Page 45 of The Viscount's Pearl
“May I have your permission to read the poem aloud, Lord Lilley?”
Her father nodded. “Certainly.”
“Ahem. ‘For whatsoever from one place doth fall,Is with the tide unto another brought:For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.’” He checked his notes. “Edmund Spenser,The Faerie Queen.” He passed the box to Frances. “Miss Lilley. This is now yours.”
Carefully, Frances undid the clasp of the box to reveal, laid out on blue velvet, a magnificent pearl parure. A gleaming tiara was shaped into repeating scrolls which looked like the waves of the sea, each one holding a beautiful round pearl, the central one in a teardrop shape. She touched one of the scrolls and the delicate movement set off a trembling of the dangling pearls so that the tiara seemed to come alive, as though the waves were in motion, the pearls being brought to the shore.
There was a necklace, made up of three strands of white pearls, with an extremely large teardrop pearl pendant hanging in the centre. Earrings echoing the teardrop shape of the pendant, and two triple-stranded pearl bracelets.
“It is exquisite,” breathed her mother. “Perfect for a wedding.”
Frances knew she should say something effusive, but the words would not come. The beauty of the jewellery and the generosity of the money had all been obscured by the crushingdisappointment that Laurence had not come to her, had only sent this formal obligation, this dutiful carrying out of a will. She tightened her grip on the box to stop her hands shaking. “There was nothing else?”
Mr Morling looked surprised at Frances’ question, as much as at her seeming lack of enthusiasm. “Were you expecting a particular bequest? An item you had been promised?”
She shook her head. There was a ringing in her ears and her throat was very dry. “There was nothing else?” she repeated. “Nothing at all?”
“Frances, really,” hissed her mother. “You have been granted a most generous bequest, far above anything we might have expected.” She addressed Mr Morling. “We are most grateful to his late lordship as well as to the new Lord Barrington for his generosity in following his uncle’s wishes. We will write to him to express our gratitude, won’t we, Frances?”
Frances stood and the pearls fell out of the tumbling box, landing on the carpet, exciting gasps and exclamations behind her, a scrabbling to find and return them to their protective lining as she left the room in a daze, unheeding of her name being called behind her. She made her way into the hallway, where a footman hesitated as she turned first towards the stairs to her room and then towards the front door, springing to open it for her as she chose the door. She walked outside and then, her feet knowing her better than her mind, began to run, stumbling at first and then, grabbing at her skirts, faster and faster, every footstep painful, the gravel pressing against her kidskin slippers until at last she veered away from the path and onto the lawn, running and running until she came to the waterfall and the temple, falling to her knees to climb the steps, then rolling onto her back to stare up at the ceiling, at the spiralling shells, desperate for their soothing nature to bring her comfort.
But the swirling shells became the sea and her godfather’schoice of poem went round and around in her head, confusing and yet containing something within it she could not make out.For whatsoever from one place doth fall,Is with the tide unto another brought:For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.
What did it mean? Something falling and coming to another place with the tide? But then it referred to something lost and to be able to find it, if onesought. That something lost could be found if one would only seek it out. Like her shells, of course, the way she sought them out, brought to her on the tides. Perhaps he meant only to poetically refer to her love of shells in offering her a parure of pearls, which were found in shells. Lord Barrington had always been poetic. But there was something about the poem that seemed to refer to more than the shells…
There was little point dwelling on the poem. Lord Barrington was dead and buried, his generous bequest would have been made long ago in a study with a dry old lawyer in attendance, the poem only intended as an extra flourish, a nod beyond the grave to Frances’ passion for shells. He would have smiled to have found a suitable quotation, for he had prided himself on such things.
No, the pain was because there was nothing else. There was the money. There was the exquisite jewellery, for even Frances, who cared little for such things, could see its delicate shining beauty. There was the poem, a kindly-meant last nod from her godfather.
But nothing from Laurence. No letter. No word. Not even a verbal message from the lawyer to say that he would follow soon, or even the promise of a letter or visit as soon as his affairs were more settled. Nothing. Only the money and the jewellery, his uncle’s wishes carried out to the letter. He would have listened to the will and heard her name and felt… what? Nothing? A sigh at the additional task that must be carried out to completethe terms of the will? A resentment at the generosity of the bequest to someone who was, after all, not even a blood relation? Or perhaps a twinge of guilt at the hastily made promise of marriage to help out a friend… no, only an acquaintance… later regretted. Perhaps he had felt the smallest of twinges and then decided that such a generous sum of money, as well as the jewellery, would amply ease his guilt in the matter.
He had not meant it.
He had not really wanted to marry her.
That was the cold hard truth, and it was a truth Frances must face now. The cold shiver that ran across her skin had nothing to do with the marble floor beneath her. He had said yes out of gentlemanly politeness, perhaps even out of duty to his uncle, and then had regretted it, would have been relieved when Lord Barrington died that there were no witnesses to their pledge. He was a viscount now, heir to not one but two estates, one of which had immediately become his. A rich viscount who would only grow richer when his father died. Plain Mr Mowatt, who had been a pleasant young man with excellent prospects, was now Viscount Barrington and the mamas of thetonwould be falling over themselves for his attention. He would be presented with an endless parade of young women, vastly better suited to the position of Viscountess Barrington than Frances. Women who could converse with ease, who enjoyed social occasions and could arrange them. Who would appear at parties on the Viscount’s arm, elegant and polished, who would dance without counting under their breath and not creep away mid-evening to a space under the stairs where they could be soothed by their odd collection of shells, sheltered from the chatter and lights and perfumes of the ballroom.
Slowly Frances sat up, cold humiliation seeping into every part of her. So be it. Laurence was gone. She had lost him and, she thought bitterly, the poem was entirely wrong in this regard, forshe had sought him out and believed herself saved and yet now he was lost to her after all. So much for Lord Barrington and his fanciful notions. So much for friendship. She was alone, must face marriage to Lord Hosmer and a life she had so far evaded, a life she had thought herself clever enough to have escaped by calling on the only man of her acquaintance who might be in a position to save her. She had risked her reputation, she had reached out to him and he had failed her. She would not trust in him again, nor trust any man to rescue her. She would not endure the humiliation of writing to him again, to be met with silence or an outright rejection of her claim that they were engaged. Lord Barrington was gone and Mr Mowatt had taken his place but not honoured their agreement. She was alone. Only her godfather had stood by her. Even in death, he had given her an escape plan which she now intended to put into action.
Dinner that evening was silent, as Lord and Lady Lilley considered Frances’ behaviour dreadful and Frances was too busy thinking, but the next morning brought the unwelcome sight of Lord Hosmer, descending from his carriage.
“Would you like your best frock on?” asked Deborah, trying to keep up appearances.
“No,” said Frances. “My worst.”
“But Lord Hosmer is here…”
“Exactly. The brown.”
Deborah looked appalled. The brown cotton was a dress Lady Lilley would only countenance if Frances was going to play with the children outdoors. It was a plain dress in an ugly colour and did nothing for Frances’ looks, making her appear like one of the under maids rather than the daughter of the house. “Are you sure, Miss?”
“The brown,” repeated Frances. “And no ringlets.”
All too soon a footman came to inform Frances that her parents had gone out for a walk in the gardens and that Lord Hosmer was waiting for her in the drawing room.
Frances took a deep breath and went downstairs, rehearsing her words carefully, so that there could be no doubt whatsoever of her meaning.
Lord Hosmer stood in the drawing room, his walking cane in hand, tapping it impatiently on the floor. At the sight of her, his grey brows folded into a deep frown.
