Page 55 of The Viscount's Pearl
Frances peered into the darkness and saw Belle Vue Cottage. Laurence sprang down from the carriage and held up his hand to her, but she stared at the dark outline of the house, a sinking feeling in her stomach. Had she failed so utterly as a wife to him already that he was returning her here, to live alone? Would he set her up here as she had been living before, his wife in name only? Did he find her company so repugnant that he believed they must live separately? Must she live here, lonely as she had been before?
“Come, take my hand.”
How eager he was to return her here. Had the ball been only a moment to show her off, a façade for the world, before taking her back where she belonged? There was a faint glimmer from the windows. Perhaps the servants had not waited up and shewould have to make her way upstairs to the cold room that she had thought she had escaped. She would have to remove this dress by herself, trapped in its pearl nets, a dress suitable only for a successful viscountess, not for a failed wife, a spinster-wife. Slowly, she climbed out of the carriage, stood before him, waited while he tied the horses to a tree and then turned back to her, his face serious.
“I do not want this marriage, Frances.”
The cold dread grew in her. She was right. He did not want her, he had never really wanted her. She hung her head. The weight of failure again, the knowledge that she was unwanted by everyone, that she was never enough, never how others wanted her, always a disappointment.
“Frances. Look at me.”
It was hard to look into his eyes. But she did it, held his gaze with difficulty, waiting for the verdict, the judgement. He would say that they must keep separate homes, that he could not live with her, that it was not even a marriage of convenience.
He gazed into her eyes and when he spoke his voice shook. “I cannot live like this, Frances. I do not want a marriage in name only.”
Divorce? He was going to ask for a divorce? Beyond failure then. Utter humiliation and disaster, scandal, shame. Her eyes burned with tears, but she held his gaze, her chin raised up high. Better to hear it straight, no falsities, no half-truths now.
“I love you, Frances.”
She stared at him. She had not heard correctly. He must have said that he did not love her, that much was plain, there was no need to state it. She waited to hear the rest of what he had to say to her, eyes glazed over, unable to bear his gaze.
“Frances? Do you hear me? I love you.”
She blinked and frowned, tried to focus on what he was saying,to understand, but suddenly he was holding her close to him, his face only inches away, speaking urgently.
“I do not want a marriage of convenience. I want you to be my real wife. I do not want you to hide yourself from me, to run away one day like a selkie bride because you cannot be yourself. I need you to be happy, so that you will stay with me forever, because I love you. I –”
He broke off and grabbed her hand, pulling her towards Belle Vue Cottage, then turning the corner before they reached the door, pulling open the wrought iron gate that led to the garden, his hand gripping hers so hard it almost hurt, her dancing slippers encountering hard pebbles beneath her feet, stumbling in the shadows.
He stopped, at last, panting, by a large flat rock Frances had not seen before in the garden, let go of her hand and bent to lift it, sliding it to one side with a grunt, revealing a large hole in the ground, from which light dimly glowed, the shape of a ladder disappearing downwards. She stepped back, startled.
“What is down there?”
“A gift. Do you trust me?”
She looked into his face. “Yes,” she whispered. She could not yet believe what he had just said to her, not fully, but there was a desperation to it that spoke of truthfulness and she wanted to believe him, wanted to hope that what he had said was true.
He moved round the hole and began to climb into it, feet on the ladder, slowly moving downwards until his head was at her feet, when he looked up and lifted up his hand to her. “Come.”
It was difficult in her dancing slippers and the silk and pearl dress did not help matters, but she made her way down the ladder, hands shaking as she held the rough wood, Laurence’s hands pressed gently about her waist, guiding her and stopping her from falling. Finally, her feet touched solid ground and she let go of the ladder, turned to face him.
They were standing in a dirt tunnel. Above them was a domed ceiling containing the hole up to the garden of Belle Vue Cottage. Around them, a wider circular space cut into the earth, the chalk walls the height of a man and a half. Leading away from the space in which they stood were three passageways, each one also full height, the width less than her outstretched arms. All along the walls were little niches, into which were set flickering candles.
Her voice came out as a whisper. “What is this place?”
Laurence stood before her, his face hopeful, excited. “A place for your shells. A place for you and you alone. No-one need know it exists, even, if you do not want them to. You can be alone here with them, if you wish. We will have to be at Ashland Manor for part of the year, but we can be at Northdown whenever you choose and Belle Vue Cottage can be your secret place. It – it is not all finished yet, there was not enough time, but I wanted to show it to you tonight, I could not be patient any longer. Later, when it is all complete, I will have them dig a tunnel from the cellar of the house so that you can come here easily. But for now we had to climb down – shall I show you the rest?”
“The rest?”
He took her hand and began to lead her.
They walked through a tunnel, perhaps thirty feet long, then came to a large empty room, rectangular in shape, at least fifteen by twenty feet, filled with glowing candles, lending the dark chamber an otherworldly air.
“It is like a church,” she whispered. “How did you find it? Was it here all along?”
He turned to her, grinning. “I had it dug out.”
“All this?”
