Chapter 11 #2
“My boy?”
he replied, eyes still closed.
“I – that is we – have something to tell you.”
Lord Barrington opened his eyes and looked up at them. “Have you indeed?”
“Yes, Sir. We are to be married.”
Lord Barrington’s eyes creased into a deep smile and he stretched out both hands, taking a hand of each of them in his own and clasping them tightly.
“Ah, this is happy news. I confess I had hoped for such an outcome when the two of you first met. As Sophocles said, one word frees us of all the weight and pain of life, and that word is love. I hope love will always smile upon you both and on your marriage.”
“Thank you, Uncle,”
said Laurence.
“Thank you,”
murmured Frances.
“And it will be soon? The wedding?”
“Yes, Sir. I will visit Lord and Lady Lilley and then my father, there is no need for a delay.”
Lord Barrington chuckled. “I believe my goddaughter is looking forward to getting rid of Lord Hosmer, Laurence, and quite right too.
Besides, when your parents know that Laurence has asked for your hand, Frances, they can have no possible objection.
He’s younger and richer and a great deal better looking. And he may not have a title yet, but it will happen soon enough. I am an old man, and a tired one at that.”
“There is no hurry on that front, Sir,”
said Laurence. “We hope you will be with us for many years yet.”
“You’re a good boy,”
said Lord Barrington fondly. “You will make an excellent husband to Frances here. And she will make you happy, I know it. Now, finish your shell walk for the day. This evening, we shall celebrate with some excellent champagne to toast you both.”
Frances squeezed his hand and stepped away, walked a few paces from them and then stooped to pick up a shell. Laurence stayed by Lord Barrington, both of them watching her.
“You chose with your heart, and the heart is never wrong, Laurence, though it may seem it sometimes. The heart always wins.”
Laurence nodded. “Can I push your chair, Sir?”
“No, Laurence, walk with your intended. I shall rest here for a while, enjoying the sunshine and the knowledge that the two of you will soon be wed. I am a contented romantic today. I shall bask in your reflected happiness.”
Laurence gave him a bow. Let his uncle believe it was a love match on both sides. It would give him joy and there was no harm in it, after all. “We will not be long, Sir, the tide is coming in, the strandline will soon disappear.”
“Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,so do our minutes hasten to their end.”
“Shakespeare, Uncle?”
“Very good, my boy. Sonnet Sixty by the great bard. Now go along, your future wife is waiting for you.”
He raised his hand and Frances waved back. He sat smiling, watching them as they moved slowly along the beach, before he leant back against the pillow and closed his eyes again, the sun shining down on his pale skin.
“He was happy,”
said Frances, as they walked on.
“He was,”
agreed Laurence. “I think perhaps he has been playing matchmaker to us for the past few months.”
“Has he?”
He nodded. “Asking me to stay when you were already his guest, suggesting a house party to your mother and then sending me as his representative. And we had a conversation…”
He trailed off, remembering how Lord Barrington had teased out of him what he really wanted, rather than what he had believed a marriage should be.
“He believes we are in love,”
said Frances, stopping to collect another shell. It clinked against the others in her basket.
“Yes,”
said Laurence. He looked at her pink lips, the curve of her dark lashes as she continued to look downwards, always seeking.
He thought of the kiss in the garden, how soft her lips had been.
She had not been cold, there was warmth there, he was sure of it.
She had looked up at him, lips parted and for a moment he thought she might lean towards him for another kiss but she had not.
Perhaps she had been shy, it would have been her first kiss, after all, and she could not know he would be gentle with her.
Perhaps he should say something now, to indicate to her that it was not his will that they be nothing but convenient spouses to one another.
That he felt more for her, that if she felt the same, they could see what might grow between them, they could –
“Should we tell him it is a marriage of convenience?”
He swallowed, her bluntness hurtful. “Perhaps it is kind for him to believe it is a love match, if it makes him happy.”
“I have never lied to him.”
She stopped, looked up at him, her grey eyes uncertain.
“It is not exactly a lie,”
he tried, uncomfortable under her direct gaze, unable to think of the right words to say.
Why was it so easy to utter witty words of seduction to a married lady who desired him, but impossible to find words of real affection for Frances?
He did not want to frighten her away by suddenly declaring his love for her, when she believed there was to be only a cool agreement between them.
He must proceed gently, to see if she would come closer to him, would learn to love him in her own time.
“We are… friends, are we not? We are… fond of one another?”
