Chapter 9
Frances
The following Wednesday, Frances found herself in yet another new gown. This one actually belonged to her—a gift from Aunt Eugenia, who had insisted that a young lady needed proper attire for Almack’s.
The pale blue silk shimmered in the candlelight, with delicate white embroidery along the hem and sleeves. It was far finer than anything she had ever owned in Bedfordshire.
Marianne sat on the bed, admiring her. “You look wonderful. You are going to catch every eye in the room.”
“What fustian!” Frances said, though she couldn’t help but smooth her hands over the silk. “I keep telling Aunt Eugenia that nobody wants a woman without a dowry. A woman from the country, nonetheless. It’s ridiculous to think anything else.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Marianne said, rising to adjust a curl that had escaped from Frances’s elaborate coiffure. “You are beautiful, and you are from the Langley family. That counts for more than you realize.”
Frances frowned, catching her cousin’s reflection in the mirror. “I was under the impression that the Langley name was not worth much these days.”
Marianne looked down at her shoes, a flush creeping up her neck.
“That is true, because of my father. But thanks to my husband and my sisters’ husbands, some of that lost respect has been restored.
Plus, everybody knows that you are our cousin.
To be connected to three high-ranking gentlemen? You will find a husband easily.”
Frances wasn’t sure if she wanted a husband who only wanted her because of her connections, but she was beginning to understand that was how Society worked. Marriage in London seemed to be more about alliances and connections than affection.
“I suppose,” she said with a sigh. “What a trial this ball will be. I only wish I didn’t have to dance with James.”
She had come to use his first name these last few days. Which was odd, because just as she’d begun to warm up to him, he’d returned to his unpleasant ways.
Ever since their adventure at the theatre and the escape afterward, she had been a little less hostile toward him.
Although just as she softened, he had reverted to his formerly Friday-faced ways, barely even looking at her.
It was as though the connection they had briefly shared during that frightening night had never existed.
“What is it? You suddenly look vexed,” Marianne noted, studying her face carefully. “What has he done?”
Frances looked up, meeting her cousin’s concerned gaze.
“Nothing. Just acting like himself, that is all. This morning, I walked into the breakfast room, and he was already there, but he barely said two sentences to me. I might as well have been invisible. He looked up from his newspaper, acknowledged my presence with a nod, and then returned to his reading as though I weren’t even there. ”
“That is very odd, because the two of you were talking as though you had quite a lot in common. I thought perhaps…” Marianne trailed off with a knowing look.
“I think perhaps he remembered that he looks down on people like me.”
“That doesn’t sound like James,” Marianne protested. “He has always been the sort who cares about the common folk who depend on him. Why, I’ve heard stories of how generous he is with his tenants, how he ensures that they have proper housing and charges fair rents.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t actually know them,” Frances argued.
She thought back to the words he had spoken the first night she had met him. So condescending. So aloof. And the way he had looked at her when he saw her teaching Clara how to read and write, as though such charitable work was beneath notice. Or worse, a curiosity.
And he had voted for the Corn Bill, hadn’t he? She couldn’t quite recall if he had actually said so, but the way he had spoken about it, it certainly sounded like he had.
“Well, he quite played the hero, didn’t he, when he saved you from the mob?”
“I think we may have made a mountain of a molehill,” Frances said, though even as she spoke the words, she knew they weren’t entirely true.
“I mean, yes, there was danger. If they had found out who he was and if he voted for the bill, then I am certain there would’ve been something to be afraid of. ” She shook her head.
She wasn’t sure why she was downplaying the danger, because she had been terrified. Perhaps it was because she didn’t want to admit that she thought him a hero. That would complicate things far too much.
“Well, it could’ve been a lot worse. At least you weren’t hurt in that shooting like that poor boy.”
“Boy? Someone was shot?” Frances asked, her hands stilling on her skirt.
Marianne stared at her. “You haven’t heard yet? Apparently, somebody fired a shot, and it hit this innocent boy who was just walking past. He was killed on the spot.”
“Goodness!” Frances’s hand flew to her throat. “Someone was killed?” Her knees shook, and she sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the fine silk of her gown sighing beneath her.
