeth, her voice raised from its usual murmur. She turned away, meeting Frances’ gaze, then looked over her shoulder to Lady Honora. “You will excuse me,” she said. “I must speak with my friend.”
Lady Honora opened her mouth, then closed it again. “By all means,” she said, and there was something tight in her voice. “I would not keep you from your friend.” She turned and walked away, tapping her fan on the arm of Mr Mowatt, who hadbeen heading towards them, and indicating the dining room. He hesitated, then took her arm and they walked away.
Frances watched them go. So Mr Mowatt was all but promised to Honora Fortescue. She had not known that. Not that it made any difference to her, certainly, Mr Mowatt was free to marry where he chose, and he had made it plain that he wished only for a marriage of convenience. Lady Honora would be a good match – she would bring with her a third estate, making Mr Mowatt – or Lord Barrington as he would be one day, extremely rich, for he would have not one but three estates – from his father, his uncle and his wife. Few marriages could be so well favoured. Even Frances’ twenty thousand, a most advantageous amount, would pale into insignificance. She would henceforth regard him as already spoken for, if he had already made his intentions clear to Lady Honora and she in turn was sure enough of them to repeat them to Elizabeth. He would marry soon and then would visit Lord Barrington less often, having more pressing matters to attend to, such as the care of his wife. Frances supposed she would miss some of their walks and talks in Margate, as she had found him an easy companion, but after all they were little more than acquaintances, so it was no great loss.
When, half an hour later, Mr Mowatt came to her and asked for another dance, she only said that her dance card was full and turned away. There was little point in raising her mama’s hopes when he was already spoken for.
The guests were late to rise the next day and breakfast almost became the midday meal. There was plenty of fuss and bustle as they all began to depart, with servants loading up carriages and repeated farewells as the house began to empty.
Laurence watched as the guests departed, noting that Miss Lilley held back from effusive promises to visit again, to meetin London and so on, instead quietly curtseying when required and nodding her head without much in the way of words issuing from her mouth. He could see that she was both weary from all the social obligations that had been thrust upon her and no doubt dreading her mother’s disappointment when it turned out that it had all been in vain, for he had not noticed any particular interest shown to her by any of the young men present.
“Might I trespass on your hospitality one more night, Lady Lilley?” he asked that afternoon. “I am expected back at Albany but there are some minor renovations being made to my set which should be completed by tomorrow.” It was the truth, but he was worried about Frances, who looked drawn and had grown increasingly silent. He wondered whether she might speak more when the crowds had departed.
“Of course, of course,” said Lady Lilley, looking meaningfully at Frances. “It is a delight to have you with us, en famille, a little longer.”
But Frances was quiet all evening and despite Lord and Lady Lilley’s best attempts, asking questions about Margate, Lord Barrington, shells and more, neither of the two young people seemed much inclined to converse with one another. Frances spent most of the evening showing her young nephews and nieces some of her shells, explaining what made each one distinctive, then allowing them to lay them out in different patterns on a side table, showing them how the differing shades might look best next to one another and ignoring everyone else, until eventually an early night was had by all.
Laurence woke on the day of his departure to shouts of laughter somewhere outside. Curious, he made his way over to the windows to look down on the gardens, where the five children belonging to the Lilleys’ two elder daughters were playing witha sizeable hunting dog belonging to Lord Lilley. The dog was currently engaged in dragging a large branch three times its own length across the immaculate lawn, no doubt ruining it in the process. There was a woman with the children, he supposed for a moment it must be a nursemaid, but then he realised it was Miss Lilley, her hair coming loose from its pins and dressed in a very plain grey gown, something even a maid would find dull. But she was more full of life and fun than he had ever seen her, running with the children, pulling at the other end of the dog’s treasured branch, then rolling down a small slope with the two youngest children, heedless of her dress getting stained by the grass or the fact that it got ruffled up, exposing her legs to the knee in white stockings. It reminded Laurence of their excursion to Botany Bay, how spirited she had been, without a trace of fear, the lack of modesty regarding her bare legs which had stirred something in him.
