Page 39 of The Viscount's Pearl
“But I have been made an offer of marriage which I am anxious to avoid.”
“You could refuse the man…”
She shook her head. “My parents have decided I am to marry. If I refuse him, they might find someone worse… if there is such a person.”
“Lord Hosmer is not to your liking?”
“You knew already?”
“Your mother wrote.”
“Have you met him?”
“I am… aware of him. He is not a man I would ever choose for… anyone.”
“He has been chosen for me and it seems I do not have a choice. Unless… unless I marry someone else.”
“Is there someone else?”
She swallowed, nerves rising up again at the audacity of what she had done, what she was doing. The scandal of every part of it. Writing to a man was bad enough. Writing to a man to ask him to marry her… there could be no greater forwardness. Mr Mowatt would probably never speak to her again, outraged by her conduct.
“There might be, but I cannot speak of it until… until he has made his feelings plain on the matter.”
“Yet you are here,” said Lord Barrington. “Do you expect to meet him here, or to receive correspondence here?”
“I – cannot speak of it, Sir.”
“Never mind, then,” said Lord Barrington. “Eat, my dear, you look pale and thin. I cannot have your potential suitor believe you ill. Eat, and we shall speak no more of this until you wish to.”
She picked at the food, unable to eat much when her stomach was balled up tight. By the end of dinner she had barely spoken nor eaten. Lord Barrington watched her rise and waved his hand towards the gardens.
“Perhaps you would like to spend time outside, my dear? It is too chilly for me still, but you younger souls are more robust. I will retire early, if you will forgive me.”
Frances wandered the gardens in the gathering dusk, saw the delicate white cherry blossoms shining in the darkness, their petals brushing her hair as she walked beneath the branches. All around her was the scent of spring, the warming earth, the fresh grass and leaves, the delicate fragrance of flowers, all flavoured with the salted air. It should have calmed her, but even the swing could not manage that task tonight. Her hands shook, and little shivers ran up and down her despite the warm evening. She was desperate for Mr Mowatt to arrive and yet the idea of him being here was terrifying. It would mean she had to let go of all herplans for a happy future alone and bind herself to him, out of fear of marriage to Lord Hosmer. Had she been mad, to write to a man and ask to be his wife? What if he had read her letter and set it aside, scandalised at her brazen behaviour? If he had, then she was doomed to a marriage she found both disgusting and frightening. If he had decided to save her, however, he would come here, would tell her that he agreed to her rash proposal and then what? Would he marry her at once? He wanted a marriage of convenience; might he leave her here at Northdown and go about his life elsewhere? He had not arrived today; how many days would she have to wait before she knew that his answer was a no? She had told him the date by which she was bound to return to marry Lord Hosmer, but she did not know whether he would reply at once or after some time of consideration… or not at all? Perhaps, shocked once too often by her behaviour, pushed too far by the outrage of her writing to propose, he would simply not answer her at all, sever all connection between them and go about his life, scandalised at the very idea of marrying a woman who could do such a thing.
The dusk turned to night and still she sat in the gardens, unable to retire to her room, where she would feel even more locked into her swirling thoughts. At least out here, in the silent darkness, swinging to and fro, she could try to still her fear at the prospect of being forced to marry Lord Hosmer.
She was interrupted after an hour or so when a footman appeared bearing two lanterns. He did not speak to her, only hung one in a nearby tree and laid one near the swing.
“Thank you. I will put them out before I retire.”
“Yes, Miss.”
And he was gone again. The lanterns flickered, dimly lighting the small space around her swing. She supposed Lord Barrington had sent him out, a sign that she might stay out as long as she pleased. Why could he not have been her father? Hewould not have forced marriage on her, would have found a way for her to be a spinster if she so desired. She sighed. If Lord Barrington had been her father he would have let her remain unmarried, as he had, or else would have set his romantic mind to finding her a husband, and it would not have been Lord Hosmer. It would have been… She tried to think of any young men of her acquaintance whom Lord Barrington would have offered as a suitor. A young man, a man with prospects, a man with a kind heart and enough curiosity and open mind to consider an odd girl as his future bride, someone who would walk and talk with her along the beach, someone indeed like Mr Mowatt, but more romantically inclined, for Lord Barrington would not be able to stomach a marriage without love. In marrying Mr Mowatt, she would at least be marrying someone of whom Lord Barrington was fond, and she trusted his judgement. There might not be love in the marriage, but there might be affection, some care of one another and trust, a shared delight in their children? These things might be possible.
“Miss Lilley?”
She jumped to her feet, startled by the tall shadow approaching her.
“Mr Mowatt!”
He had come, he had come, he had come to her, had come here to Northdown, did that mean…
“I received your letter.” He came closer, stepped into the light. His clothes were rumpled from the journey, he looked weary, but his eyes were bright, there was an intensity to his voice.
She stood, the swing pushing gently at the backs of her knees, uncertain of how to proceed. “I knew of no-one else to whom I could turn,” she managed at last. “I – I thought only of you. You have been – friendly – to me and so I believed that you might consider my offer, that you would not allow me to be forced into a marriage with Lord Hosmer.”
“I would not allow that to happen to you,” he said and