Marianne placed a hand on her shoulder. “I beg your pardon, I thought you already knew, since you were there. There are all manner of stories swirling, but yes, a boy was killed. It was in the newspaper this morning. The Times had published a whole article about it.”
“Upon my word!”
Frances’s mind flashed back to that evening, and she thought of the young man who had walked past them. The one James had tried to warn, who appeared unconcerned and continued on his way regardless. Had he been the one who was shot?
The thought made her stomach turn.
“I will be so glad when Lucien is back,” Marianne said, her voice softer now. “I always feel safer when he’s here. Not that he can do anything to protect me from a mob, but I feel safer, and that matters.”
“Yes,” Frances said. “Indeed.”
But she was hardly listening. She felt as though her head was stuffed with cotton wool. Nothing made sense.
Someone had died that night. A young man. It could’ve been her or James. Had he withdrawn because he found out what happened? Was he haunted by the same images she was?
“Frances,” Marianne said. “We must go. The patronesses are very strict about punctuality.”
Frances stood up, but she could barely feel her feet. She was quite cut up over the news and shaken to the core.
A man had been shot just for walking on the sidewalk. How could that be? Were such things a common occurrence in the city?
These kinds of things didn’t happen back home, at least not that she knew of. Bedfordshire seemed so far away now, so peaceful and safe compared to London’s chaos.
She followed her cousin downstairs, where Aunt Eugenia was already waiting with James. He was dressed in his skin-tight pantaloons again and a garish canary yellow waistcoat that would surely make him stand out in the crowd.
“Don’t you both look lovely,” Aunt Eugenia complimented, beaming at them. “Marianne, if you were not already married, you would certainly find a husband tonight.”
“Don’t let Lucien hear that,” Marianne replied with a laugh. “But I hope we will find one for Frances. There are bound to be several eligible bachelors in attendance.”
Frances looked up at James. Their eyes met for a moment. He nodded briefly, but then turned away, as though even looking at her required too much effort.
“Shall we?” Marianne prompted, and the three of them made their way out and into the waiting carriage.
The drive to Almack’s was odd. James sat across from them, staring out the window into the dark London streets. He did not speak much, only politely replying to Marianne’s inquiries now and then.
They arrived on time and made their way inside, joining the queue of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen waiting to present their vouchers.
“You have never been to Almack’s before, have you?” Marianne asked as they climbed the steps.
“No,” Frances replied, trying not to gawk at the impressive entrance. “But I have heard tales. Supposedly, one high-ranking gentleman arrived late and was not allowed in.”
“Yes,” Marianne confirmed, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“It was quite memorable. It was the Duke of Wellington himself. He was outside, demanding that the patronesses let him in, but they refused to listen. The doors close at eleven o’clock sharp, and not even the hero of Waterloo is exempt from that rule. ”
“What a dust that must have kicked up!” Frances said, imagining the scene.
“Oh, indeed, it did,” Marianne agreed with a smile. “People talked about it for weeks. Some said he should have been admitted, given his service to the country. Others said the rules must apply to everyone, or else they would mean nothing.”
“Served him right. He was always a pompous man,” James muttered, speaking for the first time that evening.
“You know him, then?” Frances asked, surprised.
“Why? Because he is pompous and I ought to be familiar with every pompous man in London?” His tone was light, but his eyes remained hard.
Frances had said nothing of the kind to him since the evening they had gone to the theatre. She had thought that they had moved past their initial dislike for one another and were at least going to be civil, but it seemed she had been wrong.
Marianne showed their vouchers to the patronesses, who fawned over James, but he merely remained polite.
Frances followed them inside, her eyes drinking in her new surroundings.
The assembly rooms were surprisingly plain for such an exclusive establishment.
The main ballroom was a long, rectangular space with cream-colored walls.
Along the walls, mirrors reflected the dancers, making the room appear larger than it was.
“Don’t eat those.” James pointed at the refreshments table. “You’ll be trying to remove crumbs from between your teeth for days.”
“I shall stick to the lemonade then,” she replied.
“I would not recommend that either,” Marianne said with a chuckle.
“Why not?” Frances asked, confused.
Marianne and James exchanged a smirk.