Chapter 8 A House Party
Chapter 8
A House Party
A lmack’s opened for the season in March and was its usual staid self, full of people feeling superior for having secured a voucher, with little else to recommend them. The dull food and drink on offer was vastly inferior to private balls, where the hosts would at least lay on a decent repast for a young man about town.
“Welcome, Mr Mowatt. You will recall Miss Hervey,” said the Master of Ceremonies as soon as he spotted Laurence. “I am sure she would be pleased to offer you a place on her dance card.”
Miss Hervey was a newly minted debutante, still wide-eyed at being allowed to stay up past her bedtime and at entering the hallowed halls of Almack’s. Laurence whirled her round the floor, taking a weary pleasure in seeing her excitement. Almack’s no longer held such charms for him, nor did most of the social events he regularly attended. They were all so very similar. The same decorations, the same faces, the same dances. He hoped this young woman would get married off quickly enough to avoid his own growing boredom.
Miss Hervey was followed by various other young women, all eagerly pushed forwards by their mamas, who saw in him only his current respectability and the lure of a future title. They passed through his arms, one after another, in dances both lively and stately, none of them able to converse in anything but the most stilted polite platitudes, until he began to long for the silent comfort of his drawing room.
“Mr Mowatt, what a pleasure to see you here.” Lady Hind, married for ten endlessly dull years to Lord Hind, had never plucked up the courage for an affair, but she regularly spoke with Laurence at gatherings where she could timidly flirt with him before returning to her lonely bed to recall in great detail every titillating moment passed between them.
Laurence took away Lady Hind’s glass of champagne and bowed over her naked hand, placing a delicate kiss on the inside of her wrist. “The pleasure is yet to come, I’m sure.”
Lady Hind’s colour rose and she glanced about her for watching eyes. “My champagne, Mr Mowatt, if you please.”
Laurence took a small sip from it, then turned the glass as he handed it back, so that, at her next sip, she would press her lips where his had been. “Would that my lips might taste something sweeter.”
Lady Hind’s hand trembled as she received the glass back, but tonight she was feeling brave. “My dance card is sadly missing a partner for the next dance.”
“I hope it is the waltz?” Laurence asked.
Her colour rose even higher at the idea of dancing such an intimate dance, only recently allowed at Almack’s and only between couples where there could be no hint of impropriety. “I could not possibly… the Master of Ceremonies would never…”
Laurence took her dance card from her and shook his head. “Alas, it is only the quadrille,” he said. “Still, it is a way for couples to be… playful together, is it not? Exchanging partners so frequently.”
Lady Hind stared at him in scandalised desire.
“Come,” said Laurence, adding his name to the card and leading her to the dance floor, depositing her champagne along the way into the hands of a footman. He enjoyed teasing Lady Hind, knowing full well she would never actually consent to anything more than dancing, but these ways of talking, the constant banter, the suggestiveness, were for some reason, beginning to feel repetitive. He had always been accomplished at this kind of flirtation, finding just the right words to whisper if they were intimate, or to speak out loud if there were hidden meanings to be hinted at but which could plausibly be denied should outrage be forthcoming. But of late these games of words seemed lacklustre, even when they led to other pleasures, which was certainly not going to be the case with Lady Hind. He shook his head. Perhaps he was just tired, since neither debutantes nor mature women were of much interest of late. An early night soon would be wise, though he was engaged for the next six nights at least at various balls and parties.
With Lady Hind left to slow her breathing after their dance together, Laurence deftly avoided a forlorn looking young woman and her pushy mama and headed towards a quieter part of the room.
“Mr Mowatt.”
To his surprise he found himself next to Miss Lilley.
“Miss Lilley, how unexpected. May I have the honour of a dance?”
“No. My feet hurt and I have barely slept. I have been dragged to three balls this week. None of them ended before two.”
He could not help chuckling, enjoying her usual blunt honesty. “I am sorry. Perhaps an ice, or a drink?”
She nodded. “Yes please. I am hungry but there is nothing decent to eat here. The ham sandwiches are dreadful. Dry and the ham is cut too thin.”
Laurence had never heard a lady confess to being hungry. “I hope the other parties you attended this week fed you better.”
“They tried. But if you are a lady, you must only take tiny mouthfuls. A single pea and perhaps a shred of beef. By the time dinner has ended you have only eaten enough to satisfy a mouse.”
