Page 51 of The Viscount's Pearl
Ashland Manor was a grand old building. Once a Tudor castle, its various owners down the years had updated it and added to it, so that now it was comfortable and elegant inside, if something of a hodge-podge of styles on the outside, but it had a charm of its own and vast gardens which spoke of the late LordBarrington’s love of nature. Frances thought she might be happy living here for the greater part of the year, once she had grown used to it.
Laurence helped her down from the carriage and past the overwhelming sight of over a hundred staff waiting to greet them, his hand tightly clasping hers as they entered the manor, for which she was grateful. He led her up the grand staircase and along a corridor.
“These are your rooms,” he said eagerly, throwing open a door.
Frances looked around the bedroom, which had a dressing room and parlour off to the side. She nodded. The room was freshly decorated, she could tell, but it was too much for her tired senses. There were strong colours and patterns, as well as the overpowering smell of perfumes and soaps set out on her dressing room table. It was not a restful suite of rooms.
“It is… lovely,” she managed. “May I see downstairs?”
“Of course,” he said, excitedly. “There is something special I had arranged for you.”
She waited, silent. Her sisters would have made squealing noises, would have gasped or begged to know what it was. To them, receiving a gift was always exciting. But gifts made Frances anxious. She did not know what they would be and she often did not respond appropriately to them if she did not much care for them or was uncertain. She had seen the disappointment from gift-givers too many times, when they looked at her blank expression and frowned or seemed put out at her lack of enthusiasm, an enthusiasm her sisters always displayed, even if afterwards she would hear them dismiss a gift they had declared “delightful,” or “enchanting”.
“Come, it is downstairs.”
She trailed behind him to the drawing room, which was very large and decorated in a pale duck-egg blue, a light and airy room with delicate furniture and a sumptuous fireplace in whitemarble. This room was not too overbearing. More full of trinkets than she would have chosen herself, but the colour was restful to her eyes. She hoped she might rest here for a while, in silence and peace, for the day had been exhausting.
“There.”
Laurence gestured behind her. She turned and was confronted by a vast cabinet which took up most of the wall. It reached as high as the ceiling and the upper part was glass fronted, while the lower part had many small drawers.
Frances stared. In the uppermost tiers, safe behind the glass, were all manner of huge shells, each larger than a man’s hand, some as large as her head, of many colours and shapes, all of them clearly from foreign shores.
“Open a drawer,” said Laurence.
She reached out in a daze and pulled at the closest handle, which caused a wide but shallow drawer to open, displaying, beautifully presented, row upon row of pink-tinged shells, from those smaller than her little finger’s nail to ones almost as large as her hand.
“And another,” said Laurence.
She pulled at another, hardly able to see, dizziness coming over her. This drawer was arranged by shape, focusing on those shells which curled inwards on themselves, creating whorls and spirals.
“I spoke with sailors from all over the world,” said Laurence. “I had them bring me anything they had to add to the collection and have commissioned more to come.”
Frances stood silent. A wave of tiredness swept over her. The shells were… they were… she did not even have the words, only that she could not bear any more of these surprises, new experiences, new expectations. The burden of being the new viscountess was building higher and higher above her, about to come crashing down. She had a desperate need to be alone, tohave silence around her, to have no-one looking at her, least of all Laurence, whom she loved and wanted to make happy, yet could not seem able to do so.
“Do you like it?” he asked, a note of anxiety creeping into his voice.
She did not answer.
“I thought having a collection like this would be a talking point for you when guests visit us,” he tried again, explaining. “Is it – do you not like it?”
“No,” she said.
“Why?”
She swallowed, found the words she had been searching for. “My shells are… private. They are not for others, they are not… a pastime or fashionable accomplishment. They are…” she could feel herself growing dizzy again, could feel, shamefully, tears welling up, her voice wavering, “… mine. They aremine.”
Laurence’s face showed nothing but bewilderment. He half-gestured to the towering cabinet. “They – theyareyours, I had them brought here, the cabinet made – all for you. They are yours.”
The tears overflowed, drip-dripped onto her cheek and then the floor before Frances ran, out of the drawing room, through the hallway and up the stairs, mistakenly turning first left and then right along the corridor to her rooms, the door slamming behind her into Laurence’s face who had followed her.
He stood silent outside, then put his hand on the door.
“Frances? Frances!”
He could hear her sobbing, followed by an incoherent speech in which he heard the word shells more than once, but it did not sound as though she were even speaking to him, rather speaking to herself, repeating what had upset her.
“Frances! I am coming in.”
