Chapter 22
Frances
Frances woke up feeling disoriented. Her head felt thick, as though stuffed with cotton wool. The bed felt soft underneath her, and she stretched when a sudden peculiar feeling snuck up on her.
Her eyes blinked open.
The room was dim, curtains drawn against the morning light.
A fire crackled in the hearth, and in the chair beside her bed sat James, his clothes rumpled, his hair disheveled, his shoulders slumped.
He looked as though he had been through his own storm.
His face was drawn, haggard even, as though he had not slept.
“James,” she said, pulling the blanket up to her chin. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” His lips pressed together. “Watching over you. You could’ve died, you foolish, reckless girl.”
She wanted to be offended because she was not a girl, nor did she think she was foolish, but then she remembered. She had gotten stuck outside in a rainstorm. Really, a foolish thing to do.
Besides, he looked… worried, which was most peculiar.
“How long have you been sitting there?” she asked.
“All night,” he admitted. “I could not leave until I knew you would wake up.”
Slowly, the events of the previous day came back to her.
She had stumbled out of the woods when her little shelter was flooded.
The water had risen with alarming speed.
She had been weak, and her legs had ached.
Every step had been agony, her limbs leaden.
Water had run down the back of her dress most uncomfortably, and then, just as she thought she was going to pass out, she had seen him riding through the rain.
She hadn’t known it was James, of course. She had only thought that, finally, someone had come to save her. A guardian angel in the tempest.
She had awoken on the horse briefly to see his face, his jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, looking every inch the avenging angel. The relief in his eyes when he had found her—she remembered that, too. As though finding her had meant everything.
Then she had passed out.
“I am quite all right.” She sat up, acutely aware that she was in her nightdress, and then pulled the blanket up to her chest.
“You could’ve died.” His voice was stern, but his eyes betrayed his worry for her. A tenderness she had not expected to see.
“But I didn’t. I am quite well. Not even a sniffle.”
“You may still develop a sniffle later,” he argued.
“Perhaps, but I feel very well. Famished, in fact. I could eat a horse, truly.”
He nodded and got up from the chair. “I will have breakfast sent up here.”
“You really do not have to,” she said.
He shrugged. “Very well then, I shall not. If you are determined to be contrary.”
She let out a disgruntled sigh. Must he be so vexing?
He looked at her, head tilted to the side. “What is it?”
“You,” she replied. “You. You are so… Why are you like this? I know you’re not always like this. So withdrawn, so quiet, acting as if I am nothing but a nuisance and you would rather I leave you alone.”
“This is how I am,” he said. “I have always been like this.”
“That’s not true. The time we were in London, you were infuriating and hard-headed, and you set my bristles up at every turn.
But you talked, you debated. You were alive, engaged.
Now you are a ghost haunting these halls.
Now you are silent. And I know it is because of me, because when Gideon was here, you were not like this.
Your silence is a prison. A tomb. Worse than when I was living with my father. ”
“Oh,” he said, “so your life really is as miserable as your mother’s was.”
She slammed her palm onto the bed, but since her duvet was very soft and filled with feathers, it did not have the desired effect. A most ineffectual display of temper.
“My mother was miserable because she loved my father and he did not love her back. My misery comes from you being so withdrawn and quiet, and I do not understand it. What have I done to you?”
“Nothing,” he said. “You have done nothing to me. And I do beg your pardon. Truly. Most sincerely. I should’ve treated you better. I will do better henceforth.”
She was taken aback. She had expected defensiveness, not contrition. She hadn’t expected this.
“You will?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I do not want you taking off into the woods on your own because you are driven by loneliness or despair because of my actions. You are my wife. I beg your pardon. But please do not go out into the woods like this alone again without telling anybody. I was worried. Morrison was worried. Mr. Sweeting nearly had an apoplexy. The poor man was beside himself.”
“He was?” she gasped, touched that people cared. She had not realized how much she had come to matter to them.
“Yes. You have wormed your way into the hearts of many in your short time here. You have endeared yourself to them all.”
Frances paused. She wanted to ask if she had wormed her way into his heart, but knew that it was silly. He would think her foolish, sentimental.
Still, she couldn’t deny it—when he had lifted her onto his horse yesterday and held her, she had felt something inside her. A sense of safety and peace she hadn’t felt in so long. She had felt cared for. Cherished even, if she dared think it. And oddly, she still felt cared for now.
