Page 119 of The Quiet Wife
London – Kensington
They walked.
Jemie strode ahead. Lizzie took his arm and refused to relinquish it to Frances, so she walked behind with Alastair.
They paraded about and the feeling of triumph fizzed through him like cheap champagne. And just like cheap champagne, when the fizz subsided, it left him with an awful taste in his mouth. What in God’s name had he done?
He turned to look at the beautiful woman walking behind him. Noting the tension evident around her eyes and mouth. The determination with which she held her head high, all the while knowing what tales would be run back to her husband. What he might do to her when he heard them.
He remembered what his mother said about not giving Frederick Leyland a stick with which to beat his wife. That was exactly what he had done, he realised with horror. All because he was in a sulk, because Frances chose with her family and her future in mind, not him, when in reality there was no possible way her choicecouldbe him.
“We should go back,” he murmured, stopping everyone.
Frances glanced at him. “Why?”
“We need to go back. I should never have brought you out here.”
Her smile was brittle. “It’s too late for that. We need to finish our walk as though nothing is wrong.”
He shut up, and they walked for another ten excruciatingly long minutes before reaching the door of the Prince’s Gate house. Once inside, Frances handed her outer garments to the waiting footman and headed for the parlour, where she ordered tea. Lizzie and Alastair followed, subdued. Jemie trailed in after them, inconsolable at the mess he had made.
He stood in the door and cleared his throat. “Might I show you something in the dining room whilst we wait for tea?” he suggested.
Frances nodded and left with him. They walked in silence until they reached the damned room, and he opened the door and ushered her in.
“What is it?” Her chin was in the air, lips tight.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I was unfair. I was wrong. I don’t know why you walked with me. Why didn’t you tell me to go and boil my head?”
“Jemie, there is very little in my life that is fair. And there is very little I can do about it. I understand you want my loyalty. Truly I do. But I am not a free woman. I am not free to bestow my loyalty as I would wish. And no amount of tugging at my heartstrings will alter that. I can give you my passion, I can give you my heart. But if that’s not enough for you, I don’t know what to do.”
He closed his eyes and swallowed before opening them to gaze at her. He couldn’t lose her. His woman. His passion. His love. His Galatea.
CHAPTER 40
London – Kensington
“Is everything packed and ready to be loaded onto the train to Speke?” Frederick asked tersely.
Frances paused in the act of buttering her small piece of toast and studied her husband. It was the first time she had seen him since the dreadful walk with Jemie the day before.
“Of course,” she murmured, and waited for the inevitable sensing that there was clearly more he wanted to say.
“As you appear to find it impossible to stay away from Whistler, I will remove you from his orbit. You will not see him, write to him, or entertain him. I am on the verge of signing the deal with Bibby and I will have no scandal taint this. Do you understand? One whisper of this and it will all go up in the air. You will remain at home, entertain the guests thatIinvite and no others. You will seek my permission for any guests you wish to entertain. Am I clear?”
She nodded without looking at him, realising that the door to her prison had just slammed shut. She was trapped with Frederick. Forever.
He hesitated, then continued. “I’m sure that you have not had an affair. You are not that kind of woman. Besides, you are far too old for that kind of going on,but I will not risk the possibility of further rumour. Do you understand?”
Frances blinked at her toast. Toooldechoing in her mind.
“Of course.” She cleared her throat. “I… I shall be glad to go to Speke.” It was true. It had taken her a while to settle to it, but now she could see how much she had missed its warmth and solidity, its cosy homeliness and, most of all, her little library to retreat to, walls adorned with mahogany shelves housing the marvellous works of her favourite authors, from Austen to Dickens, bound in leather and cloth of earthy green, rich red, and golden hues. She needed it now more than ever.
Her husband’s next words almost undid her entirely.
