Page 2 of The Quiet Wife
Frederick had invited people from the business world he inhabited, but some of his artist friends too. When they were involved, entertaining was sometimes less… rigid.
Despite possessing no discernible artistic talent himself, save for being a more than adequate pianist, Frederick lavished a significant amount of his wealth on art. Playing the part of patron to some quite significant figures was primarily to elevate his own status. Gabriel Dante Rossetti for one, who had painted her portrait recently. In Frances’ view, it looked nothing like her, but she was hardly an artistic expert. She had to confess that she had been particularly pleased by Frederick’s purchase of several works by Turner. They now graced the walls of Speke Hall and she often enjoyed losing herself in the landscapes.
Frederick put down his newspaper with another pointed look. “Make sure the children behave.”
Frances stifled a heavy sigh. “Of course.” She dropped her gaze to the table to avoid meeting his eye. She was struck, and not for the first time, that she had preferred both him, and their life together, before he’d become so ridiculously wealthy and ascended so high up the ranks at the company. At least back then, she wasn’t forced to navigate the rules of etiquette that were utterly confusing to one not born into high society. Her husband felt he understood them perfectly, but Frances was not convinced he did.
He snatched up his paper and swept from the room.
Frances waited for the door to close, then let out the breath she’d been holding. She put a hand to her forehead, closed her eyes and composed herself before returning to her toast. She picked up a larger piece, buttered it, applied a liberal coat of rhubarb jam, and took a big, satisfying bite now she was alone. As she chewed, she returned to her original musing about what a woman dreams of from a marriage and the reality of married life.
In her opinion, romantic novels had a lot to answer for. They described, by very passionate means, the romance and excitement between two people falling in love against all the odds, ending dramatically when the heroine falls into the strong arms of the hero to be kissed passionately and led to the altar.
Nobody detailed what happened next.
The footman interrupted her reverie, tapping on the door, before depositing more toast and sausages. He placed it all carefully on the sideboard, bowed, and left on those silent slippers the servants wore.
Frances’ lips twitched in a small smile as she chewed another piece of toast and waited. As she suspected, moments later, the door opened a fraction and her eldest son, also Frederick, but known to them all as Freddie, much to his father’s annoyance, poked his head around.
“Has papa finished?” he asked with all the hopefulness of a perpetually starving almost eighteen-year-old boy.
“He has. You may come in.” Her son ambled into the room. He had the makings of an incredibly handsome young man, even allowing for her bias. He’d inherited her dark red wavy hair, and his father’s height and striking eyes, although they tended towards green rather than hazel. He paused hopefully by the food on the sideboard.
“Freddie, you must surely have eaten, darling.”
“I have, but if he’s finished, and you’ve finished…” he murmured, sending her pleading looks before eying the sausages.
Frances laughed. “Very well but be quick.”
Frederick grabbed a plate and piled on a frankly alarming number of sausages, alongside a couple of eggs, before adding some toast and sitting beside her. Frances smiled affectionately at her firstborn.
“Are the artist people coming today?” he asked through a mouthful of sausage meat, making her wonder what his outrageously expensive school taught them by way of table manners.
“They are, along with some of papa’s business associates so you must all be on your best behaviour.” He rolled his eyes, biting down on another sausage before he made to reply. Frances gave him a warning stare and shook her head. “Please don’t talk with your mouth full, darling.”
Frederick grinned as he chewed. He swallowed. “You’re an awful good sort,” he nudged his shoulder against hers. It was the closest he came to any kind of affectionate gesture these days, and she treasured it. They sat in silence for a little while. Frances, lost in reverie, and Freddie focused on the bounty before him.
“Where’s your sister?” Her eldest daughter, Frances, named for her, just as Freddie was for his father, was a quiet child whom she often worried about.
“Which one? Fannie? She’s in her room reading.” Frederick’s roll of the eyes told Frances what he thought of such activities.
“You should try it sometime,” she teased.
“Not likely. Who on earth reads for fun?” Frederick speared the last of the sausages. He stood up and pushed his chair in even though he was still munching away.
“Do they teach you no manners at Harrow?”
He swallowed, swiped up a napkin, and wiped his mouth. “All the time, it’s just nice not to have to stick to them sometimes.” He assured her with a glint in his eye, then gave her a faintly greasy but smackingly affectionate kiss on the cheek before making his leave.
Frances’ heart swelled as she stared after him. Her firstborn and only son was going to break hearts. And table manners.
She dabbed at her cheek with her napkin and tried not to worry about him. Three girls had followed him, but she had miscarried their second son. Looking back, that was perhaps when Frederick’s interest in her had cooled. When Elinor, her youngest, was born five years after Freddie’s arrival, her husband’s visits to the marital bed became more infrequent, but he still made the occasional, unannounced, and very awkward visit in the hopes of conceiving another son. Frances wished he could be happy with the son and heir that he had.
***
Frederick returned that afternoon just as all hell had broken loose in the grand entrance hall. All four children were shouting hysterically over each other. Florence, her middle daughter,was sobbing. Given Freddie, Fannie, and Florence were on the cusp of adulthood, it was going to be difficult to offer any credible explanation for the uproar her furious husband had been greeted with.
Elinor, the baby of the family at only fourteen years, was hugging Florence tightly while staring daggers and shouting at Freddie for being unkind to poor Flo. The younger siblings always aligned. Freddie was laughing fit to burst at all three of his sisters in between protesting his innocence and castigating Flo as a bird wit.
