Chapter 11 #3
“You are to correctly label and display a collection of shells which I have accumulated.
They are currently still in the boxes and packing crates in which they were delivered.
My footman James will show you the room they are stored in and be at your disposal in unboxing them and placing them correctly.
The display cases have been commissioned and are almost complete, there is only a final coat of paint to be applied.
I will be away for a few weeks but will expect to see all in readiness on my return.”
“I will do my best,”
said the young man. “Are you yourself an expert in shells?”
“I know nothing about them.”
Laurence smiled. “They are a wedding gift.”
He would have stayed longer to discuss his plans, but he had to meet with Mr Morling, the solicitor managing the bequests of his uncle, one of which was to be delivered to Frances.
Laurence had wanted to take it himself, but there were other urgent matters of business and being absent for several days would not be advisable.
He tried to pen her a letter, but once again the words seemed wrong and he did not wish to detract from Lord Barrington’s final words to her.
It seemed disrespectful.
He comforted himself that she must know he would be with her as soon as he could and that, by discharging all his business matters and having everything at Ashland Manor in readiness for her, he might bring forward the wedding despite the mourning period.
It would have to be a quiet affair, but he did not think she would mind that.
A week later, Deborah woke Frances earlier than usual.
“A Mr Morling is here with news of your godfather’s will. He came by carriage.”
Frances washed and dressed in haste and made her way into the drawing room, where her parents sat expectantly gazing at a soberly clad man, who stood and bowed to Frances as she entered. “Miss Lilley.”
She took a seat between her eager parents, both leaning slightly forwards.
“As goddaughter to the late Lord Barrington, may I first proffer my condolences.”
“Thank you,”
Frances murmured. Her voice was very small in the large room.
“You should know that the estate and title have naturally passed on to his chosen heir, the son of his sister Cecilia. Laurence John Charles Mowatt has changed his name in honour of his uncle as planned and is now Viscount Barrington. He has taken control of his estates, chiefly comprising Ashland Manor in Surrey, as well as other properties and lands further afield, such as Northdown House and Park in Margate.”
Her parents nodded.
Frances waited.
Was this how she would receive confirmation that Laurence still intended to marry her? By a black-dressed solicitor?
She had agreed that the marriage would be one of convenience, but this seemed formal even by the terms of their agreement.
She swallowed.
“However, the late Lord Barrington also left certain bequests which I have carried out as his representative. Naturally each has been read and approved by the new Lord Barrington, and he has made no objection to any of them. There were sums of money to loyal servants, and so on, but also some larger gifts to those for whom the late Lord Barrington had a particular affection. His two nieces have received five thousand pounds each.”
Frances could all but hear her mother’s mental calculations. Was Frances, not being connected by blood, to be given a smaller amount? Or a larger one because she was a particular favourite, visiting him so often?
“The late Lord Barrington made special mention of Miss Lilley in his will. He left her ten thousand pounds.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Frances’ mother.
“Very decent of him,”
declared Lord Lilley. “A very generous gift.”
Frances knew her mother was practically dancing. She had already been promised twenty thousand by her father.
A total of thirty thousand pounds would make Frances a very wealthy bride. As a married woman she would have one thousand five hundred pounds a year.
There were minor male members of the ton with less money to call their own.
“There was another gift,”
went on the solicitor. “It is a more personal gift.”
At last. Word from Laurence. Frances’ shoulders dropped with relief.
Mr Morling hesitated. “It comes with a, er, poem.”
Lord Lilley frowned. “A poem?”
“A poem from the late Lord Barrington to be read to Miss Lilley on the occasion of the gift being placed in her hands.”
Was this the declaration? Was it a betrothal gift from Laurence? But no, the gift was from her godfather, Mr Morling had just said so, and so was the poem.
From his satchel Mr Morling withdrew a large round flat black leather box as well as a folded thick sheet of cream paper. Lady Lilley stiffened. The box was undoubtedly a jewellery box.
“May I have your permission to read the poem aloud, Lord Lilley?”
Her father nodded. “Certainly.”
“Ahem. ‘For whatsoever from one place doth fall,Is with the tide unto another brought:For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.’”
He checked his notes. “Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queen .”
He passed the box to Frances. “Miss Lilley. This is now yours.”
Carefully, Frances undid the clasp of the box to reveal, laid out on blue velvet, a magnificent pearl parure.