“Yes,”
she said, then looked down again, moved a few steps further along.
He watched, drinking in the sight of her, her steady gaze, her total attention to the search, heedless of the breeze playing with her bonnet ribbons, the way her skirts ruffled about her.
Any other woman would have kept up a constant stream of chatter, mostly about herself: her hair, the need for a parasol, fear of the gulls, and other such nonsense.
But Frances walked as though in her own world and Laurence had a great desire to find a way into that world, to walk within it at her side, even if in silence.
He lengthened his stride to reach her and took the handle of her basket, eager to offer some assistance, to find some way to be part of her activity.
“Let me carry them for you.”
She looked up in surprise, but then nodded and let go of the basket, even as a shout came from behind them and they both turned to see the footman Benjamin running across the beach, trying to get their attention.
“Come at once! Lord Barrington is unwell!”
Laurence shoved the basket of shells back into Frances’ hands and set off at a run, his feet struggling against the soft sand.
He reached the chair and the slumped figure of Lord Barrington and bent over him, touched his face and then held his wrist.
“He is dead, isn’t he?”
he asked, already knowing the answer.
Benjamin nodded, speechless.
Frances appeared by his side, her breath short with running. She looked down at Lord Barrington’s face, his eyes closed, his face peaceful. “His heart was growing weak, like his legs.”
“How do you know?”
“He kept saying he was tired.”
“Did our news… was it too much?”
She shook her head. “He was happy. He died happy.”
There were tears in Laurence’s eyes, real distress at the loss. She put one hand over his, uncertain of how to comfort him, but wanting to show that he was not alone.
He nodded at the gesture, then cleared his throat and addressed the footman. “Benjamin.”
“My lord?”
Laurence stared at him, then realised.
He was Lord Barrington now, the title had left in his uncle’s dying breath and drifted across the sands to him, before the footman had even seen what had happened and called for him.
He tried to gather his thoughts.
He must take care of everything now, there would be a funeral and a will, an estate to take over, many responsibilities that would fall on his shoulders.
One thought above all others shone out.
He must take care of Frances.
It was not necessary for her to attend the funeral, few women attended such an unpleasant event, and he would be occupied for some time.
The wedding would have to be postponed while he settled into all that the new title and position would demand of him; besides which it would not be appropriate to marry too soon after his uncle’s demise.
He would ensure she was safe and cared for until he could claim her.
She must not be troubled by anything, must stay with her family where she could be looked after until he could return to her side.
There were already too many busybodies along the shore, staring and whispering; he had no wish to subject her to further discomfort.
“Benjamin, take Miss Lilley back to Northdown and arrange for her safe travel back to London.”
Frances stared at him. “Back to London?”
He nodded and took her hand. “I will have many things to do here and then at Ashland Manor in Surrey. It will be best if you are with your family.”
“But I –”
But Benjamin had already waved over the driver, who swiftly brought the carriage close to the promenade and, apprised of the situation, made haste to let down the steps, while the footman stood waiting, his hand held out to help Frances in.
She looked to Laurence, but he was speaking with the second footman, Andrew, directing him to secure the services of a funeral director at once, while he stood guard over his uncle’s body.
Slowly, she stepped into the carriage.
He came to the window as the footman took a seat next to the driver.
“Benjamin will take care of everything,”
he assured her. “You will be safely back with your family in no time, and I will take care of everything here.”
He touched her hand where she clutched at the window frame, then bowed and stepped away, gesturing to the driver, who cracked the whip, the carriage moving smartly away from the promenade, the horses urged to a brisk trot.
The next few hours passed in a bewildered daze for Frances.
Deborah exclaimed over the death of Lord Barrington and swiftly packed.
Benjamin kept the carriage waiting to take them on the first stage of the journey, to where a post-chaise could be secured that would see them arrive in London late that night, the longer days thankfully allowing for later travel.
For most of the journey Frances feigned sleep, for her thoughts were a jumbled whirl of confusion and distress and everything about her – the noise of the wheels, the chatter of Deborah, the endless rocking and jolting, all caused wave after wave of nausea which she was hard-pressed to swallow back.
Lord Barrington was dead.
Her kindly godfather, in whose eyes she could do no wrong, was gone and she had seen him only for a moment, had not been able to bid him a proper farewell, although she was glad to have seen his face peaceful.
And now Laurence had sent her back to her family with unseemly haste, hurrying her into the carriage and now back to London with barely a word.
