Page 37 of The Quiet Wife
Her husband followed her in, and they stood in the magnificent hallway. Frederick held out his arms and turned around.“Fabulous, isn’t it?” His voice echoed in the enormous, marble filled entrance.
It was indeed. Even filled with workmen and piles of paper, fabrics, carpets, and a myriad of tools, its opulence was remarkable.
She could see why he wasn’t interested in what she had to say about the decorations. It wasn’t perhaps so much a question of her competence, but more about her taste. Her tastes were for simple and elegant. Frederick’s were notably more extravagant.
It was a grandiose display of his newly acquired wealth. He’d engaged an architect to remodel the whole affair. A Mr Shaw who, it seemed, had done a thorough job which was almost complete.
As Frances picked her way through the mayhem, she wondered if this was what happened when one became overwhelmingly wealthy. One simply paid someone to do all the planning. All the thinking and selecting of the items that would transform a house into a home. She sighed and manoeuvred around a large bucket, wondering if this cavernous space would ever feel homely. No doubt her husband would expect her to behave like a duchess now that they had a house that contained the staircase that once belonged to a duke.
She moved, eyes still transfixed on the staircase, and accidentally knocked over a pile of paper. She began hurriedly stacking them up again when the object of her musing whirled to scowl at her.
“Mr Jeckyll is about to start work on the dining room.”
“I see.” She quickly straightened up. “Will Mr Jeckyll be working in the hallway too?”
Frederick shook his head. “I was thinking I might commission Whistler to do it.”
Frances ignored the breathless feeling that threatened to swamp her at the mention of his name.
He led her up the magnificent staircase. The one that apparently once belonged to the Duke of Northumberland. She wondered how on earth one moved an entire staircase and re-installed it into another house safely? More to the point,whywould one bother to do that?
Frederick led her around the rooms, extolling the virtues of the three connecting drawing rooms, the bedchambers, bathrooms, and dressing rooms.
After a while, he looked at her with exasperation and asked, “Are you not pleased with it?”
“I’m delighted with it.” There was no point arguing with him or offering an opinion that differed from his, but she realised he was expecting some reaction from her.
“Are you still angry that I didn’t let you choose the furnishings?”
That startled her. She had no idea he’d realised she was upset. “Of course not, my dear. I wasn’t angry, just a little disappointed.”
He gave a familiar sigh.
“Frances, you must surely understand. This is London. You simply do not have the taste and experience required to equip a London home in the fitting style. You must leave it to me.” He spoke in reasonably kindly tones making Frances wonder if he felt guilty. If so, about what? Was it because he hit Freddie? Because he kept claiming she had no taste? Or did he feel guilty about not telling her about the house? It was hard to tell.
“Of course,” she murmured.
He looked at her for a long moment, but decided all was well. So much so, he offered what seemed like yet another olive branch.She could only conclude that he really must be feeling ashamed of how he’d behaved, both to her and Freddie.
“Mr Jeckyll is coming to view the dining room and will start on that in a day or so. Would you like me to explain what I want?”
She tried to muster a pleased expression although the offer didn’t impress her. “That would be lovely. Although you did explain the cabinetry, it would help to see it.”
He led her to the dining room, holding the door for her to precede him. Frederick entered and stood in the middle of the room, gestured grandly as he spoke. “I want cabinetry on most of the walls. They will provide spaces where pieces of my Chinese porcelain collection can be displayed to its best advantage.” His eyes shone at the prospect. “I want to show all my best pieces in here. I want everyone who dines with us to see them and appreciate them.”
Frances nodded. She heard the unsaid –and see how successful I am and see how much I am worth– and wondered if her husband realised that was what he was communicating. Was he making a show to prove he could belong? She wasn’t all that au fait with the ways of London society, but this smacked of vulgarity to her. Like the rest of the house. She was certain that overt displays of wealth would be looked down upon by those who were born to it and doubted her husband’s grand plans to assimilate into the upper echelons of society would work.
“So not just shelves?”
He scowled at her. “No, not just shelves. I’ve explained this. I wantcabinetry,”he flung his arms wide again. “I want a display, something spectacular, something that people will talk about for years to come.”
Frances smiled politely.
“And on this wall,” he walked up to the end wall where the small fireplace was. “On this wall, I want space in the cabinetry to hold one of Whistler’s larger paintings.I haven’t decided which one yet, but one of his full-length portraits.”
Frances watched him. Seldom had she seen him so animated about anything other than ships. “Your portrait?”
He shook his head. “No, not mine.”