A gleaming tiara was shaped into repeating scrolls which looked like the waves of the sea, each one holding a beautiful round pearl, the central one in a teardrop shape.
She touched one of the scrolls and the delicate movement set off a trembling of the dangling pearls so that the tiara seemed to come alive, as though the waves were in motion, the pearls being brought to the shore.
There was a necklace, made up of three strands of white pearls, with an extremely large teardrop pearl pendant hanging in the centre.
Earrings echoing the teardrop shape of the pendant, and two triple-stranded pearl bracelets.
“It is exquisite,”
breathed her mother. “Perfect for a wedding.”
Frances knew she should say something effusive, but the words would not come.
The beauty of the jewellery and the generosity of the money had all been obscured by the crushing disappointment that Laurence had not come to her, had only sent this formal obligation, this dutiful carrying out of a will.
She tightened her grip on the box to stop her hands shaking.
“There was nothing else?”
Mr Morling looked surprised at Frances’ question, as much as at her seeming lack of enthusiasm. “Were you expecting a particular bequest? An item you had been promised?”
She shook her head. There was a ringing in her ears and her throat was very dry. “There was nothing else?”
she repeated. “Nothing at all?”
“Frances, really,”
hissed her mother. “You have been granted a most generous bequest, far above anything we might have expected.”
She addressed Mr Morling. “We are most grateful to his late lordship as well as to the new Lord Barrington for his generosity in following his uncle’s wishes. We will write to him to express our gratitude, won’t we, Frances?”
Frances stood and the pearls fell out of the tumbling box, landing on the carpet, exciting gasps and exclamations behind her, a scrabbling to find and return them to their protective lining as she left the room in a daze, unheeding of her name being called behind her.
She made her way into the hallway, where a footman hesitated as she turned first towards the stairs to her room and then towards the front door, springing to open it for her as she chose the door.
She walked outside and then, her feet knowing her better than her mind, began to run, stumbling at first and then, grabbing at her skirts, faster and faster, every footstep painful, the gravel pressing against her kidskin slippers until at last she veered away from the path and onto the lawn, running and running until she came to the waterfall and the temple, falling to her knees to climb the steps, then rolling onto her back to stare up at the ceiling, at the spiralling shells, desperate for their soothing nature to bring her comfort.
But the swirling shells became the sea and her godfather’s choice of poem went round and around in her head, confusing and yet containing something within it she could not make out.
For whatsoever from one place doth fall,Is with the tide unto another brought:For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.
What did it mean? Something falling and coming to another place with the tide? But then it referred to something lost and to be able to find it, if one sought .
That something lost could be found if one would only seek it out.
Like her shells, of course, the way she sought them out, brought to her on the tides.
Perhaps he meant only to poetically refer to her love of shells in offering her a parure of pearls, which were found in shells.
Lord Barrington had always been poetic.
But there was something about the poem that seemed to refer to more than the shells…
There was little point dwelling on the poem.
Lord Barrington was dead and buried, his generous bequest would have been made long ago in a study with a dry old lawyer in attendance, the poem only intended as an extra flourish, a nod beyond the grave to Frances’ passion for shells.
He would have smiled to have found a suitable quotation, for he had prided himself on such things.
No, the pain was because there was nothing else.
There was the money.
There was the exquisite jewellery, for even Frances, who cared little for such things, could see its delicate shining beauty.
There was the poem, a kindly-meant last nod from her godfather.
But nothing from Laurence.
No letter.
No word.
Not even a verbal message from the lawyer to say that he would follow soon, or even the promise of a letter or visit as soon as his affairs were more settled.
Nothing.
Only the money and the jewellery, his uncle’s wishes carried out to the letter.
He would have listened to the will and heard her name and felt… what? Nothing? A sigh at the additional task that must be carried out to complete the terms of the will? A resentment at the generosity of the bequest to someone who was, after all, not even a blood relation? Or perhaps a twinge of guilt at the hastily made promise of marriage to help out a friend… no, only an acquaintance… later regretted.
Perhaps he had felt the smallest of twinges and then decided that such a generous sum of money, as well as the jewellery, would amply ease his guilt in the matter.
He had not meant it.
He had not really wanted to marry her.
That was the cold hard truth, and it was a truth Frances must face now.
The cold shiver that ran across her skin had nothing to do with the marble floor beneath her.