It rose up again now, watching her hair come tumbling down altogether, falling to her waist in a cascade of chestnut-brown waves, her face full of laughter instead of its usual stillness. And something else came to him, the odd thought that she would make a kind mother, for her laughter and playfulness with the children was delightful to watch and clearly they all loved her. The youngest, when falling, turned to her without hesitation for comfort, even the oldest held her hand as they hurried round the side of the house, following the dog, still laughing at almost tripping over the long branch.
He remembered his mother laughing during a snowball fight one wintery day, how she had fallen backwards into the snow but still been laughing as his father helped her up, how they had embraced one another before calling their children to come indoors, where hot spiced apple juice was served and cook was coaxed to provide gingerbread biscuits, hot from the oven to warm them.
He turned away from the window and went through the motions of washing and dressing, his mind elsewhere. Honora had been brisk at the ball, giving a terse assent to the idea of them having a half-understanding, nothing formal as yet but if either of them were still unmarried in a year’s time… they would be a good match, no-one would object. He wondered how their marriage would be. Would there be laughter beneath his windows in the mornings? Would there be apple juice and gingerbread in the winters after snowball fights, and lemonade and ices in the summers after swimming in a nearby river? His memories of childhood were full of such days but he was uncertain if this planned union would bring with it such light-heartedness. It was an arrangement, a practical plan, which did not necessarily promise such moments. But he was the only son, and it was nearing time to set aside such childish fancies. A boy might wish for snowball fights and building twig rafts at the river’s edge with his mother and father, a man must think of more practical things.
Laurence straightened his cravat and made his way downstairs to bid the Lilleys farewell. They had gathered, all of them together, in the hall and he spotted Frances towards the back, loose hair hastily pushed under her bonnet, her mother glowering at her dishevelled state. He was sorry for her, but there was little he could say in front of everyone that would not have been thought odd and he did not want to give her mother false hope when he had no intentions towards Frances, so he only bowed, murmured her name amongst the others and took his leave.
Chapter 9
An Offer of Marriage
Lady Lilley was sunk in despondency. Despite the promising idea of the house party, nothing had come of it. The young men had arrived, danced, spoken with Frances and then, one by one, had left, even Mr Mowatt who had stayed an extra day, about which she had been hopeful. No-one had shown real interest, no-one had asked to speak with her or Lord Lilley privately. None of them had even asked for permission to visit again, or expressed hope that they would meet Frances soon in London or elsewhere. Another season was proceeding dismally. It was now late March and in just three short months it would all be over and Frances would be headed for her fifth season.Fifth! It was not to be borne. The word spinster echoed in Lady Lilley’s head. Perhaps it was as best to acknowledge it. Perhaps Frances could look after herself and Lord Lilley in their old age, althoughFrances did not have the most appealing bedside manner. Still, it would be her duty as an unmarried daughter to care for her aged parents.
“Hosmer’s coming for a visit,” announced Lord Lilley at breakfast one day.
“Whatever for?” asked Lady Lilley.
A distant cousin of the family, elderly Lord Hosmer had married three times and outlived each wife, though he was without an heir. Two of his wives had died in childbirth, the third had died of some wasting disease, no doubt bored to death by her husband who lived in the far reaches of Wales and was not inclined to mix with society.
“How should I know? On his way to London, stopping in along the way. Feed him dinner, give him a bed for the night and hope he makes it a short visit. Man’s a dreadful bore.”
Lord Hosmer really was a dreadful guest, in Frances’ opinion. He drank his soup and coffee with slurping and gulping noises that made her want to commit violence involving the silverware. He would not stop talking about his views on the best way to do everything from schooling a horse to laying out formal gardens, and his eyes slid over her face and figure in a manner she found objectionable. She tried to keep out of his way, but he found her no matter where she went on the estate. He frowned at the shells on the ceiling of the rotunda, appeared vexed at the sight of her rocking in the library with an atlas balanced on her knees, shook his head whenever she spoke, as though her views were entirely unacceptable. On the third evening of his visit, Frances hastened away with her mother to let the men smoke and drink alone.
“Mama, when will Lord Hosmer be leaving?”
“I am not sure,” said her mother, from behind a magazine. “Aday or two, perhaps. He said he was only staying a night in his letter, but he seems to have grown fond of the place – and of us.”
