Chapter 8 #2
Francesca met his eyes. “I dare say I am not.” No, she was not entirely alone.
The phrase echoed in her thoughts with curious weight.
Major Manners’ warning lingered at the edge of her mind like distant thunder.
Do not confront him without confirmation.
She rose and crossed towards the window, allowing herself a moment to look out at the street while she gathered her composure.
Behind her, Kendall spoke with calm assurance. “I believe the coming months will prove significant for reform,” he said. “The atmosphere in London is changing. People are beginning to accept that action cannot be postponed indefinitely.”
Francesca turned back slowly. “Do you believe these salons will hasten that change?”
“I believe conversations influence decisions,” he said.
She studied him for another long moment, wondering if conversations would be enough.
Perhaps there was a simple explanation for everything.
Perhaps the discrepancies were nothing more than clerical misalignment or the overzealous adjustments of a bank clerk who had misunderstood a date.
She very much wanted that to be true. “Very well,” she said at last. “Tell me about this gathering tomorrow.”
Kendall’s faint smile returned, calm and confident, and he proceeded to expound on the corruption of the new King George and fume about the recent Six Acts to suppress reform which had been passed in Parliament.
Somewhere in the back of Francesca’s mind, despite her best efforts, Major Manners’ warning refused to fade.
The way Kendall spoke against the new King was dangerously close to treason, and she wondered just how far her friend would go to achieve his ideals.
She had never seen him in such a passion.
“I must consult my diary for the morrow, but be assured I shall apprise you if I am not otherwise engaged.”
Kendall inclined his head, accepting the rebuff as though it were nothing more than sensible caution, yet the energy that had animated him did not wholly subside.
It remained in the set of his shoulders, in the brightness of his gaze and in the very stillness with which he held himself—as if, in speaking of Parliament and suppression, he had touched something personal, some old grievance that had been waiting for permission to be named aloud. Francesca had never seen him thus.
“Of course,” he said lightly. “I would not have you commit yourself without due consideration. Only—” and here he softened his tone with practised care, the same care he used when writing to her of tenants and repairs, “—we need more who are in a position to act, Francesca. There are men who count upon the gentle inertia of caution.”
She felt the word ‘men’ settle upon her also, adding further weight.
“And there are gentlemen,” she returned, keeping her voice composed, “who would have me believe that every step must be taken at a run, simply because they are impatient with walking.”
A flicker of emotion—approval, amusement or perhaps something warmer—passed over his face.
“You did always prefer to think before you acted,” he said. “It is one of your more irritating virtues.”
She nearly smiled, and hated herself for how she doubted him. It would have been simpler had he been coarse, or grasping, or obviously unworthy; but Kendall was none of these. He had always been reasonable. He had always been comforting—until this morning.
“I am not refusing,” she said, because she wished him to understand that she was still herself, still mistress of her own judgement. “I am merely… cautious… and I do have engagements.”
He nodded once, as if he had expected no less. “Then permit me to be useful in a manner that will not offend your caution—or your social round.”
“How, pray, is that to be accomplished?” Francesca asked, for she could not resist the question.
Kendall’s glance moved—so briefly she might have imagined it—towards the cabinet where the ledgers were kept.
“You have concerns,” he said quietly, and she stiffened in spite of herself. “It is plain in your manner. You are not so easily disguised as you believe.”
“I have come to Town,” she replied, choosing her words with care, “and found that everyone believes himself entitled to notice my manner.”
“That is because you are worth noticing,” Kendall said promptly, then corrected himself with a faint clearing of his throat, as though he had spoken too warmly.
“You are important, Francesca, you must not forget it. Your position—your name—your fortune—these are not ornaments. They are instruments—and instruments, in the wrong hands, can become weapons.”
It was a startling thing to hear from him, and more startling still because it echoed, in its way, what Major Manners had implied. Francesca folded her hands, forcing them to stillness. “If you have come to warn me,” she said, “I have already been warned.”
His brows rose. “By whom?”
She hesitated. Before she could answer, there came a discreet knock at the door, followed by Nelly’s face.
“Lady Upton has arrived, miss.”
Francesca closed her eyes for a heartbeat.
It was precisely the sort of timing at which Lady Upton excelled: not so abrupt as to be rude, not so convenient as to appear accidental.
What could be more unexceptional than a visit in the morning—paid early enough to imply intimacy and late enough to be respectable?
Lady Upton did nothing without arranging the effect of it.
“Show her in,” Francesca told the maid, rising.
Kendall moved at once, as though to withdraw. “I shall not intrude.”
“It is hardly an intrusion,” Francesca began automatically—and then stopped, because she felt the danger of saying too much.
His expression softened. “You need not reassure me,” he said. “I understand what she represents.”
Do you? Francesca thought, watching him.
Lady Upton entered with the same effortless radiance she brought to drawing rooms and dining tables, as if she carried her own candlelight.
She wore a gown of pale blue, trimmed with the sort of lace that advertised expense without vulgarity, and she smiled upon Francesca with a benevolence that required no invitation.
“My dear Miss Vale,” she said, taking both of Francesca’s hands as if they were already family. “How are you this morning? I feared you must be overwhelmed—so many calls, so many engagements, so many eager faces. I thought you might be in want of an experienced duenna to advise you.”
Francesca managed the proper expression of gratitude. “You are very kind, Lady Upton.”
Lady Upton’s gaze fell upon Kendall. “I see you have company already,” she added, still smiling. “How delightful.”