He had said only that he would “take care of everything here,”
but what did that mean? They had made no firm plans as yet – he had not said when he would call on her parents to make a formal offer for her hand in marriage.
Was she to break off the engagement with Lord Hosmer when she reached home, which might not even be accepted without proof of another suitor for her hand? Or wait until Laurence made her a formal offer?
Halfway to London a sudden horrible thought struck her.
No-one but the two of them knew of their agreement.
Lord Barrington had known, but he was now dead.
None of the servants were aware of it.
They would not be able to confirm her claim that she was now engaged to Laurence.
There had been no betrothal gift, she had no ring or other item to show from him.
Had Laurence regretted his promise, and then seen a possible way out of it? By bundling her back to her family he could, if he wished, now avoid the entire question, for a lady could not simply claim that a gentleman had proposed to her without any evidence to that effect, nor any word from the man in question.
London was a continuing whirl of social events and Frances was hard pressed to avoid most of them, for even grief did not excuse her from as many occasions as she would have liked.
Lord and Lady Lilley were very sorry to hear of Lord Barrington’s death.
They had considered him a trustworthy influence on Frances, and he had treated her well.
But he had been an invalid for many years now.
It was to be expected that he might meet an early end and therefore they were not about to halt all their plans for mourning, and that was an end to it.
Frances kept away from them, from their well-intentioned pity and comfort which she did not find comforting in the least.
They asked briefly after Laurence – now Lord Barrington of course – and she did not know how to tell them what had been agreed.
She could not bring herself to say that she had written to him, that she had proposed marriage to a man she barely knew, that he had met her at Northdown House and agreed to a marriage of convenience between them.
It would sound like a concoction, a fairytale, in fact an outright lie to save herself from Lord Hosmer, for Laurence had sent no word back with her, had made no public promise except to a man who was now dead.
Her parents would be appalled at the idea that she had done such a thing and would demand proof – and what proof could she offer from Laurence? She would have to wait for him to come to her, to visit her parents and declare himself.
She could only hope that he would come soon, while her mother talked of the trousseau for the upcoming wedding to Lord Hosmer and Frances tried to stall her, claiming a headache so that she did not have to attend a fitting, coming late to breakfast so that there was little time to discuss floral arrangements.
But the preparations continued, for Lady Lilley was not about to allow Frances to avoid them altogether, and so she had no choice but to discuss lilies of the valley and roses, with no interest in either.
The sweet smell of white lilies filled the gallery in Northdown where Lord Barrington had been laid out.
Neighbours and local acquaintances had visited to view him and in a few short minutes his body would be taken away by the funeral directors, for the funeral would take place the next day.
Laurence stood, looking down at the white face, the gnarled hands clasped together in a saintly pose.
“Are you ready for the coffin to be sealed, Sir?”
The funeral director hovered behind him.
“Yes,”
agreed Laurence. A sudden thought came to him. “No,”
he added abruptly. “One moment more, please, I must fetch something…”
He hurried from the room and into what had been Lord Barrington’s study.
Sat at this desk in the last few days, Laurence had found something in a small locked drawer, which he now removed, placing it carefully in his pocket and returning to the gallery.
“If I could have a moment longer alone?”
“Of course, Sir.”
Alone, Laurence removed the miniature from his pocket and looked at it.
Lord Hyatt in the bloom of youth, a happy smile on his face, warm brown eyes alight with love for Lord Barrington, for whom the miniature had no doubt been a gift.
Now he placed the tiny portrait between the cold hands where it could not be seen, in memory of the happiness the two young men had known together.
Tears rose unbidden in his eyes.
He had to clear his throat and compose himself again before summoning the funeral director and watching the coffin being sealed, Lord Barrington and his true love hidden from the eyes of the world for the last time.
“Barrington’s funeral’s taken place,”
said Lord Lilley at breakfast when Frances had been back two weeks. He looked through the letter he had received. “In Margate, a small affair, which is what he wanted, apparently.”
Frances looked up, heart thumping. “How do you know?”
“Letter from the new Lord Barrington.”
“He wrote to you?”
“Yes. Says reading the will is next and he will be sure to let us know if there are any bequests concerning our family, that he will try to deliver them in person if there are, as he wishes to call on us, to pay his compliments.”
“So kind,”
murmured Lady Lilley. “He seemed a most gentlemanly person, very attentive and polite.”
