The Viscount’s Pearl (Regency Outsiders #2)

Chapter 1 The Spinster

Chapter 1

The Spinster

F rances lay on the cold floor. She was aware of water trickling nearby, the leaves rustling in the late August breeze as she gazed at the pattern above her. It had taken hours of painstaking work, standing on a tall ladder while her mother had wrung her hands, forcing two of the footmen to stand holding it hour after hour while Frances reached upwards till her arms ached. But now it was complete, and she could happily lie here in the rotunda forever. Modelled on a Greek temple, the delicate open building boasted twelve columns and a floor of white marble, topped with a domed copper roof which had started out shining and was slowly acquiring the desired green patina. A pretty addition to the grounds of Woodside Abbey, situated next to a waterfall sculpted from the natural stream which criss-crossed the estate. Frances’ father, Viscount Lilley, was keen that nature should be shaped to his will, and so the grounds were under the strict supervision of an army of gardeners as well as his watchful eye. Frances’ odd interest in shells had been grudgingly given a home here, more than four thousand of them set into a spiralling pattern within the domed roof.

Round and round and round…

The spiralling pattern was the only way to block out the word also going round and round in Frances’ mind.

Spinster.

The word most dreaded by all the ton . A curse, the worst insult one could throw at a young woman. It was whispered by those of mean spirit if a young woman was presented at court but then too many seasons passed without receiving a suitable marriage proposal. Or indeed any marriage proposal, in Frances’ case. And how many seasons were too many? This would be her fourth season. Too many. Now that summer was drawing to a close, the household was already planning for London, her mother talking endlessly of new modistes and fashionable milliners, as though their combined efforts would somehow change Frances sufficiently to accomplish the marriage proposal which three previous seasons had failed to achieve.

Spinster.

To Frances, lying on the cold marble floor, the word was appealing. No parties, balls, picnics, rides along Rotten Row. No modistes and milliners. No tickling ribbons and scratchy lace and ballrooms either too hot or too cold. The exhaustion of coming home with aching feet and ravenously hungry after eating almost nothing so as to seem ladylike. Above all, no small talk on tedious subjects like the weather, minor ailments or the latest gossip. Spinster. Frances stared up at the spiralling cream shells. She could have a house, somewhere by the sea, and a handful of servants who would care for her. She could walk on the beach every day and have somewhere to keep her finds without people interfering with them. She could spend whole days without being required to speak. She could curl up in a rocking chair with books by the fire and have a hot chocolate or tea brought to her without asking, at a set hour. In the summers, the breeze would fill the house and the sound of the sea would reach her wherever she was, its soothing rhythm keeping her calm.

“Miss Lilley?” The anxious voice of one of the footmen, Nicholas.

With a sigh, Frances sat up. Nicholas was standing just outside the rotunda, dark green and gold uniform immaculate, looking worried.

“Yes, Nicholas?” She knew why he was here.

“Her ladyship would like you back at the house, Miss Lilley. The visitors have arrived.”

Frances suppressed a groan. Already the spiralling shells above her were losing their power to soothe. “Coming.”

She trailed Nicholas back to the imposing grey stone house, surrounded by immaculately tended lawns and intricately cut box hedges before the gardens swept into the wider grounds where the stream and waterfall, rotunda and other decorative follies were situated. As Frances entered the hallway, her lady’s maid Deborah appeared from the shadows where she had clearly been lurking to catch her.

“Her ladyship said I was to make you… that is, dress you for the visitors, Miss. Come quickly, they’re already in the drawing room.”

Make you presentable , was the phrase she had bitten back, thought Frances, following the maid up the stairs. Her mother knew her too well. If it had been down to Frances, she would have entered the drawing room as she was, in dirty boots and a dusty dress from lying on her back in the rotunda.