He had said yes out of gentlemanly politeness, perhaps even out of duty to his uncle, and then had regretted it, would have been relieved when Lord Barrington died that there were no witnesses to their pledge.
He was a viscount now, heir to not one but two estates, one of which had immediately become his.
A rich viscount who would only grow richer when his father died.
Plain Mr Mowatt, who had been a pleasant young man with excellent prospects, was now Viscount Barrington and the mamas of the ton would be falling over themselves for his attention.
He would be presented with an endless parade of young women, vastly better suited to the position of Viscountess Barrington than Frances.
Women who could converse with ease, who enjoyed social occasions and could arrange them.
Who would appear at parties on the Viscount’s arm, elegant and polished, who would dance without counting under their breath and not creep away mid-evening to a space under the stairs where they could be soothed by their odd collection of shells, sheltered from the chatter and lights and perfumes of the ballroom.
Slowly Frances sat up, cold humiliation seeping into every part of her.
So be it.
Laurence was gone.
She had lost him and, she thought bitterly, the poem was entirely wrong in this regard, for she had sought him out and believed herself saved and yet now he was lost to her after all.
So much for Lord Barrington and his fanciful notions.
So much for friendship.
She was alone, must face marriage to Lord Hosmer and a life she had so far evaded, a life she had thought herself clever enough to have escaped by calling on the only man of her acquaintance who might be in a position to save her.
She had risked her reputation, she had reached out to him and he had failed her.
She would not trust in him again, nor trust any man to rescue her.
She would not endure the humiliation of writing to him again, to be met with silence or an outright rejection of her claim that they were engaged.
Lord Barrington was gone and Mr Mowatt had taken his place but not honoured their agreement.
She was alone.
Only her godfather had stood by her. Even in death, he had given her an escape plan which she now intended to put into action.
Dinner that evening was silent, as Lord and Lady Lilley considered Frances’ behaviour dreadful and Frances was too busy thinking, but the next morning brought the unwelcome sight of Lord Hosmer, descending from his carriage.
“Would you like your best frock on?”
asked Deborah, trying to keep up appearances.
“No,”
said Frances. “My worst.”
“But Lord Hosmer is here…”
“Exactly. The brown.”
Deborah looked appalled. The brown cotton was a dress Lady Lilley would only countenance if Frances was going to play with the children outdoors. It was a plain dress in an ugly colour and did nothing for Frances’ looks, making her appear like one of the under maids rather than the daughter of the house. “Are you sure, Miss?”
“The brown,”
repeated Frances. “And no ringlets.”
All too soon a footman came to inform Frances that her parents had gone out for a walk in the gardens and that Lord Hosmer was waiting for her in the drawing room.
Frances took a deep breath and went downstairs, rehearsing her words carefully, so that there could be no doubt whatsoever of her meaning.
Lord Hosmer stood in the drawing room, his walking cane in hand, tapping it impatiently on the floor. At the sight of her, his grey brows folded into a deep frown.
“Is this the way you present yourself to your husband, girl? Devil take it, that is not how you will dress when we are married. You look like a maid, and a slovenly one at that. You’ll be dressed in silks when we marry, and wear the Hosmer jewels, or I’ll know the reason why. I expect a marchioness to look like a marchioness. I know your mother didn’t tell you to dress like that, for she turns herself out well enough. Done it to spite me, have you? Insolent girl.”
He gave a huff. “Well, no matter, I promised to take you in hand and I shall. You’ll not get away that easily.”
He waved a piece of paper at her. “Special licence. Your mother has been drivelling about a society wedding but I’m glad I said no, looking at the state of you. No. We’ll be married tomorrow morning in your chapel and that’ll be an end to this nonsense. We’ll travel to my home without stopping for a wedding breakfast. It’ll take us three days as it is. Your parents have gone for a walk in the gardens, no doubt to allow me to court you, but there’s no need for all of that sentimental claptrap.”
There was a rushing sound in her ears, a thumping beat in her chest, but Frances licked her dry lips and opened her mouth, the first of her planned words coming out as a whisper so that she had to start again. “There will be no…. There will be no wedding. I refuse to marry you, Lord Hosmer. I never gave my consent to begin with and I do not give it now. If you drag me before a clergyman I will protest that I am unwilling and I will not repeat the vows.”
She had said the words, had remembered them all, had stood her ground and now it was done.