“Do you have a remedy for this dreadful state of affairs?”
Her lips twitched in a smile. “My maid Deborah waits up for me with a wedge of ham pie, a pot of tea and some gingerbread. Else I would starve.”
The idea of her sitting in her bedroom eating ham pie while still in her evening finery made him laugh. “Do other young ladies have ham pie waiting for them when they get home?”
“I hope so, for their sakes. If not, you will find yourself dancing with skeletons by the end of the season.”
He found her an ice and a drink, then secured her a plateful of small rout cakes, which, while dry and somewhat tasteless, were enough to stave off the worst of her hunger pangs.
“I am promised to Miss Skeffington for a dance,” he said, reluctantly. Miss Lilley’s conversation had made a welcome change this evening, but he could hardly leave a lady without her promised dance partner. “I hope to see you again soon,” he found himself saying. “Will you be at the Portman picnic?”
“I begged off and Mama allowed it if I would attend tonight.”
He hesitated. “Then perhaps our paths will cross in Margate one day.”
She sighed. “I long for Margate. But Mama is determined I should stay here for the remainder of the season. I will try to convince her otherwise. Goodnight, Mr Mowatt.”
“Miss Lilley.” He bowed and watched her depart. A shame. She had made him laugh, which had cheered him. If he could have taken her away to the safety of Lord Barrington in Margate, he would have done, but she was immersed in the season now and there was no way out of it.
Lord Barrington sat in his study and re-read Laurence’s letter. He smiled at its contents, but his eyes drifted to a portrait hung above the desk, of two young men in the outdated clothing of an earlier era, posing on a bridge, the Grand Canal of Venice behind them, misty buildings shining along the waterways. He lingered on their happy smiles, then took up his quill and wrote.
My dear Laurence,
It gave me great pleasure to receive your last and to hear of your progress through the season. I am certain you are regarded with great esteem amongst the families of those young ladies who seek their companion of a lifetime. As for your misgivings regarding the fairer sex and their apparently shallow conversation or interests, I shall refer you to the great poet John Dryden and his words, thus: ‘He who would search for pearls must dive below’. Dive below, my boy. Do not allow the strictures of our society to bind your actions, nor your words. When you sense something more than mere comeliness lies beneath a young woman’s exterior, take the time to understand her true character and do not be shy in divulging your own. It is in this way that two souls come to know one another, and when they do, there is nothing in heaven nor earth that can divide them, nor can any subsequent deed or occurrence take away that joy of true union which I so deeply wish for you.
Believe me always your most affectionate uncle,
Barrington
He thought for while longer, resting his chin on his hand as he gazed out at the gardens and the empty swing which swayed in the breeze, before penning another missive, this one to Lady Lilley.
My dear Lady Lilley,
I hope that Frances acquits herself well this season and that she will find a suitable match soon. I know that this is your most earnest desire as it is mine, to see her happy and settled. May I suggest that for a girl with her delicacy of feeling it might be beneficial to host a house party? In the safety of her home and in the bosom of her family, she might find the necessary courage to more easily converse with appropriate gentlemen of your choice? You will forgive this old man his abominable habit of interfering in the lives of those for whom he holds great affection.
I remain your faithful servant,
Barrington
“Really, Lord Barrington is an old mother hen when it comes to Frances,” sniffed Lady Lilley on receiving the letter a few days later. “He indulges her fancies.” She sipped her tea, waiting for an answer from Lord Lilley, but she was disappointed in this, as he was buried in the newspaper and made no reply. “Although,” she added, thinking over Lord Barrington’s point and deciding that there was some possible truth in it. “Perhaps he is right.”
Her husband made no reply.
“Lilley!”
He emerged from behind the paper. “My dear?”
“We are to hold a house party.”
“Why?”
“So that we can choose a handful of suitable young men and encourage Frances to get to know them better in the comfort of our home. Then we shall pick the most likely and be done with it.”
Her husband nodded agreeably. “If you say so, my dear.”