In the bedroom, Deborah set about Frances in a flurry, tugging off her boots and replacing them with dainty cream kid slippers, muttering over the buttons as she lifted away the plain blue cotton dress and replaced it with a floaty muslin in a shade of pink which Frances detested, adding a delicate fichu for a modest neckline which made Frances want to scratch.

“I don’t have time to do ringlets,” Deborah said. “I’ll use the combs.”

Frances’ shoulders sagged. Much as she disliked the process of creating ringlets at the front of her face, she despised the false hairpieces attached with tiny combs even more. The thought of someone else’s hair attached to her scalp was even worse than the endless fussing and curling required to make her hair look fashionable.

Deborah hastily added a pearl necklace and Frances made her way downstairs, taking a deep breath before entering the drawing room where, as she had expected, she was met with a waft of strong perfumes, emanating from her mother as well as from the visitors. Frances found perfume too strong at the best of times, and scents mingling from multiple sources made her nauseous.

“Ah there you are, Frances,” her mother said, her lips smiling while her eyes glittered a warning. “Have you been walking? She is so fond of nature and fresh air,” she added to the guests. “Such a country girl.”

Lady Ridlington and her daughter Miss Ridlington nodded approval. Lady Ridlington’s son was on the market for a wife, and very much a country man himself, preferring hunting and fishing on his estate to balls and life in London. Frances gave a curtsey and seated herself at her mother’s side, opposite the two women, as instructed by her mother in a briefing before the visit, “So that they can look at you,” her mother had said. Frances hated being stared at.

“Such a shame my son could not come with us,” began Lady Ridlington. “It is the end of the shooting season, so I could not drag him away from his guns. But he will find time to pay a call very soon, I hope. What are your interests, my dear?”

“The natural world,” said Frances. She had been trained to say this by her mother, as apparently “shells” sounded too blunt and obsessive.

Lady Ridlington beamed. “How delightful. Do you draw?”

Lady Lilley gave Frances a dig in the ribs. Frances obediently got up and fetched her drawing portfolio, which she handed over to Lady Ridlington.

Lady Ridlington opened it. “Oh, how pretty,” she said. “Shells. From a visit to the seaside? Brighton, perhaps?”

“Margate,” said Frances quietly.

Lady Ridlington nodded. Brighton was more fashionable of course, but Margate was not without its charms.

“Frances has a godfather who keeps a house in Margate for his health,” said Lady Lilley. “Lord Barrington. He is very fond of Frances and often invites her there. He is an invalid, so although his estate Ashland Manor is in Surrey he prefers to spend time in Margate, he says the sea air and the bathing relieve his symptoms. He likes to have youthful company about him as he is unmarried and without children, so he dotes on Frances as well as his other younger relations.”

Lady Ridlington gave a nod, and Frances knew she would be correctly locating Viscount Barrington in her mental list of peers as a wealthy and respectable, if reclusive, member of the ton . A wealthy unmarried uncle was always useful for a young lady, especially if he were an invalid, one never knew if there might be an addition to Frances’ dowry in due course. Frances Lilley’s marriage portion was already twenty thousand pounds, which, if properly invested in the five percents would bring in one thousand pounds a year, a generous sum to add to Lady Ridlington’s son’s already comfortable income. Yes, no doubt Lady Ridlington thought Miss Lilley was promising, especially as she was unlikely to want to relinquish the control that she currently enjoyed as the widowed mother of an unmarried son with a handsome estate. A quiet obliging daughter in law would be just the thing. She gave an encouraging smile.

“Did you draw these while visiting your godfather, Miss Lilley?”

“Yes,” she replied, as instructed.

Frances had actually drawn them at home at the behest of her mother, who had doggedly insisted that Frances must have at least one accomplishment to show off on such occasions. A drawing master had been secured and Frances had, after much coercion, at last consented to learn to draw shells. Her mother and the drawing master had both suggested adding flowers and other elements of the natural world, but she had refused and in the end they had given in.

“Tell me a little about shells,” Lady Ridlington suggested. “They are so pretty.”