Lord Hosmer’s face turned crimson with rage. “How dare you, you insolent slip of a girl? You will do your father’s bidding and mine and there will no more of this disobedience!”
Her legs were shaking under her but she stood her ground. “I will not marry you.”
He struck out at her with his cane, catching her in the knees. “I will teach you a lesson! You will obey me!”
She stood still, staring at his red face, hearing his angry breathing, her legs stinging from where he had struck her.
And then she lunged forward and snatched his cane from his hands.
Startled, he stepped back and half-lost his footing.
His cane came whistling down on his shoulder, hitting it with a solid thump and a cracking sound.
He cried out, then stared in amazement as Frances let go of the broken cane, turned and grabbed a vase full of flowers.
She tore out the elegant arrangement, throwing it to the floor, before dousing him in the face with the cold dirty water inside and then hurling the vase to the ground, where it smashed, splinters of glass scattering across the room.
“What is the meaning of this?”
he roared, but Frances hardly heard him, the rushing sound was all around her, she could not see anything but the piece of paper held in his hand, the dreaded document that would see her sworn to this man, and she wrested it from his hand and flung it into the fire, where it flickered for a moment before a quick flame rose and the special licence was gone, falling into ashes as they both stared at it.
Lord Hosmer turned to shout at her, but Frances was already screaming at him, stepping closer and closer until she was barely a hand’s breadth from him, standing on tiptoe to make herself taller.
“You are a monster! A vile beast with the manners of a guttersnipe, whose wives died because they couldn’t bear life with you – what makes you think I would ever – ever – be one of them? No woman in her right mind would marry you, no woman would want your stinking breath on her face and your clawing hands on her body! Get out of my sight. Get OUT!”
He reached out to grab at her shoulders but again she was too quick for him, putting both hands to his chest and shoving him backwards, then turning and running to the door where she looked back for one moment, taking in the sight of Lord Hosmer, soaked and red-faced, fallen back on the sofa near the ashes of the special licence in the grate, the carpet wet where he had stood, the floor scattered with shards of glass and crushed flowers.
Then she ran to her room and slammed the door behind her, clambering onto her bed, clawing at the covers.
She pulled them over herself entirely, covering her head so that she could shelter in the darkness.
From below she heard raised voices, then angry feet, a door slamming and the wheels of a carriage driving away.
Then a silence that lasted hours.
Her breathing slowed at last and her eyes closed as exhaustion claimed her.
It was dusk when Deborah crept into her room, after a tentative knock at the door which Frances had not answered.
“Are you alright, Miss?”
She crept out of the rumpled sheets. “Has he left?”
“Yes, Miss.”
Deborah closed the door behind her and hovered over Frances, her face anxious.
“Has he given up on the marriage?”
“Yes, Miss. He told your father he wouldn’t have a lunatic like you as a wife, that you’d taint his family line. Begging your pardon, Miss.”
Frances sat up in bed. “He said I was a lunatic?”
Deborah lowered her voice to a nervous whisper. “I heard him talking to your parents, Miss. He said that you were quite mad and should be locked away. He even gave the master the details of a Doctor Morrison and said he was a doctor who was experienced with lunatics and would take care of you somewhere private without any scandal to the Lilley family name. He said he’s sent a sister of his into Doctor Morrison’s care and she was much better for it.”
A chill ran down Frances’ arms. “They did not listen to him?”
Deborah looked uncertain. “Lord Lilley put the card in his pocket,”
she whispered. “Should I try to find and destroy it, so he don’t try to use it?”
It was like a fog, trying to think. Frances shook her head slowly. “I don’t want you to get into trouble,”
she said. “But I must speak with my parents before they think about what he said for too long. Thank you, Deborah.”
Deborah nodded, her face still anxious. “I did have hopes about that nice Mr Mowatt,”
she said. “He seemed gentlemanly, and you spent so much time together in Margate. I thought perhaps when he was made Lord Barrington –”
“Thank you, Deborah,”
interrupted Frances, unwilling to hear anything complimentary about Laurence Mowatt at this moment.
She made her way downstairs to the drawing room, which had been tidied, although a damp mark still indicated the area of carpet where Lord Hosmer had stood. She sent a footman to find her parents and when they came to the drawing room she sat opposite them, took a deep breath and said, “I need to speak with you both. It is about the money from my godfather.”