And so Lady Lilley set about planning a house party to find Frances a husband. There was to be no more of this shilly-shallying. No more seasons ending in humiliation. She would choose the most likely candidates, invite them all for a week, and then encourage the least offensive to Frances to offer for her hand – and there would be no refusal permitted. There was, after all, only so much indulgence that could be bestowed on the girl. Lady Lilley herself, as a girl, had not been allowed such nonsensical ideas. She had been wed in her first season to the future Lord Lilley, an excellent match approved by all. And her marriage had not been so bad; her husband treated her with the sort of kindly respect he might have offered had his best hunting dog been combined with their excellent and long-standing housekeeper. He was not tight-fisted, nor inclined to violence when in his cups, so there was nothing Lady Lilley could complain about. Yes. It was time Frances grew up and took her place in society as a married lady, after which her odd ways would be her husband’s to manage and Lady Lilley could turn her mind to her son’s altogether easier nuptial arrangements. Out of courtesy, since he had suggested the idea, she also invited Lord Barrington to the house party. She hoped he might make a generous bequest to Frances when she married, so it was best to keep him apprised of progress in that quarter.
A week later his reply arrived. She opened the letter, looking over it with growing interest.
My dear Lady Lilley,
You are too kind to me. I regret I cannot attend your house party, for my health will not permit it. May I send my nephew, Mr Mowatt, in my stead? He is my heir, as you know, and will make a charming guest, far more suited to a house party than my aged and infirm person.
I remain your faithful servant,
Barrington
This response was most agreeable and indeed something of a relief to Lady Lilley, for hosting Lord Barrington, with his inconvenient chair, was always difficult, since all the bedrooms of Woodside Abbey were on the first floor. She was well aware of his nephew and heir, who was always seen at the best parties and who had an easy charm about him, always first to dance at balls and a safe pair of hands for young ladies. She had heard the odd whisper or two about his escorting married ladies about town, but that was perfectly respectable, after all. What a married lady chose to do was none of anyone’s business, as long as there was a veneer of propriety in her manners and no awkward questions about her youngest children’s parentage. She added Mr Mowatt to her list of guests and began preparations.
Frances had at first been delighted to be told they were leaving London, then horrified to hear of her mother’s plans. A house party would mean her home invaded, guests at every turn, with no escape. Worse, her mother would choose young men who would then be all but flung at Frances. There would be no escape from a ball pleading a headache, instead she would be forced to make dull conversation all day and evening. It was a suffocating thought.
By the time the house party came around, Woodside Abbey looked at its best, for Lady Lilley was gifted at arranging flowers and other decorative touches and Lord Lilley was generous when it came to housekeeping accounts. Frances’ two sisters, with their families, had also arrived to help host the many events and were eager to assist in marrying off their younger sister. Frances, meanwhile, was regarding with horror the endless events Lady Lilley had seen fit to arrange. There would be dinner each night, a picnic by the waterfall on one of the sunniest days, and a ball on the last night. To fill the rest of the time there would be card parties, drives to local beauty spots, a few pleasant walks and, of course, in the evenings there would be parlour games, music, perhaps singing. The guests would be well cared for.
Frances’ worst fears were promptly confirmed. With Lady Lilley and her two older daughters making a coordinated effort, there was not one moment of the day when Frances was alone, from the moment she arrived downstairs for breakfast until she retired at night. Her only snatched moments of silence were when she must change her clothes for the next activity, and she began to actually look forward to being dressed for dinner each evening, even sitting perfectly still for Deborah to curl her hair, having already begged the maid not to speak unless she had to.
At each activity Frances found herself with one or another of the young men invited, each of them doing their best to engage her in conversation, while Frances did her best to stay quiet. The result was one failed outing or activity after another, with awkward silences becoming more and more common. By the time the last day arrived, and with it the ball, Frances could hardly even bear to descend to the ballroom.
The ballroom was filled with daffodils and pussy-willow buds, as well as hundreds of beeswax candles, so that it smelt deliciously of honey. Laurence looked about him with approval. Even he, who regularly attended balls, thought this one looked particularly charming. The room was pleasantly full of the house guests without being stifling as often happened at public balls and now he spotted Frances.
She stood with her back to the far wall, her demeanour that of a deer about to take flight. Her mother must have fought to have her way as regards her wardrobe, for she was wearing a sea-blue silk which suited her, with white silk roses in her hair and delicate diamond drops in her ears. She was tugging at her long gloves, as though she found them uncomfortable, and not paying much attention to the room, so that when a young man approached her and bowed she startled, jerking backwards and flushing a blotchy pink about her neck and shoulders, then giving a stiff curtsey and reluctantly holding out her dance card for him to add his name.