Frances stared at her. “Many people foolishly dismiss shells as only pretty objects, without fully understanding their scientific interest,” she began, heedless of Lady Ridlington’s expression at being called a fool and of her mother’s sudden sharp nudge in the ribs. She continued, leaning forwards, sifting through the pages of the portfolio to find what she was looking for. “Even those marine bivalves and gastropods which we most commonly find on our English shores, and indeed use for culinary purposes, have their own interest. This, for example, Mytilus edulis , the common mussel, thrives on our coastlines, showing resilience even in brackish waters, attaching itself to rocks with its delicate yet strong byssal threads. The nacreous interior gives a pearlescent effect as the light catches it.”

Lady Ridlington opened her mouth to reply but Frances continued to speak, pulling out another drawing.

“Here is a cockle, or Cerastoderma edule , which has a globular shape with between twenty-two and twenty-eight concentric ridges on the outside, while the interior has shallow grooves running from the notched margin, but fading before the pallial line. They bury themselves in the sand at great speed to escape predators such as gulls and of course humans.”

Miss Ridlington’s mouth was now open while Lady Ridlington’s face had grown stiff, but Frances was fully engrossed in her descriptions, not even glancing up to see if her audience was paying attention.

“Observe this: Buccinum undatum , the common whelk. Seven to eight spiraling whorls with the last one making up the majority of the overall size, the light and dark colouring irregular. Buccinum undatum may be confused with the so-called ‘red’ whelk, Neptunea antiqua, by those who do not note the finer ribbing of Neptunea antiqua . And while the common whelk is edible, the red whelk is not, therefore such subtle differences are important.” Frances drew breath, turning to another drawing. “The oyster, or –”

“Frances, dearest,” interrupted Lady Lilley desperately, “would you ring the bell for more tea?”

Frances looked up and surveyed the table. “We haven’t finished this tea yet,” she pointed out.

Lady Ridlington held out a hand. “Please do not trouble yourself, Lady Lilley,” she said. “Mary and I should be leaving.”

“But you’ve only just arrived! I was going to ask Frances to show you the gardens…” tried Lady Lilley, but Lady Ridlington was already standing.

“Such a long drive… unlikely we can visit again soon… perhaps we will see one another in London…”

Snatches of conversation drifted back to Frances as the visitors, escorted by the disappointed Lady Lilley, made their way out of Woodside Abbey and into their waiting carriage. The crunch of the wheels faded away as Lady Lilley returned to the drawing room, where she sat down and took a long drink of tea.

“I’m sorry,” Frances muttered when it became clear her mother was not going to speak.

Lady Lilley sighed and slumped back in her armchair, entirely losing her usual immaculate posture. “I had such high hopes for Lady Ridlington taking a fancy to you for her son. We could have avoided your fourth season if… well, never mind.” She gave a forced smile. “I have heard that there is a wonderful new modiste who is a marvel when it comes to…”

Frances let her mind drift away from the thought of another exhausting season. Her fourth. Too many. There would be new dresses and bonnets and shoes, new fans and gloves and stockings, for her father was generous enough and anxious to marry her off.

“And the latest fashions might suit you, bosoms are not being worn so high now, so even though you are not so well-endowed they will look becoming and perhaps something can be done with your hair…”

“Mama.”

Lady Lilley paused in her recital of everything that might be attempted in making Frances more marriageable. “Yes?”

“Could you not speak to Papa about my plan?”

“Your plan?”

“If he were to settle the marriage portion on me now, I could live very comfortably alone. Somewhere by the sea…”

“Frances!” Lady Lilley sat bolt upright again.

She fell silent, staring down at her portfolio.

“Frances, I do not want to hear this sort of talk again, it is ridiculous.”

“I am going to be a spinster,” said Frances. “So I might as well start now and be happy, rather than dragging it out for season after season, until you and Papa realise I am right.”

