Page 44 of The Viscount's Pearl
“Perhaps she would like something grander,” said his father.
“She is not a grand person,” said Laurence. “I have never seen her wear any jewellery. This is perfect, Father. Thank you.”
His father smiled. “Your mother was not grand either,” he said. “A shy little soul when I first met her, but she came out of her shell over time, and I loved her more each time another part of her emerged.”
The letters Laurence did manage to write were sent mostly to the docks of various ports, making requests for shells from any part of the world, large or small, and promising generous payment for them to any sailor who could oblige him in creating a collection worthy of Frances’ approval.
The young man he had engaged for the task did not seem very prepossessing to Laurence. A slight stoop, watery eyes peering anxiously through thick glasses, feet never quite still, so that he seemed to be constantly swaying.
“You are to correctly label and display a collection of shells which I have accumulated. They are currently still in the boxes and packing crates in which they were delivered. My footman James will show you the room they are stored in and be at your disposal in unboxing them and placing them correctly. The display cases have been commissioned and are almost complete, there is only a final coat of paint to be applied. I will be away for a few weeks but will expect to see all in readiness on my return.”
“I will do my best,” said the young man. “Are you yourself an expert in shells?”
“I know nothing about them.” Laurence smiled. “They are a wedding gift.”
He would have stayed longer to discuss his plans, but he had to meet with Mr Morling, the solicitor managing the bequests of his uncle, one of which was to be delivered to Frances. Laurencehad wanted to take it himself, but there were other urgent matters of business and being absent for several days would not be advisable. He tried to pen her a letter, but once again the words seemed wrong and he did not wish to detract from Lord Barrington’s final words to her. It seemed disrespectful. He comforted himself that she must know he would be with her as soon as he could and that, by discharging all his business matters and having everything at Ashland Manor in readiness for her, he might bring forward the wedding despite the mourning period. It would have to be a quiet affair, but he did not think she would mind that.
A week later, Deborah woke Frances earlier than usual.
“A Mr Morling is here with news of your godfather’s will. He came by carriage.”
Frances washed and dressed in haste and made her way into the drawing room, where her parents sat expectantly gazing at a soberly clad man, who stood and bowed to Frances as she entered. “Miss Lilley.”
She took a seat between her eager parents, both leaning slightly forwards.
“As goddaughter to the late Lord Barrington, may I first proffer my condolences.”
“Thank you,” Frances murmured. Her voice was very small in the large room.
“You should know that the estate and title have naturally passed on to his chosen heir, the son of his sister Cecilia. Laurence John Charles Mowatt has changed his name in honour of his uncle as planned and is now Viscount Barrington. He has taken control of his estates, chiefly comprising Ashland Manor in Surrey, as well as other properties and lands further afield, such as Northdown House and Park in Margate.”
Her parents nodded. Frances waited. Was this how she would receive confirmation that Laurence still intended to marry her? By a black-dressed solicitor? She had agreed that the marriage would be one of convenience, but this seemed formal even by the terms of their agreement. She swallowed.
“However, the late Lord Barrington also left certain bequests which I have carried out as his representative. Naturally each has been read and approved by the new Lord Barrington, and he has made no objection to any of them. There were sums of money to loyal servants, and so on, but also some larger gifts to those for whom the late Lord Barrington had a particular affection. His two nieces have received five thousand pounds each.”
Frances could all but hear her mother’s mental calculations. Was Frances, not being connected by blood, to be given a smaller amount? Or a larger one because she was a particular favourite, visiting him so often?
“The late Lord Barrington made special mention of Miss Lilley in his will. He left her ten thousand pounds.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Frances’ mother.
“Very decent of him,” declared Lord Lilley. “A very generous gift.”
Frances knew her mother was practically dancing. She had already been promised twenty thousand by her father. A total of thirty thousand pounds would make Frances a very wealthy bride. As a married woman she would have one thousand five hundred pounds a year. There were minor male members of thetonwith less money to call their own.
“There was another gift,” went on the solicitor. “It is a more personal gift.”
At last. Word from Laurence. Frances’ shoulders dropped with relief.
Mr Morling hesitated. “It comes with a, er, poem.”
Lord Lilley frowned. “A poem?”
“A poem from the late Lord Barrington to be read to Miss Lilley on the occasion of the gift being placed in her hands.”
Was this the declaration? Was it a betrothal gift from Laurence? But no, the gift was from her godfather, Mr Morling had just said so, and so was the poem.
From his satchel Mr Morling withdrew a large round flat black leather box as well as a folded thick sheet of cream paper. Lady Lilley stiffened. The box was undoubtedly a jewellery box.
