Page 53 of The Viscount's Pearl
The Pearl Ball was only two weeks away. Laurence had the uneasy feeling they should not attend after all, but of course it would be impossible to do so when it was being held in their honour. Frances was pleasant and accommodating in every way, but still, there was something wrong.
Things were not right in the bedchamber, that he was sure of. He could only hope that matters would improve over time, but it hurt him to go to her rooms and be received with such silent stiff solemnity. Nevertheless, he persevered, trying different things each time, hoping for some sign of enjoyment, some hint of what might give her pleasure. As yet, he’d had no success, which was humbling.
Perhaps he had not understood Frances, as his attempts to please her in other ways had failed too. The shell collection – well, that had been a disaster.
There was something different about her rooms, as well, which he could not put his finger on, until one night when he realised that the many expensive and exclusive perfumes and soaps he had ordered for her from Floris and D. R. Harris were nowhere to be seen. Paintings had been removed from the walls, which made them look bare, and the curtains had been taken down and replaced with ones that were plain pale blue, almost white.
He propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at Frances. “You changed the rooms. No perfumes, no paintings, the curtains are plain.”
She looked back at him, face troubled. “You object?”
He shook his head. “Of course not. They are your rooms. Why did you change them, though? What was not to your liking?”
She swallowed, looking uncomfortable under his questioning. “I do not like strong perfumes. I am sure the ones you chose were lovely, but I prefer plain soaps and I do not wear perfume. And there was…” She shook her head. “Too much. There were too many patterns and pictures and I could not look restfully anywhere. I am sorry. I prefer plain things, otherwise I feel… overwhelmed.”
He nodded, then was silent for a few moments. “If there is any other room in the house that you find… overwhelming… you may decorate it however you please. This is your home now.”
She took a breath and let it out as though in relief. “Might I change the dining room and the drawing room? We are there a great deal and they are… exhausting.”
He had never thought of them as exhausting, the dining room a rich red with grand portraits of long-gone ancestors. The drawing room a delicate blue, filled with ornaments and paintings, floral arrangements and furniture.
“Frances, please do as you wish with them.”
“And if you do not like them afterwards?”
He shook his head. “I rarely think about what rooms looklike. I doubt I will notice. If the decor bothers you, it should be changed.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was a whisper, but she put out a hand to touch his shoulder and Laurence, eager for any sign of warmth from her, placed his hand over hers.
The ancestral portraits were moved to other parts of the house and the dining room was repainted to a woodland green, with little in the way of decorations but some very fine chandeliers and candelabra. The drawing room retained its colour but lost most of its ornaments and at least half of its paintings, while the floral arrangements increased, making the room less cluttered and more in keeping with the view out of the windows into the gardens beyond. Laurence found the changes agreeable and said so, at which Frances seemed to grow in confidence. She had found her way with the housekeeper and the household was well run, to a strict timetable, so that he could be sure that breakfast would be served exactly at nine, tea at three in the afternoon. Frances seemed to like this regularity, the certainty of knowing what would happen. He was beginning to understand her better, though he still wished to give her a gift that would truly please her.
The gangly young man was sent for again and stood awkwardly in front of him.
“You understand the assignment?” Laurence inquired, anxious since his first gift had gone so badly. “This section of the library is to be entirely devoted to books and other papers or subscriptions… everything that is available on shells. You can place orders in my name, spare no expense. If you need my carriage to travel to London or further afield to collect suchitems, or require the assistance of a footman, both are at your service.”
“Of course, Lord Barrington.”
“And it must be done quickly. You have one week and one week only.”
“Yes, Lord Barrington.”
In the days that followed, the young man took his task in earnest. A stream of boxes and parcels were delivered to the house, the carriage went out a few times and more than one footman was kept busy with errands. Meanwhile, in the library, there were new shelves to be built and the delivery of a new chair. Finally, all was in readiness and, his nerves rising, Laurence sent a footman to ask if the Viscountess would be so good as to join him downstairs.
Being summoned by a footman was a formality Frances associated with having done something wrong, again, and being lectured by either her father or her mother. Reluctantly, she made her way down the stairs a week before the ball, where Laurence was waiting for her.
“I have something to show you, Frances,” he said.
She followed him through the hallway and into the library, which was larger than the one she had grown up with and filled with beautiful books on all the walls, in shelves which reached as high as the ceiling.
“This – I thought this part of the library might be especially for you,” he said, gesturing awkwardly towards a niche. He looked anxious, probably thrown by her dislike of the shell display, now perhaps regretting this gift also.
She looked. By a large window was a niche, the width of her outstretched arms. The shelves here were also amply filled, and next to them was placed a rocking chair with a delicate Chinesescreen by the side, creating a partly-enclosed area, obscured from the rest of the room. She smiled at the sight of the rocking chair. A book on the shelf caught her eye and she reached up to it. “Donovan’sNatural History of British Shells!”
Laurence’s expression grew more confident. “Yes. And… others… I had a man procure you a small library dedicated to shells.”
She let go of the book, leaving it half-pulled out on the shelf and turned to him, her face lit up. “Thank you.”
He smiled, his shoulders losing their tense posture. “I am glad you like it.”