“Frances Diana Charlotte Lilley! You are not going to be a spinster. If it comes to it, your father and I will choose a suitable husband for you and arrange a marriage that will see you respectably wed. There is to be no more talk of spinsters!” And with that, Lady Lilley swept from the room, her cheeks pink with annoyance, while Frances escaped to the familiar comfort of the rocking chair in the library next door and rocked the hours away until dinner, staring out at the neatly clipped lawns and wondering how she might persuade her parents to let her live as she wished and not subject her to yet another miserable season.

Her hours of thought bore fruit, however, and after dinner, in the drawing room, she made her move, sidling over to a writing desk in a corner of the room.

“May I write to Uncle Barrington?”

“If you wish, dear,” said her mother distractedly from behind a copy of La Belle Assemblée, which boasted a new fashion plate she was considering. “I am not sure about yellow gloves with a rose-pink dress…Is it too bold? I favour cream gloves, myself…”

Frances ignored the wholly uninteresting and uninspired fashion advice and sat down at the desk to compose a letter to her godfather, which she then sealed and gave to one of the footmen to post before her mother could ask to see the contents.

Dear Uncle Barrington,

Please will you write to Mama and invite me to Northdown House for as long as ever you can? She talks of nothing but London and my fourth season and I can’t bear it. Please send for me.

Your respectful goddaughter,

Frances

A week went by. But as Frances had hoped, Viscount Barrington could be relied upon.

My dear Lady Lilley,

Will you do an old man the great pleasure of sending my beloved Frances to stay with me in Margate for the duration of September and October? I am here for my health as you know, but the days are lonely and conversation with a young spirit would do me good. I hope you will do me this kindness.

I remain your faithful servant,

Barrington

“Your godfather wishes you to visit him,” said Lady Lilley.

“Does he?” said Frances, trying to maintain a tone of surprise. “In Surrey?” she added disingenuously.

“No, in Margate.”

Frances waited, holding herself back from looking too eager.

“I suppose,” began Lady Lilley, “we could send you there once we reach London. The main season is not until March anyway and if you were with him for what is left of September and October, there will still be time to take you to a modiste in November and engage in some parties and balls before Christmas.”

“Whatever you think best, Mama,” said Frances in her best meek voice.

“But you are to make yourself agreeable ,” fretted Lady Lilley. “He is in want of conversation, he says, and you…” she paused.

“Oh, we do talk together,” said Frances quickly. “We are both so fond of shells and the natural world, we walk on the beach every day and his gardens at Northdown are very fine. We spend a great deal of time conversing.”

Her mother looked as though she found this hard to believe, but reluctantly agreed and put the plan to Lord Lilley, who generally went along with whatever Lady Lilley decided was suitable when it came to Frances.

“You must take Deborah, of course,” Lady Lilley decreed and although being obliged to have a companion with her everywhere she went usually annoyed Frances, in this case, once at Northdown, her maid would mostly leave her be, for she was fond of one of the footmen there and would take every opportunity to disappear below stairs or to some other room and see him. Besides, Deborah was something of a snob when it came to anywhere that was not London and would therefore, if coaxed, allow her to wear her plainest clothes, without fussing so much over ringlets or ribbons. The thought of being back in Margate, of walking on the beach every day and collecting her beloved shells, made Frances tingle with happiness.

Over the next week, she was on her very best behaviour, agreeing with everything her mother said and even managing to make polite conversation at the table. Deborah, likewise, became tractable, turning a blind eye when Frances removed jewellery and all but the plainest bonnets from the boxes and trunks she had packed.

The journey from Berkshire to London in the Lilleys’ carriage was always slow and tedious, but at least this time, when they arrived in Berkeley Square, Frances would only be spending one night there and would then depart for Margate with Deborah, who had travelled behind in the second carriage with the luggage. She could therefore ignore her noisy older brother, who was greatly looking forward to a season in town, and would avoid seeing her two older sisters, who would no doubt be visiting regularly, along with their boring husbands. Frances was fond of her nieces and nephews but her sisters’ constant references to Frances’ unmarried state were hard to bear for long.

