Page 19 of The Quiet Wife
“I think she’d like that enormously. She would dote on you and the children.” He grinned at the invitation being extended.
Frances swallowed, noticing how he gazed at her from the top of her head to her feet then back again. There was nothing lascivious or suggestive in the look. Rather, it just made her feel very… seen, just as she had suspected she would.
“I shall look forward to painting you.”
Frances wasn’t entirely sure she felt the same.
***
Dinner was, for once, an enjoyable affair. Everyone reflected on the picnic and the children in such glowing terms, even Frederick couldn’t object.
The company had been elevated significantly; it had to be said, by Frederick’s Aunt Agatha and Miss Woodgrove. Both were approaching their seventieth year, but one might be forgiven for thinking both ladies were considerably younger from their good spirits and lively conversation. Frederick eyed them warily, as they weren’t afraid of mentioning the fact that he wasn’t born to wealth and position while his aunt steadfastly refused to offer the deference he had grown to expect from people. Aunt Agatha knew him when he was a boy with skinned knees and she treated him like a favoured nephew, not the shipping magnate he wanted to be seen as. She knew how his mother had struggled to keep him fed and warm with no man in the house. It was not something Frederick ever mentioned, and there were many things Frances had only discovered from talking to Aunt Agatha. It had softened her a little towards her husband in the early years of their marriage.
Aunt Agatha, sitting to her left, turned to speak to her. “Tell me, my dear, how is Freddie? He must be readying for Oxford?”
“He is indeed. He’s become quite the young man.” Her chest puffed with pride.
“I thought he might have joined us for dinner. The girls too.” Aunt Agatha’s head tilted slightly, and her dark eyes held questions she evidently wanted to voice.
Frances cleared her throat and Aunt Agatha sniffed as she eyed her nephew, who was conversing with Mr Caldicott. “They are more than old enough,” she said loudly. “The girls will surely be expected to be out in society before long. How will they ever learn to behave if they don’t eat with the adults. Besides, we would have liked to spend time with them over dinner, wouldn’t we, Mildred?”
Miss Woodgrove offered Frances a sympathetic look. “Perhaps we can dine with them tomorrow?”
Aunt Agatha rolled her eyes at her friend’s attempt at diplomacy.
Frances glanced at Frederick, not wanting to upset him, but her husband remained steadfast in his conversation with Mr Caldicott and remained either oblivious to his aunt’s disapprobation or pretended to be. She suspected it was likely the latter.
As they retired to the drawing room, Frances walked with Edith, who was utterly resplendent in a deep forest green gown, her fair hair shining in the gaslight.
“I’ve not met the Caldicotts before. How long have you known them?”
“Not awfully long. Mr Caldicott recently came to work at Bibby with Frederick. They seem very nice. Mrs Caldicott is very charming.” Frances smiled.
“She’s striking. I’ll say that much for her,” Edith eyed the woman in question. “Very poised.”
Frances had to agree. With glossy dark hair and wide dark eyes, she was certainly beautiful and awfully stylish too.Frederick had been delighted to hear that her family could trace their ancestry back a long way. He had also been very vocal about how lucky Caldicott was to have a wife from such good lineage.
“Mr Whistler was very kind to the children at the picnic,” Frances said, changing the subject.
“He was extremely kind. The children were delighted to have his help.”
“I wonder who he was trying to impress?” Edith flashed her a quick, but wicked, smile.
Frances raised her eyebrows. “My husband, of course. Frederick is a significant patron of the arts. Mr Whistler is seeking his patronage. He no doubt thinks that by impressing me and the children, he will win Frederick over.”
Edith produced an unladylike snort at the sheer unlikeliness of that happening. “What is he going to paint whilst he’s here?”
“Some sketches and drawings of the house and the family, a full-length portrait of Frederick, and…” Frances cleared her throat and studied her hands. “And probably one of me.”
“Ah, I see. And whose idea was it to paint you, too?” Edith’s tone feigned innocence.
“I imagine my husband’s,” she reasoned, pushing aside the memory of Mr Whistler declaring that he wanted to paint her.
“Of course.” Edith’s lips twitched. Frances ignored her.
CHAPTER 8
Speke Hall – Liverpool