Since Frances was the daughter of the hostess, naturally her dance card was rapidly filling up, and by the time Laurence reached her she could only offer a quadrille or a waltz.
“Please don’t pick the waltz,” she added in a fervent whisper when she saw him about to add his name there. “I don’t like it. It’s too…”
Intimate , thought Laurence, but he nodded and instead chose the quadrille, which was about to start. He held out his hand and led her to take their place amongst the couples squaring up for the dance. Neatly arranged into four couples for each square, they began the repetitive formations required, whereby each person would dance with every other, criss-crossing the square between them and holding hands to turn about. It was not a dance made for much in the way of conversation, nor for paying attention to one’s partner, since it called for dancing with the other three ladies as much as with Frances herself. Laurence contented himself with performing the steps well and offering a ready smile to the other ladies, all of whom had pleasant countenances except for Frances, who kept her face free of any expression. She did not miss a step, but showed no pleasure in the dance, her body wooden. Laurence, who enjoyed dancing and was often complimented on his skills in the ballroom, was sorry for her. The season must be hard indeed if neither dancing nor speaking were of pleasure to a person and yet must be endured, night after night, day after day, knowing oneself to be judged and found wanting at every turn, no matter how much effort was expended.
The dance ended with bows and curtseys all round.
“With whom will you dance the waltz?” he asked, before she could step away.
She shook her head. “I will say I am faint and ask someone to take me for an ice instead. If I’m slow about it, I can waste enough time and won’t have to dance it at all.”
“If you need someone to take you for an ice, I’d be happy to oblige.”
She gave one of her shrugs. “If you have nothing better to do.”
From another woman, it would have sounded churlish, as though he had offended her and now must fawn over her to make up for his rudeness, but she was only stating things as she saw them; she considered taking a young lady for an ice a boring task and did not want him to waste his time.
“I insist,” he said. “I will return to you when it is time. You may tell anyone who asks that you are engaged during the waltz.”
She nodded, then turned away.
Laurence kept an eye on her for the next few dances, saw her pass through the arms of each partner without unbending and almost without speaking, could see her mother’s pinched look of growing disapproval. The waltz would be the next dance and he was ready to act on his promise to rescue her from the ballroom floor. He was dancing with a Miss Swanson, when he noticed Frances slip out of a side door, almost sliding along the wall to keep from being noticed.
“Surrey is such a lovely part of the world,” chattered Miss Swanson, evidently well briefed by her mama that this would one day be Laurence’s home county. “I am exceedingly fond of Surrey.”
“Do you go there often?” managed Laurence, turning his head to try and see if Frances had come back into the room. She had not. She was still somewhere outside in the darkness.
“I’ve been there only once,” confessed Miss Swanson. “When I was five years old but even then I could see how wonderful it is.”
Laurence only just stopped himself from rolling his eyes at her fawning. Fortunately, the dance was coming to an end, so he bowed and moved away from her as fast as was seemly. He made his way across the room, trying not to look too focused on the door Frances had taken, allowing time to nod and briefly speak with one or two other guests.
Finally, he reached the door. It was not the main door, more of a side door such as a servant might use to bring more ices or candles as the evening wore on. Gently, he pushed against it. It opened. He made his way through it as quickly as possible, not wishing to draw attention to himself.
He had expected to find himself in a side-room, where Frances might have gone to have a few moments of solitude, but instead he was in a short corridor, plainly decorated, very much a servant’s passageway, at the end of which were stairs leading downwards. He followed them, beginning to think he had made a mistake. These stairs were likely to lead him into the kitchens, where the household staff would no doubt be disconcerted to find a lost guest and wonder what had possessed him to follow the backstairs into what was clearly the staff’s territory.
But the stairs were oddly quiet. He could not hear the clattering of pans or voices from below, no-one passed him on the stairs carrying refreshments. From above, he could hear the opening strains of the waltz. Perhaps Frances had returned to the room without his seeing her and was even now thinking that he had reneged on his promise to her. He was about to retrace his steps when he saw that the stairs ended in front of a small, closed door. Curious, he turned the handle and opened the door, then stopped in surprise.
The room might have been built as a convenient storage room beneath the ballroom, for it was not particularly large, with a low ceiling only a few inches above his head. But three candles had been lit, and the flickering light showed a room where every available surface, including the ceiling and a small section of the floor, had been covered in shells. And standing in the middle of the room, startled by his arrival, was a scowling Frances.
