Page 14 of The Quiet Wife
Speke Hall Liverpool
Frances suspected there would be hell to pay, and she was right.
“What on earth were youthinking?” Frederick demanded when they were alone in the morning room. “What in God’s name made you imagine that involving the children in a picnic with our guests was a good idea? Do youstillhave absolutely no idea? For God’s sake.” He thrust his hands through his hair, neck tendons taught with rage. “I despair of you.”
Frances kept silent. It was best to wait until the tirade had finished. Interrupting never ended well so her eyes remained downcast.
“There wasneverany mention of a picnic involving the children.”
“I’m sorry, but I had no idea it would turn out to be such a glorious day.” Frances examined her hands, still avoiding his eye.
“You are supposed to be here in the house. With me. Looking after our guests. You are supposed to be my hostess,” he hissed.
“Then perhapseveryonewould like a walk and a picnic?” she offered.
That was a mistake. She knew it as soon as the words came out of her mouth. “Do not test my patience.” She closed her eyes and braced herself, flinching as he stood beside her, stooped over her chair so his face was next to hers.
She tried not to flinch. “Would you like me to cancel the outing?”
“We can hardly cancel now that Whistler and Rossetti want to go, can we?”
She swallowed and finally looked up at him.
He stared at her as though she were simple before storming out of the room without another word. He slammed the door so hard it bounced on its hinges, swinging back open, making Frances recoil. She stayed where she was for several moments, trying to compose herself, slowing her breathing enough to re-join the guests.
“Have I caused a ruckus?” a voice enquired from the doorway.
Frances shrieked as she almost jumped from her skin. She whirled around to find Mr Whistler standing there. Lord, did the man have no sense of discretion? Could he have not pretended that he saw nothing? Heard nothing? Did they not have polite society in America?
She rose from her chair and drew a shaky breath. “A ruckus? Do you mean a rumpus? Goodness, no,” she said softly, trying to stop her voice wobbling. She forced a smile and hoped it convinced him all was well. She brushed at a speck on her sleeve to distract herself.
“I should apologise. He looked like he was going to ruin your picnic. I just thought if I joined you, he might let it stand. I didn’t mean to cause more trouble.”
Shame and humiliation swept through her that he had read Frederick so clearly.
“I… heard him shouting,” he continued with a touch of awkwardness, apparently unable to drop the subject. She placed a hand to her forehead as she tried to breathe.
“There now,” Mr Whistler soothed. She heard the click of the door closing, and he came to stand beside her. He handed her a large white handkerchief. She took it but just stared at it, frozen.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” she whispered, still observing the white linen, unsure what to do next.
“Of course not. Our secret.”
“He’s been very tense lately.” Frances ventured, although she heard how feeble the excuse sounded.
His eyes were watchful, and it felt rather like he could see inside her.
“I should…” she gestured vaguely.
“You should.” He nodded.
Frances hesitated and looked at him. He gave her a crooked smile. “You really should let me paint you.”
Frances had no idea what to say.
He shrugged guiltily. “It’s like I said,” he waved a hand about, gesturing to her head. “Extraordinarily beautiful hair.”
In that moment, Frances felt anything but beautiful.