“I took the liberty of having the cook make you plum cake,” he added, surprising her further. Such thoughtfulness from him was unexpected. “With vanilla.”
“That is my—”
“Your favorite, I know. You mentioned it once while we were both staying with my godmother.”
“And you remembered?” She could scarcely believe it.
He shrugged. “I might be haughty and aloof, and all manner of other things you have called me, but I do care. More than I ought, perhaps.”
She stared at him, speechless.
“Rest now,” he said, his voice gentler than she had ever heard it. “We shall talk more when you are feeling better.”
With that, he gave her a curt nod—ever the reserved Duke, even in his moments of softness—and made his way out of the room.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, and Frances released a breath she hadn’t known she had been holding. Her heart was racing, her thoughts a jumble.
James cared. He had said it. He cared.
But what did that mean? And more frightening still, what did she want it to mean?
She sat back, her feelings an utter tempest. A maelstrom of confusion and hope and something she dared not name.
He was so unreadable, her husband. He cared. He clearly did care, and she had always known this. But at the same time, he was so distant.
What was it with him? She simply could not understand. And yet as she sat there, her hands clutching the duvet, she couldn’t help but feel as though something between them had shifted. The ice between them was thawing, inch by inch.
Frances finished off the plum cake and licked her lips. It had been delicious. Perfectly spiced, with just the right amount of sweetness.
How thoughtful of him…
“Would you like another slice?” Lizette asked.
Frances shook her head. “No, I am quite full. Perhaps later. But help yourself to some.”
“I do not care for it, but thank you.” Lizette smiled. “It was very kind of His Grace to make the special request.”
“It was,” Frances agreed.
The maid paused. “He was dreadfully worried about you, you know. Beside himself, truly. I haven’t seen him in such a state before. But some of the servants who have been here longer said that he hadn’t been in such a state since his brother died.”
“They speak of nothing else below stairs. How His Grace rode through the storm like a man possessed. How he carried you in, soaked to the bone himself, and would not leave your side.”
Frances nodded. She understood how deeply this had affected James by now, although she wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“He cares for you,” Lizette continued. “He genuinely does. Any fool could see it, begging Your Grace’s pardon.”
Frances smiled. “I care for him, too.”
Suddenly, an idea came to her. A way to show her gratitude. She should do something nice for him as he had done for her, and she knew just how.
“Pray, the paintings that were sent away for restoration, have they been brought back yet?”
“They have, Your Grace. They are in a room downstairs.”
“May I see them?”
“Of course,” Lizette said.
Together, the two of them made their way downstairs to one of the storage rooms. Sure enough, a number of paintings were lined up against the wall, ready to be rehung. Frances examined them and smiled.
“Would you tell the footmen to hang them, please? I am sure His Grace would like to see them again.”
She was confident it would be a nice surprise for James. He really hadn’t had time to tend to such things, and she knew he would enjoy not having empty spaces on the walls, seeing how he liked everything to be orderly. He could not abide disorder of any kind.
But that wasn’t quite enough. She needed something else, a special surprise.
“What are these?” she asked, pointing to a few other paintings leaning against the wall.
“Those paintings used to hang around the house. His Grace said that he was thinking of where to put them, but he hasn’t decided yet.”
Frances stepped over to the paintings and slowly removed the covers.
They were of other ancestors, so she did not know who they were.
Then she came across one she recognized: a man and two young boys standing side by side in front of the fireplace in the parlor.
A handsome trio, caught in a moment of harmony.
“How young they look,” she murmured. “How innocent. Before the world taught them cruelty.” She pointed to the boy on the right. “This is His Grace.”
Lizette nodded. “It is. And that is his brother, Marcus. And of course, their father.”
“I wonder why this is not hung anywhere. I am sure His Grace would like to see a portrait of his brother. I know he was not terribly close to his father, but he and his brother were close. As close as brothers could be, by all accounts.”
“Indeed, they were. Perhaps it could be hung in the entrance hall. There is a spot right above the fireplace where it would suit.”
“I think that is a perfect idea.” Frances nodded. “Please see to it that the footmen hang it today. I wish to surprise him.”
She smiled. This should make James happy. Surely he would not mind that his father was in the painting, for it contained his brother.
This was something she could do for him. Take the burden of hanging the paintings off his shoulders.
And perhaps the reminder of his younger days, when his beloved brother still lived, would soften him. Remind him of happier days, before tragedy struck.