“What are you doing here?”
“I—I followed you here,” said Laurence.
Her frown deepened.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you had slipped out for some fresh air, and I had promised to take you away from the dancing.”
She said nothing.
“What is this place?”
Her voice was very small. “It is where I come to be alone. To breathe. When it is… too much for me.”
He looked about him. The shells were common enough, they were those he had seen her collect on the strandline at Margate. But here, in the soft candlelight, they shone. They had been stuck onto the walls and ceiling, in patterns; some were sunbursts, others rippled waves, spirals or floral shapes. “You made this room?”
She nodded.
“Why is it hidden away?”
“I do not want lots of people to see it. It is mine. Besides, they would think me odd.”
“It is beautiful,” he said, and meant it. Seeing this room was like being granted an entry into a hidden part of Frances, he realised. He had known she collected shells, of course, had even seen them at the rotunda, but this was different, it was a secret place and hers alone, a place of solace to her, a place to give her the courage to continue the evening.
And he was an intruder.
“I should not have followed you,” he said. “I will leave you to rest and when you are ready, if you would like me to, I would be glad to have an ice with you and keep you away from any other dance partners, if they are tiring you.” He stepped backwards, one hand on the door about to pull it shut.
“Stay,” she said.
He hovered in the doorway.
“You may stay,” she repeated. “I only needed… time to myself, to rest.”
He nodded but remained on the threshold.
“You like dancing,” she said. “You look happy when you dance.”
“And you do not like it,” he observed, trying to be as frank as she. “You know all the steps, but you seem to endure the dances rather than taking any pleasure in them.”
She grimaced. “I am always counting in my head, my dancing master used to insist on it.”
“It is hard to follow the music when you are counting.”
“Follow the music?”
Laurence listened to the waltz coming from upstairs, then took a few steps, his body swaying to the music. “Like that.”
“Without counting?”
He gave a chuckle. “Without counting.”
“I am not sure I am able.”
He held out both hands. “Try.”
She hesitated.
“Please.”
She took a few steps towards him and he let go of the door to do the same, meeting her in the centre of the small room. Gently, he offered his hands again and she placed hers in his.
He listened again and saw her doing the same. He moved her hands a little, to and fro to the music. “Like that.”
She frowned. “But the steps…”
He took a step closer, placed his right hand on her waist and nodded to her to do the same to him. Her left hand clasped in his, he raised it, so that they were now looking at each other through a circle made of their arms. Again, he swayed back and forth to the music without moving his feet. He watched her lips and saw them move silently.
“No,” he reminded her. “No counting.”
“But…”
“Tell me about the shells,” he said, still moving them both slightly from side to side.
“What about them?”
“How you chose the patterns.”
Her furrowed brow became smooth. “The sunburst was the hardest, I had to find shells with a yellowish tint to them and there are not so many, then I found the rose-tinted ones to contrast against them, as an outline for the sun’s rays…”
He tightened his hold on her waist and began to move his feet and she, trained in the correct steps to take, followed his lead but she stopped speaking and her lips moved again in silence. Laurence smiled down at her, shaking his head again.
“The shells?”
“I started with the flower shapes, the sunburst came later. The last ones were the ripples, as a border. But I have run out of space and there is nowhere else for them to go that is private. I decorated the rotunda, but I do not like to go there with other people.”
“What do you think about when you are placing them?”
Her body softened as she relaxed. “I look at their colour, I feel the shapes and textures of them and think how they would go together, how this shell might look next to another, of shells in the past which would have suited the placement and where I might find more of the same…”
She was dancing. Her body was swaying to the music as she spoke, her feet were taking the correct steps and as Laurence gently steered them in a circle and she could see the shells all around her he could see her taking them all in, both their individual beauty and the shapes and colour shifts they created together. Laurence remembered for a fleeting moment his thoughts, his desires when he had seen her walk through the sea, how he had wanted to put his hands on her and feel the warmth of her body, as he was doing now. There was a softness to her, a gentleness he had rarely seen. Her wide grey eyes contained an expression that was peaceful, even happy.
“… Lord Barrington says he will take me further afield, to Whitstable, where the strandline is very full of shells. He said we will fill a carriage with them,” she went on, with a laugh.
