Page 9 of The Viscount's Pearl
She gave a short nod. “I would prefer that also,” she said. “Have you ever slept in a hammock, Mr Mowatt?”
He shook his head.
“Frances enjoys rocking motions,” Lord Barrington said. “She is fond of both swings and rocking chairs, I have had both installed for her at Northdown. I was not surprised when she confessed to liking the motions of hammocks. She would make an excellent wife to an admiral, for she could travel with him.”
Laurence raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I thought sailors objected to having a woman aboard.”
Frances nodded. “They think it brings bad luck,” she said, lifting up her cup of syllabub and taking a spoonful.
“A shame,” said Lord Barrington. “Think how many shells you could collect if you were to travel the world, Frances.”
She shook her head. “I do not need shells to be from far off climes,” she said. “I am content with the many specimens available to me here.”
“Do you have a wide collection?” asked Laurence politely.
“She has thousands of them,” said Lord Barrington.
“What do you do with them all?” asked Laurence.
She put down her spoon, the syllabub unfinished, and turned her frank gaze on him again, the grey of her eyes almost slate blue in the afternoon light. “I decorate with them.”
Laurence nodded. He had seen such items as she was referring to. “Turning them into flower petals and suchlike,” he said. Some ladies painted shells in pretty colours, and then stuck them together so that they took on the appearance of baskets of flowers or added them to the frames of looking glasses.
“No,” she said and there was a sharpness to her tone.
He raised his eyebrows. “No?”
“They look ridiculous when painted. Their natural patterns and the subtle variations between specimens are beautiful as they are. People who paint them do not understand anything about them. They might as well be painting pebbles or little scraps of paper. It would be better if they stuck to quilling.”
He tried again, surprised by her vehemence. “How do you decorate with them then?”
“I lay them out in patterns which make the most of their existing colours and similarities or contrasts. It accentuates what is naturally present without lending them artifice they do not possess.”
“Do you collect shells daily while in Margate?” Laurence inquired, ostensibly addressing Miss Lilley but hoping for his uncle to declare that they would not be doing any such thing.
But his uncle seemed entirely happy with the idea, noddingvigorously. “We do indeed. We will return here tomorrow, and perhaps on one of the days after we can visit Botany Bay as well, we can work our way along the coastline. We spend most days on the beach when Frances is here.”
Laurence quietly resigned himself to the idea of spending most of his time here on the beach, but at least he would be able to talk with his uncle while the odd Miss Lilley collected her shells, and the weather was fine. So be it.
A pale sunset of pink and gold saw them return to Northdown House after several more hours of Miss Lilley gathering shells and Lord Barrington alternating between speaking with Laurence and occasionally dozing off, during which moments Laurence watched the sea slowly creeping up the beach as the tide came in, no doubt depositing more shells for Miss Lilley’s collection, whose cheeks looked pink from the sun, despite her bonnet.
“Miss Lilley, you are catching the sun again,” fretted Deborah that evening, ineffectually dabbing a cold cream on Frances’ cheeks. “Your mother will scold me when she sees you with brown skin like a farmer’s daughter.”
Frances retied her stocking ribbons, which had grown loose. “You were not on the beach, how could you have stopped me?”
“Then she’ll say I should have walked beside you with a parasol.”
“I would not have liked that, I wanted to be alone. It is bad enough that Mr Mowatt joined us.” She poked her toes into her evening slippers and Deborah knelt to tie them.
“He’s a very handsome gentleman,” said Deborah, bringing out a blue silk evening dress. “He might be a first-rate match for you. Imagine your mother’s face if you came away to Margate and got a husband here instead of in London!”
“I have no interest in Mr Mowatt. I wish he would go away,” protested Frances from within the blue silk as it was drawn over her head.
Deborah sighed. “The sooner you get married, the sooner your mother will stop twitting you about not being married,” she said. “And you don’t need to see your husband all the time. Lord and Lady Lilley don’t spend more than an hour a day together.”
It was not clear from her tone whether she approved of this or not, but at any rate she was correct. Lord and Lady Lilley dined together each day and sporadically crossed paths in the drawing room, but other than that they lived their own lives, with the occasional visit to Lady Lilley’s bedchamber when Lord Lilley chose to make use of his conjugal rights.
“Now your hair,” said Deborah as she finished dressing Frances in the blue silk.