The following day, with Deborah at her side, Frances travelled by post-chaise to Margate. The journey took another dreary day, but at last Frances saw the welcoming gates of Northdown Park and shortly thereafter the familiar sight of Northdown House. It was a fine house, both inside and out, but not grand in the way that Lord Barrington’s main estate Ashland Manor in Surrey was, nor overly imposing like Woodside Abbey. Instead it maintained a comfortable feel, a lived-in warmth of which Frances was very fond. This was how a home ought to be. When she had her own home, after however many more seasons she had to endure before her parents accepted her spinsterhood, she would make the grounds like those at Northdown House. Its flowering meadow-like gardens were filled with fruit trees and a hothouse full of roses, orchids and grapes, in stark contrast to Woodside Abbey’s clipped lawns and geometric hedges, which did not allow for any rest for the eye, drawn endlessly to its repeating patterns in shades of green and to trying to solve its maze-like layouts.

The carriage pulled up outside and Frances and Deborah stepped down. Jeremy Barrington, or Viscount Barrington to give him his correct title, made his appearance in the hallway, manoeuvring his bath chair, with its two back wheels and one at the front, with practised ease. As his legs had slowly lost their strength, Northdown House had been altered over the years to accommodate the viscount’s chair, so that his bedroom was now located on the ground floor, in what had been a little-used morning room, leaving the upper storey of the house largely unused. Approaching his seventieth year, with greying hair and a lined face, he wore his customary kindly expression as he greeted his goddaughter.

“I have something to show you,” he said, dispensing with any further niceties, a habit of which Frances heartily approved. “Come.”

She followed him as he rolled along the corridor. A footman sprang to attention to open the side door leading to the gardens, which had been fitted with a wooden ramp which allowed him to roll out, unlike the grand stairs at the front door. Unlike most gardens, which favoured gravel paths for keeping one’s feet clean even in wintertime, Lord Barrington had commissioned a wooden walkway, built from the side door all the way around the gardens, including a deviation into the hothouse, allowing him to make his way around without assistance until he had to re-enter the house. A footman was always positioned there to help him back up the ramp.

The meadow was full of autumn’s long grasses, through which were threaded the delicate blue of harebells and forget-me-nots, the pinks of cranesbill and red clover, as well as the vibrant yellow of hawkbit, while the walls of the nearby vegetable garden were draped over with ivy and old man’s beard.

“I wish I lived here,” said Frances.

Lord Barrington paused on the walkway. “Your mama still determined for you to marry?”

“Yes. And I don’t care to! All the young men I meet during the season are dreadful. They’re either boors or they fawn over me until they realise I don’t wish to make small talk and then they run away. Can none of them be companiable without twittering on?”

Lord Barrington chuckled. “Not looking forward to your fourth season?”

Frances rolled her eyes. “Must everyone keep count?”

“I am afraid they do.”

Frances sighed.

“There.”

Frances looked where he was pointing and brightened at once. “A swing!”

From an ancient oak had been hung a large wooden swing, already tantalisingly moving in the warm breeze. Frances hurried towards it, carefully took her seat and then pushed off with her feet, the swing lifting her up towards the green leaves and blue sky before returning her back towards the grass beneath her feet.

“Happy?” asked Lord Barrington, watching her.

“It is wonderful,” she said, without opening her eyes, a contented smile on her face. The smooth rhythm, the steady to and fro, was much like the rocking chairs she so enjoyed. The air rushing past her face, bringing delicate scents of the flowers around her and the faint tang of salt air from the nearby sea, was a delight to her sensitive nose, so unlike the overly-heady perfumes of the ton ’s ladies. Here at Northdown House she could be herself and not be endlessly disappointing to anyone, for Lord Barrington always seemed happy with her. If only these two months would last forever.