Laurence smiled down at her. She was so wrapped up in what she was saying that she did not realise that she was dancing far better than he had seen her dance all evening, graceful and fluid in her movements, easily following the music.
“You are dancing,” he said.
She stumbled at once, but then, to his surprise, regained the rhythm.
“I am,” she said, and smiled up at him, a wide, open smile which he had not seen before. “Thank you. When I think of the shells it is so much easier. I will try to remember that when I dance with my next partner.”
Laurence suddenly felt uncomfortable, as though, rather than a compliment, she had said something disagreeable. “You are welcome,” he said stiffly, lowering his arm and unclasping both her hand and waist. “We should probably return to the ballroom, I would not wish for our absence to be noted and commented on.”
“No, of course,” she said and walked past him to the door. “You may follow when I have been gone a few moments.”
Left alone, Laurence stood amongst the shells. Why had he been so aloof with her just then? He was not sure. Something she had said had bothered him. His eyes wandered across the shapes and patterns, before he gave a quick blow to the three candles, extinguishing each in turn so that the room was plunged into darkness. He made his way back out into the passageway by touch, fingers running across the swirling shapes.
Only when he reached the ballroom again and saw Frances in the arms of one of the other young men did he realise that it was her comment about future partners that had made him feel uncomfortable, the idea of her dancing more gracefully and easily with other men, of taking pleasure in the experience. It was unfair of him to resent something that might help her find a husband this season. Dancing was, after all, a way to grow more intimate with someone, and she could probably do with all the help she could get. He would make sure to offer to dance with her again, to end the evening on a friendly note.
For once, Frances was not counting. She allowed the music to guide her and kept her mind on her shells, surprised that Mr Mowatt’s guidance on this had been so effective. When she thought of her shells it was as though her whole body had exhaled, leaving her body loose and more easily attuned to her surroundings, rather than suffering them as an invasion of her senses. It made the dancing feel like rocking or swinging; she could feel a kinship to it which she had never before noticed, despite many hours of practice under the eyes of more than one frustrated dancing master. She would not say it was enjoyable yet, but it was more comfortable. For just a few moments in her room of shells, with Mr Mowatt guiding her, she had glimpsed a joy to it, which had not remained once in the arms of whoever this young man was, she had forgotten his title. But then her shells were not all around her, that was what must be making the difference.
The dance ended and she curtseyed, then swiftly withdrew to a corner of the room, close to where Elizabeth was standing, speaking with Lady Honora. Frances could not catch all of the conversation, but Lady Honora’s lips tightened at something Elizabeth had said.
“Mowatt wants to marry me and he’d be a decent catch for anyone,” she said.
“Then I wonder you do not hasten to marry him,” said Elizabeth, her voice raised from its usual murmur. She turned away, meeting Frances’ gaze, then looked over her shoulder to Lady Honora. “You will excuse me,” she said. “I must speak with my friend.”
Lady Honora opened her mouth, then closed it again. “By all means,” she said, and there was something tight in her voice. “I would not keep you from your friend.” She turned and walked away, tapping her fan on the arm of Mr Mowatt, who had been heading towards them, and indicating the dining room. He hesitated, then took her arm and they walked away.
Frances watched them go. So Mr Mowatt was all but promised to Honora Fortescue. She had not known that. Not that it made any difference to her, certainly, Mr Mowatt was free to marry where he chose, and he had made it plain that he wished only for a marriage of convenience. Lady Honora would be a good match – she would bring with her a third estate, making Mr Mowatt – or Lord Barrington as he would be one day, extremely rich, for he would have not one but three estates – from his father, his uncle and his wife. Few marriages could be so well favoured. Even Frances’ twenty thousand, a most advantageous amount, would pale into insignificance. She would henceforth regard him as already spoken for, if he had already made his intentions clear to Lady Honora and she in turn was sure enough of them to repeat them to Elizabeth. He would marry soon and then would visit Lord Barrington less often, having more pressing matters to attend to, such as the care of his wife. Frances supposed she would miss some of their walks and talks in Margate, as she had found him an easy companion, but after all they were little more than acquaintances, so it was no great loss.
When, half an hour later, Mr Mowatt came to her and asked for another dance, she only said that her dance card was full and turned away. There was little point in raising her mama’s hopes when he was already spoken for.
