Page 112 of The Quiet Wife
“Goodness, hello, my dear,” she stood up, covering up the paper in front of her. “I had no idea you were arriving today.”
Frederick grunted. “Where is Whistler?”
She swallowed but tried to keep her voice steady. “I believe he is in the dining room, working. Did you need him for something?”Her heart was rattling away in her chest, and she held her hands by her side so he would not see them shake.
“What’s this I’ve been hearing about him entertaining guests here?”
Oh, God. “Well, not really entertaining, but people have been most interested in the work that he’s been doing for you and quite a few have popped in to see. And, of course, there was his betrothal to Lizzie, so we had a select few people over to celebrate.” She explained, hoping this was all he had heard which had angered him.
Frederick stared at her. “But why here? Why not at the Queen’s Gate house? Why onearthwould you choose to have people in this house when it isn’t yet finished? When youknewthat I have not given permission for it?” He paced up and down before her, scrutinising her as if he thought her utterly stupid. “I wanted to unveil the house and the work when it is all finished with a grand celebration, and you’ve had all and sundry in to see it already. Do you understandnothing?” His voice was rising as he spoke until he was shouting at her.
Frances bit her tongue and gave him what she hoped was an apologetic look, in an attempt to placate him. “People wanted to see what a remarkable job you’ve done of renovating the house. I know everyone has been most complementary about it, my dear.” She risked a glance at him but saw the thunderous expression on his face. “I’m sorry if I allowed people to see it before you were ready and spoiled your plans.”
“It’s too damned late now, isn’t it? Honestly, Frances, I despair.” He regarded her with utter disdain.
She maintained what she hoped was a meek expression and frantically sought a way that she could distract him some way so she could warn Jemie of his mood before Frederick found him.
“I received a letter from Whistler,” Frederick said. “He said the work he’d produced was, in his words, gorgeous. I want to see it. I’m not looking for something gorgeous. I want art.”
“It is art, my dear. Very dramatic art, but quite… gorgeous in its own way.”
“Then I shall see it.”
“Of course, but will you have some refreshments first? You must be tired and hungry after travelling all that way. Let me ring for a tray,” she offered, trying to stall for time.
Frederick strode from the room without a word, heading for the dining room on long legs, Frances hurrying behind him, wishing she had the chance to at least warn Jemie that he was approaching because she had absolutely no idea how he would react.
He threw open the door to the dining room and walked in to find Jemie, clad in a paint covered smock, pencils and brushes behind his ears, gilding the finials on the wood, and humming to himself as he did so. He looked up and Frances caught the startled shock in his eyes for a fraction of a second, before he put the brush down and beamed at his patron.
“Leyland! How good to see you! How goes the world?” Frances hoped that only she noticed his bonhomie was a little forced and that Jemie was on edge.
Frederick was too busy staring at the room to note the wariness she saw in Jemie’s eyes. He was swivelling around slowly, taking it all in. The dramatic green colour, the amount of gilding he’d added, the feathers painted on the ceiling, the magnificent gold peacocks on the wall…
“So, this is what everyone has been coming to see?” he murmured after a moment of stunned observation.
“It is indeed. Well, this and the work on the staircase. Magnificent, isn’t it? As soon as word got out what you were doing with the house,I couldn’t keep them away. You said you wanted people talking about it. I can assure you; they are! Everyone is clamouring to see it.” Jemie smiled, standing beside Frederick.
“Is it done?”
Jemie shook his head. “Not quite. I’m finishing the gilding work, then I’ll consider whether it needs anything else. Then we can hang the Princessa and decide on any finishing touches you require.”
Jemie’s tone was conversational and light. He didn’t know Frederick well enough to read his face. But Frances did. She could see what was coming and all she could do was listen in helpless horror.
“Everyone has been terribly complementary about it,” she tried in vain.
“You have been commended on your stellar artistic taste more than once,” Jemie assured him.
Frederick didn’t smile. He looked about the room one more time, a faint sneer curling his lips. Jemie’s smile faded, and she watched him shift his stance as the look on Frederick’s face registered. He straightened up and waited.
Frederick stood before them both and lifted his nose in the air.
“I had a note from a good friend. Thomas Sutherland.”
Frances knew Mr Sutherland had recently seen the room and been decidedly lukewarm in his praise. She’d put it down to him being old fashioned in his tastes.
“Do you know what he said? How he described it? How he thought it made a self-made man seem?”
Frances swallowed, bracing herself.