Frances sat in silence. He would call on them, he meant to come soon. She would wait then, she would wait longer so that he might come and explain everything. She would be safe.
She did not feel safe.
The wedding was fast approaching, and her mother had decided she should be married from Woodside Abbey.
They were to leave London and travel there, travel further away from Laurence and towards the bleak future that had been planned for her with Lord Hosmer.
Time was running out fast and still no word, no visitor, no further communication came.
Laurence threw another crumpled piece of paper to the floor in disgust.
How was it that he, who had always had a ready quip for a lady, who had written dozens of Valentines and other love notes (always, of course, discreetly anonymous), could not pen a letter to Frances, his future wife, whom he loved and cared for? Everything he wrote seemed either plain and business-like, which he did not want to be, or else too like a lover, which might frighten her.
He had started and crumpled a letter to her almost every day since they had parted.
The first had been a tender letter, to share her sadness about their beloved Lord Barrington, mentioning the gratitude that filled him for his uncle’s kindness and his bringing them together that they might be happy, ending by promising to come to her very soon.
But that had seemed overly sentimental and of course he was coming to her as soon as possible, that went without saying.
He had written on other days – of the sadness of the staff at Northdown House but their happiness in knowing he and Frances were to be wed and that she would soon be their mistress, for they were all fond of her.
Of neighbours and family who had shared warm reminisces about Lord Barrington, his kindness and generosity to all those who came within his circle of influence.
Of the day when he had watched the coffin being sealed, having done what he could to honour Lord Barrington’s love story.
But every letter had something wrong with it and while he was searching for a better way to express himself some interruption would come – a request to meet with the steward, visitors proffering condolences, his man of business, even his family – and so another day would pass without a letter being sent.
His days, once so leisurely, were now not his own, for as the new Viscount Barrington there was much to be done.
No sooner had the funeral in Margate taken place than he’d had to set off for Ashland Manor in Surrey, the main estate, to meet staff and steward, look through accounts, answer questions, receive neighbours, and more.
He barely ate breakfasts, snatching only a coffee from the waiting hands of a footman, perhaps some bread and ham at midday and by the evenings he was too tired for a fine meal, preferring a tray sent to his room.
But he thought and planned for Frances.
He told the staff they would soon have a new mistress and spoke with the housekeeper to see if she were an easy-to-manage person.
Finding her a kindly and experienced woman, he explained that Frances would need her support in learning to run a household and that all should be done as she desired, but without taxing her too much, especially as a new bride.
His rooms had been Uncle Barrington’s and they were comfortable enough for now, but the rooms which should belong to the Viscountess must be refurbished in the very latest style for Frances.
He had a fashionable married cousin whose opinion he trusted come to stay and asked her, as a gift to him, to make the rooms as comfortable and luxurious as possible, but everything should be done in haste, for he must visit Frances soon to claim her hand.
He read his uncle’s will and nodded at the various bequests that had been made, giving orders that Frances be told at once.
His father came to visit him at Ashland Manor. “I am proud of you, son,”
he said, when Laurence explained all the work he had been doing. “It is good to know you’ll do the same when I’m gone.”
“Don’t be in a hurry, Father,”
said Laurence. “I’ll be needing your advice and guidance. I’m to marry as soon as I can arrange it. Wait until we have given you some grandchildren, at least.”
His father patted him on the back and cleared his throat huskily. “I have something for you,”
he said and pulled out a tiny leather box, in worn red leather. Opening it revealed a simple gold band. “Your mother’s. She wore it all her life, but made me take it from her hand in her last days when she was unwell. She said your future bride should wear it.”
Tears stung Laurence’s eyes as he took the little band out of its box. It was such a simple thing, but he could not recall his mother’s hand without it.
“Perhaps she would like something grander,”
said his father.
“She is not a grand person,”
said Laurence. “I have never seen her wear any jewellery. This is perfect, Father. Thank you.”
His father smiled. “Your mother was not grand either,”
he said. “A shy little soul when I first met her, but she came out of her shell over time, and I loved her more each time another part of her emerged.”
The letters Laurence did manage to write were sent mostly to the docks of various ports, making requests for shells from any part of the world, large or small, and promising generous payment for them to any sailor who could oblige him in creating a collection worthy of Frances’ approval.
The young man he had engaged for the task did not seem very prepossessing to Laurence. A slight stoop, watery eyes peering anxiously through thick glasses, feet never quite still, so that he seemed to be constantly swaying.