Page 1 of The Quiet Wife
CHAPTER 1
Speke Hall - Liverpool - 1871
Frances Leyland applied a thin scraping of butter to her tiny triangle of toast. She glanced at her husband of eighteen years, who had just demolished a plate of sausage and eggs, and tried to recall the point in their marriage he’d insisted she eat more delicately. More politely, he’d termed it. Probably when his success at the shipyard meant a move to a lavish house and the requirement to entertain business associates. Somewhere around that time, he had also decided her wardrobe did not befit his newly elevated status. She chewed as delicately as she could and wondered what happened to the man she married years earlier. Like most girls, she’d dreamed of meeting her prince and being swept off her feet. She surveyed Frederick again. It had been a long time since he’d behaved like her prince charming.
A footman crept silently into the dining room and deposited fresh toast and tea. She smiled her thanks, but Frederick didn’t look up from scowling at his paper.
He was still a handsome man, although these days he hid most of his face behind a fulsome, long beard that tapered to a point, and a lavish moustache which was terribly fashionable for a gentleman of his status.His love of good tailoring and frilled shirts emphasised his tall, trim figure. She supposed he was still in his prime at forty. She recalled the early days of their marriage when they had lived in a tiny, cramped house while he scrabbled his way up the ladder at the shipyard. Bibby & Son was the biggest shipping company in Liverpool, and he’d first been apprenticed there as a boy. At least they’d talked to each other back then.
The newspaper rustled softly as he turned over the page. The quiet splendour of Speke Hall was a far cry from the early days of their union, yet here they were. In its glorious dining room, carved oak panels of deep walnut embellishing the walls, intricate floral motifs adorning the ivory ceiling overhead, soft light spilling through its majestic windows framed by crimson curtains. Politely ignoring each other over the breakfast dishes while Frances pretended she felt at home in such a grand house.
She bit into another tiny piece of buttered toast and chewed methodically whilst Frederick stared at his newspaper. Absently, he reached out for his teacup and lifted it to his lips without letting his eyes stray from the print.
Frances cleared her throat. “Everything is ready for your guests, my dear.”
Clearly startled by this gentle intrusion, her husband blinked and looked at her as if surprised to see her there before returning his gaze to his newspaper.
“I should hope so. I must go out after breakfast, but I will be back in time to greet them.”
Frances nodded, unsurprised that her effort to engage in pleasantries had been rebuffed.
He hesitated, then darted a glance at her. “Did I mention I bought another house in London? It’s almost ready to move into.”
Frances put down her cup and dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin to gather herself before speaking so nothing of the shock of his announcement showed. She didn’t have the energy for an argument and Frederick could be so quick to temper.
“How nice. Is this a house for you?” Just after they moved to Speke Hall, he had bought himself a large flat in Liverpool for when he worked long hours at the shipping company, a detail he had omitted to tell her. She wondered if he’d decided to do the same in London.
“It’s for the family.”
Frances nodded and chose her words carefully. “What will happen to the house that we currently reside in when we’re in London?” she asked, thinking of their very grandiose property at Queen’s Gate in Kensington.
He shook out his newspaper, signalling the conversation was all but over. “I’ll sell it.”
“Where is the new house?” she enquired.
“Prince’s Gate.”
“Isn’t that… rather close to Queen’s Gate?” She was sure it was but a few minutes’ walk between the two.
Frederick’s eyes narrowed, and he sighed loudly. He made a show of putting the paper down and leaning back in his chair, making no effort to mask his irritation.
She tried not to shrink back but didn’t quite manage it.
“Of course it is, but this house is bigger. Grander. More befitting of our position.”
“I see.”
Frederick skewered her with a look. “It has fourteen bedrooms, six reception rooms and stables for eight horses and a marble staircase that once graced the home of the Duke of Northumberland,” he reeled off.“Does that suit? You seem unimpressed.”
“I’m sorry, I am impressed. Most impressed. It sounds magnificent.” Frances forced a lightness into her voice and smiled.
“The remodelling is almost complete.”
“Perhaps I could help with the finishing touches?” she offered, without a great deal of hope that he would allow it.
He shook his head and picked up his paper. “It’s too important. This will be a statement of who we are. Where I stand in the world. I don’t want you meddling. You know you’ve no eye for art, or up to the minute styles.”
Frances studied her teacup, taking a moment to compose herself. “Of course, my dear. As you wish. I shall look forward to the arrival of our guests,” she offered, changing the subject to avoid any further argument.
