Page 37 of The Viscount's Pearl
“She does not care for small talk, she does not like balls. She…” He tailed off, remembering her unhappy face at Almack’s. All that arose in him at the thought of it was the desire to comfort her, to take her away from whatever might cause her discomfort and instead bring serenity back to her countenance by whatever means necessary, and truth be told by comforting her he meant clasping her to him, brushing her lips with his and then… He shook his head. “She would shy away from company.”
Lord Barrington nodded, his face grave. “When you imagine being with her, what do you think of?”
Laurence must have looked shocked, for Lord Barrington corrected himself. “I do not mean in the bedchamber, Laurence. I mean when you imagine your life together, what do you think of?”
Laurence opened his mouth and then hesitated, for he had been about to describe atonmarriage: the annual season in London, the summers hunting, with formal dinners and balls held at both Northdown House and the Surrey estate. But what had he really thought of? He had imagined…
“Holding her close,” he managed at last, the words comingslowly but more surely as a smile grew on his uncle’s face. “Our children about the fire at Christmastide, walking with her on an empty Margate beach when all the invalids have gone elsewhere, watching her when she is happy with her shells. Reading together, riding together, talking of what interests us. Sitting together in companionable silence with her head on my shoulder. Rowing with the children on the lake.”
“There do not seem to be many other people in what you describe,” observed Lord Barrington. “I do not hear mention of balls, of formal dinners. It seems to be you and Frances and your children, happy together at home. Is that what you long for, Laurence? After all your years in London?”
Laurence swallowed again at the wave of emotions that had risen up in him as he described their imagined life together. “Yes,” he said quietly and then, more decisively, “Yes. I long for Frances and me to be together, quietly. I do not care if she does not want to be a hostess for grand dinners or balls, she need not force herself. I want only that she be happy at my side.”
Lord Barrington’s eyes shone and his voice came out hoarse. “Then go to her, my boy.”
“What can I say to her? She has already made her choice.”
“I very much doubt it was her choice.”
“Her choice was not to marry at all, she told me so herself.”
Lord Barrington leant forward in his chair. “Tell her what you just told me. Tell her how you saw the two of you. Ask her to imagine her future with Lord Hosmer and then with you. She will choose you, Laurence, I am certain of it.”
“Over her own desire to be alone?”
“Few of us in this world truly wish to be alone, Laurence. We may choose to be so when the other options are closed to us or are made too difficult for us to bear. But all creatures of this world desire affection, to find safe harbour in the arms of someone who loves them. Frances may have seen no otheroption but to be alone. If she were allowed to be her true self, I think you would find that she would be a loving wife. Go to her, Laurence.”
Laurence stood again. “I must tell Roberts. We will leave on the first post-chaise I can secure to London, Sir.”
In the cold light of dawn Laurence climbed into Lord Barrington’s carriage, which would take him to the inn where he could hire a post-chaise back to London. He looked out of the window to where Lord Barrington sat in his chair by an open window, his hand raised in a farewell which looked like a blessing.
Chapter 10
A Letter
Laurence arrived back in London, stiff in body but excited in his mind. He had spent the eight hours of jolting carriage ride unable to sleep, instead gazing out of the window, going over and over his newly-found feelings for Frances. He revisited every moment of his acquaintance with her, from the first glimpse of her on the beach, when he might have thought her a maid, his startled surprise at her topics of conversation, which even now brought a smile to his lips. Her simple understanding of his uncle’s romantic past and her fearlessness when caught between the tides, both of which made him admire her character. And between these recollections were other memories that stirred different emotions in him, that made him realise why he had grown weary of the married ladies of theton, why none of this year’s sparkling debutantes had managed to make any kind of impression on him. Her wide grey eyes framedwith dark lashes, her chestnut hair tumbling down her back while at play with the children, her face, uplifted and eyes closed, while on her swing. And her bare legs, white against the dark rocks, strong against the swirl of water rushing across her skin. The things he could do to her once they were together, the pleasures they might share and then wake in one another’s arms, no hurried secretive flirtation this but instead a deeper satisfaction.
Once inside his set at Albany, Roberts busy with preparing dinner, Laurence washed and changed before sinking down in a chair in the drawing room and pouring himself a port. On the sideboard was the post tray, with a letter on it. Glass in hand, he stood and made his way to it, picked the letter up. The writing looked feminine; he wondered if it was one of the married women he had dallied with over the past years, but something about it was not right. He lifted it to his nose but there was no perfume. As he lowered it, he caught the oddly shaped letter y and suddenly knew it for a letter from Frances. That oddly curled y, so like a shell, was her hand, he was sure of it, though he had seen it only once. But an unmarried young woman would never write to a young man, it would be impropriety of the highest order. He must be mistaken. He put the port down, carefully opened the letter and began to read.
Sir,
As it is your intention to marry soon, I will be so bold as to ask you, in the name of our friendship, to choose me as your wife.
Laurence’s heart thudded. He took a step backwards, fumbling behind him for the chair. Finding it, he sank down onto it. Hishand was shaking and he lowered the letter onto his knee, then continued reading in shocked disbelief.
You may have heard, perhaps from Lord Barrington, that I am engaged to Lord Hosmer. It was not my choice to accept him, it was forced on me by my parents who cannot imagine that a woman might not wish to marry and so have insisted upon this engagement. I acquiesced, thinking that such an old man might well die, leaving me a wealthy widow and able to live the life I would have chosen myself, alone and free.
He could not help it, he let out snort of laughter at her bluntness. No doubt many women had made just such a calculation, but they would have kept it to themselves. Not Frances. She was too honest for that, she might even have told Lord Hosmer to his face.
But as the day of our nuptials approaches…
When was the day? How much time was there left? Had he received the letter too late?
I find myself unable to bear the idea of becoming Lady Hosmer. We have nothing at all in common, which I might be able to bear, only that he has already said that he will “take me in hand” and force upon me such parts of life to which I am least suited.
And she might not even know, thought Laurence, what other things Lord Hosmer might force upon her. His stomach had settled into a lead weight.
And so I ask if you will marry me. I see now that I cannot remain unmarried. I must marry, but I would rather be your wife than Lord Hosmer’s.