Kendall bowed with professional ease. “Lady Upton. Allow me to introduce myself: Thomas Kendall.”
Lady Upton’s smile did not change, but something in her eyes did. Francesca saw assessment, calculation, and an interest sharpened by the fact that he was not a gentleman of her ladyship’s circle; and yet he stood in Francesca’s sitting-room as though he belonged there.
“Mr. Kendall,” she repeated in a manner that suggested she was tasting the name.
“I have the honour of assisting with Miss Vale’s estate affairs,” Kendall replied, precisely modest.
“A young lady alone must find it a comfort to have such… assistance,” Lady Upton murmured.
Francesca felt Kendall’s attention shift—not to Lady Upton, but to her, as if he sought her cue.
It was a small thing, almost nothing; yet in that instant she understood that Kendall had been practising this relationship for years: waiting upon her signals, taking his direction from her, placing himself where she required him.
It had once felt like devotion. Now—after Major Manners’ warning—it felt like something more complicated: the intimacy of access.
“Miss Vale and I were discussing a possible engagement for tomorrow, but she must consult her diary,” Kendall said smoothly.
“Ah,” Lady Upton said. “How wise. These diaries grow tyrannical in Town; and yet one must be tyrannical in return, otherwise Society devours one.”
Francesca wondered, not for the first time, whether Lady Upton devoured Society instead.
Lady Upton turned her full attention upon Francesca.
“I have come with something of a plan,” she announced, in the tone of a woman offering rescue.
“An at-home—not large or overwhelming. Only a small weekly gathering, to allow you to receive a few select people in a manner that is entirely proper and entirely within your control.”
“My control?” Francesca repeated, with a faint dryness she could not entirely conceal.
Lady Upton laughed as though Francesca had made a charming jest. “Yes, yes—your control. You must have some place in which to allow a few gentlemen of consequence to make your acquaintance in a less chaotic setting than a ballroom.” Her smile remained serenely maternal.
“I know you are still in mourning in spirit, if not in dress, but one cannot avoid being looked at, and it is better to be looked at by the right people.”
Kendall, standing near the door, remained perfectly still.
If he resented being excluded from the category of ‘the right people,’ he did not show it.
If he approved of Lady Upton’s strategy, he did not show that either.
His expression was calm—too calm, Francesca thought, for a man who had just finished speaking of reform with near-treasonous heat.
Lady Upton’s gaze warmed. “Mr. Fergus Harcourt has asked after you.”
“Mr. Harcourt?” she repeated cautiously.
“Yes,” Lady Upton said, as though she had just offered Francesca a particularly handsome ribbon.
“A most intelligent man, if somewhat of a mind for reform—” she said as though it were a mark against him.
“He speaks beautifully in the Commons. He has even made himself odious to certain gentlemen by expressing sympathy for—” she lowered her voice a fraction, “—female inheritance rights.”
“That is… uncommon,” Francesca said, because it was the only safe thing to say.
“Uncommon,” Lady Upton agreed, delighted, “and therefore notable. He is precisely the sort of gentleman you might enjoy speaking to. He does not merely praise a lady’s hair and sigh; he asks questions.
He listens. I have even heard him say—quite seriously—that women ought to have more say in how their estates are managed. ”
Francesca could not help the flare of interest that rose against her will. To be understood—to be treated as someone with a mind rather than a commodity—was a temptation more dangerous than any flirtation.
“Is he,” Francesca asked softly, “‘sincere’, however?”
Lady Upton’s smile deepened, as if she had been waiting for that question. “He is ambitious,” she said lightly, as though ambition were a virtue, “but ambition can be directed. It can be made useful. And, my dear, we are all obliged to be useful.”
Francesca felt her own thoughts fracture into uneasy paths.
Mr. Harcourt sounded… appealing. He sounded like the sort of gentleman she might once have admired from afar—safe enough to speak with, clever enough to understand her, and progressive enough to support her principles instead of dismissing them.
Lady Upton watched her with practised precision. “Lord Ashbourne has asked after you as well.”
Francesca’s head lifted. “I danced with him once.”
Lady Upton’s tone became ever so slightly more solemn, as though she were speaking of a responsibility rather than a gentleman. “He comes from old blood, has a considerable fortune and is perfectly respectable. He is the sort of gentleman of whom Sir Percival approves.”
Of course he was, Francesca thought crossly.
Kendall spoke then, as mild as ever, as though he offered help rather than interference. “If I may,” he said, “both gentlemen are worth hearing. A lady in your position need not choose quickly—or at all—but it is not unwise to know the temper of the gentlemen in your circle.”
Lady Upton looked at him again, and this time the smile she gave was approving.
“How sensible,” she said. “Mr. Kendall, you are a very… attentive man of business.”
Francesca felt heat rise at the words. It was true. It had always been true. It was precisely why her suspicion felt like treachery.
Kendall followed her glance this time—a quick, slight movement hardly visible and yet there. His eyes returned to her face at once, as if he had seen nothing.
Francesca felt her pulse quicken with guilt. Perhaps she was imagining it. Perhaps suspicion had made her vulgar. Perhaps Major Manners had planted a poison in her mind and she was now sprinkling it upon every harmless gesture… and yet…
Kendall had come to London unexpectedly.
“I must leave you to make arrangements. Please let me know about tomorrow,” Kendall added gently, as if returning them to a private thread Lady Upton could not touch.
Francesca met his gaze. “Yes, of course.” Then she prepared to endure an afternoon of callers.