The guests were late to rise the next day and breakfast almost became the midday meal. There was plenty of fuss and bustle as they all began to depart, with servants loading up carriages and repeated farewells as the house began to empty.
Laurence watched as the guests departed, noting that Miss Lilley held back from effusive promises to visit again, to meet in London and so on, instead quietly curtseying when required and nodding her head without much in the way of words issuing from her mouth. He could see that she was both weary from all the social obligations that had been thrust upon her and no doubt dreading her mother’s disappointment when it turned out that it had all been in vain, for he had not noticed any particular interest shown to her by any of the young men present.
“Might I trespass on your hospitality one more night, Lady Lilley?” he asked that afternoon. “I am expected back at Albany but there are some minor renovations being made to my set which should be completed by tomorrow.” It was the truth, but he was worried about Frances, who looked drawn and had grown increasingly silent. He wondered whether she might speak more when the crowds had departed.
“Of course, of course,” said Lady Lilley, looking meaningfully at Frances. “It is a delight to have you with us , en famille , a little longer.”
But Frances was quiet all evening and despite Lord and Lady Lilley’s best attempts, asking questions about Margate, Lord Barrington, shells and more, neither of the two young people seemed much inclined to converse with one another. Frances spent most of the evening showing her young nephews and nieces some of her shells, explaining what made each one distinctive, then allowing them to lay them out in different patterns on a side table, showing them how the differing shades might look best next to one another and ignoring everyone else, until eventually an early night was had by all.
Laurence woke on the day of his departure to shouts of laughter somewhere outside. Curious, he made his way over to the windows to look down on the gardens, where the five children belonging to the Lilleys’ two elder daughters were playing with a sizeable hunting dog belonging to Lord Lilley. The dog was currently engaged in dragging a large branch three times its own length across the immaculate lawn, no doubt ruining it in the process. There was a woman with the children, he supposed for a moment it must be a nursemaid, but then he realised it was Miss Lilley, her hair coming loose from its pins and dressed in a very plain grey gown, something even a maid would find dull. But she was more full of life and fun than he had ever seen her, running with the children, pulling at the other end of the dog’s treasured branch, then rolling down a small slope with the two youngest children, heedless of her dress getting stained by the grass or the fact that it got ruffled up, exposing her legs to the knee in white stockings. It reminded Laurence of their excursion to Botany Bay, how spirited she had been, without a trace of fear, the lack of modesty regarding her bare legs which had stirred something in him.
It rose up again now, watching her hair come tumbling down altogether, falling to her waist in a cascade of chestnut-brown waves, her face full of laughter instead of its usual stillness. And something else came to him, the odd thought that she would make a kind mother, for her laughter and playfulness with the children was delightful to watch and clearly they all loved her. The youngest, when falling, turned to her without hesitation for comfort, even the oldest held her hand as they hurried round the side of the house, following the dog, still laughing at almost tripping over the long branch.
He remembered his mother laughing during a snowball fight one wintery day, how she had fallen backwards into the snow but still been laughing as his father helped her up, how they had embraced one another before calling their children to come indoors, where hot spiced apple juice was served and cook was coaxed to provide gingerbread biscuits, hot from the oven to warm them.
He turned away from the window and went through the motions of washing and dressing, his mind elsewhere. Honora had been brisk at the ball, giving a terse assent to the idea of them having a half-understanding, nothing formal as yet but if either of them were still unmarried in a year’s time… they would be a good match, no-one would object. He wondered how their marriage would be. Would there be laughter beneath his windows in the mornings? Would there be apple juice and gingerbread in the winters after snowball fights, and lemonade and ices in the summers after swimming in a nearby river? His memories of childhood were full of such days but he was uncertain if this planned union would bring with it such light-heartedness. It was an arrangement, a practical plan, which did not necessarily promise such moments. But he was the only son, and it was nearing time to set aside such childish fancies. A boy might wish for snowball fights and building twig rafts at the river’s edge with his mother and father, a man must think of more practical things.
Laurence straightened his cravat and made his way downstairs to bid the Lilleys farewell. They had gathered, all of them together, in the hall and he spotted Frances towards the back, loose hair hastily pushed under her bonnet, her mother glowering at her dishevelled state. He was sorry for her, but there was little he could say in front of everyone that would not have been thought odd and he did not want to give her mother false hope when he had no intentions towards Frances, so he only bowed, murmured her name amongst the others and took his leave.