Chapter 24
Frances
“… a
nd then he simply walked away,” Frances finished.
A few days later, she found herself at Marianne’s ball.
Charlotte shook her head. “Men. Insufferable creatures. Maddening, the lot of them. One minute they dance with you, one minute they pay you all the attention in the world and act as though you are the best thing that has ever happened to them, the next they leave you standing alone, feeling foolish for having kissed them.”
“And I felt like a fool, indeed,” Frances huffed. “Like some silly miss fresh out of the schoolroom. I should’ve waited. I should’ve waited for him to kiss me.”
“Oh, you may have waited for an eternity. These men do not know what they want,” Evelyn said, shaking her head. “Nathaniel was the same. Back and forth, back and forth. I grew quite vexed. Ready to box his ears, truly.”
“But what did you do in the end?” Frances asked. “For I am at my wits’ end. I do not know what to do or say or how to act. He has me quite at sixes and sevens.”
“How has he acted the last few days?” Marianne asked.
Frances pressed her lips together, trying to put into words her recent interactions with her husband.
“He has been kinder. Less abrupt. Less withdrawn. We dine together, and we converse about the estate, about books, about new laws, but not about what he revealed to me. We maintain decorum, but there is a… distance still.”
“What exactly was it that he revealed to you?” Charlotte asked. “You did not say.”
Frances paused. Indeed, she hadn’t shared what James had revealed to her.
She hadn’t wanted to betray his trust in such a way.
He had opened up to her and told her the truth of what had happened with his father and brother, but her cousins didn’t know, her aunt didn’t know, and she didn’t think anybody should be told—not by her.
If he chose to come forth with the truth, that was up to him, but she could not reveal what she had learned.
“It was something about his childhood,” she said.
She had recounted a very vague version of what had happened, saying that they had quarreled and that he had finally revealed some things about himself she hadn’t known.
“About his childhood?” Evelyn echoed. “About his father being horrible? We already knew that.”
“Yes,” Frances said. “About that and about other things.”
“It is not her place to tell us what he confided in her,” Marianne chastised her sisters. “Your husbands would not want you to share their deepest darkest secrets with us, only to have you gossip like fishwives.”
“I have told you everything that Nathaniel has ever said to me,” Evelyn said. “And I have no doubt he shares what I tell him with his friends.”
“I haven’t,” Charlotte piped up.
“Neither have I,” Marianne said.
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “You haven’t told Judith? She’s your dearest friend. Your most particular friend, your bosom companion. I can understand you not telling us things that Lucien confides in you, but not telling Judith?”
Marianne looked down at her shoes.
Frances smiled. She had heard about Judith, whom Marianne had met during her time at the convent. She lived elsewhere now, but the two corresponded regularly. Judging by Marianne’s expression, she did confide in Judith about many things she wouldn’t share with her sisters.
“In any case,” Charlotte continued, “whatever it is that he told you, it must’ve been significant, for something changed in you. It has marked you.”
“No, it hasn’t,” Frances said, although that wasn’t quite true.
James’s revelation had softened her even further toward him. She had already felt drawn to him, closer to him for some time, even though he had vexed her, but she had seen a side of him she had never expected. So vulnerable, so broken.
“Do you love him?” Evelyn asked.
Frances looked up. “Love? I do not know. I…”
Did she love him? She loved that he was passionate when he wanted to be. She loved his sharp wit, and she admired his kindness to his servants. But he was so withdrawn. Did she even know him?
Yet, on the other hand, she had kissed him. She had wanted to kiss him. And the truth was, she wanted to kiss him again.
“How does one know if one is in love? Is there a sign? Some unmistakable feeling?”
The three sisters chuckled.
“Your stomach will be full of butterflies,” Charlotte explained. “A most peculiar fluttering sensation.”
“You will think of him at random hours, whether you want to or not,” Marianne chimed in.
“He will vex you to the tenth degree, drive you to distraction, and yet your body will still seek him out. You will constantly want to be in his presence, even if you tell yourself that you don’t want to,” Charlotte said.
“You may find yourself dreaming about him,” Marianne added. “In ways that would make you blush to speak of them.”
“Yes,” Evelyn concurred, “and sometimes in ways that are most shocking.”
Charlotte chuckled and nodded her head. “Indeed. And by the way, your face is turning red. Red as a peony, you are. I can see that most of this has already happened to you.”
“Do you dream of him?” Evelyn asked slyly.
“I—That is—” Frances stammered.
“She does!” Evelyn crowed. “Look at her face!”
“Hush,” Marianne said, laughing. “You’ll embarrass the poor girl to death.”
Frances looked down.
It was true. Just last night, she had dreamt about James, about how he had come to her and lay beside her. They hadn’t done anything, hadn’t even kissed, but he had held her, and it had been so beautiful and so perfect. A most improper dream, and yet so sweet.
Maybe she was in love with him. Maybe this was how being in love felt?
“Regardless…” Marianne pointed her chin toward the door, where James had just appeared. He had stopped to visit Aunt Eugenia on the way here, while Frances had come immediately to meet up with her cousins.
Now he made his way toward them.
“Your Grace,” her cousins greeted in unison, curtseying.
“Ladies,” he replied with a bow. Then his eyes found Frances. “You look lovely this evening.”
She felt a blush creep up her neck. “Thank you.”
Her cousins then turned around and scurried away.
“They did not have to leave on my account,” James said.
“I do not think they left on your account. They left to find their husbands. The first dance of the night will start in a minute.”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Do you wish to dance? If you would do me the honor.”
She looked at him, her eyes wide. He was asking her to dance?
Frances hadn’t been sure how the evening was going to unfold. She assumed that she would spend most of the time with her cousins, and he would spend time with their husbands or with whoever else he knew here.
“I suppose,” she replied.
He offered his hand, and she took it. They made their way toward the lineup, her cousins and their husbands glancing at them with smiles.
She turned her head away because she knew if she looked at her cousins any longer, she was going to blush again at the memory of what they had just discussed.
“Well,” James asked, “are you glad to be back in London?”
“I am, although I have to say I do miss the country. I’ve grown accustomed to speaking to our tenants every day.”
He smiled when she said our tenants. “You claimed them as ours. That pleases me more than you know.”
“Good. But you must be glad not to be there. I suppose being there dredges up many bad memories.”
He opened his mouth to reply when the master of ceremonies banged his staff on the dance floor and announced the minuet. The stately minuet, all grace and precision.
They streamed onto the dance floor along with the other couples, and the music started. James held tightly onto her as they fell into step, and she thought that perhaps he was not going to answer her question at all. But then, to her surprise, he looked at her.
“It is a relief to be here, I must say. Memories do haunt me at our country home more so than here. Like specters in every corridor. It is one of the reasons I have avoided it, but our previous steward was not exactly the sort who shared my philosophy when it comes to the tenants. So I have to be there to ensure that Mr. Morrison is up to snuff.”
“So you would prefer to spend more time here in London?”
He shrugged. “I used to love the country. Marcus and I used to ride out together all the time. My mother adored it there. I have many happy memories of the place, but also many awful ones because of my father.”
“I understand,” she murmured. “I feel the same about the Langley estate back in Bedfordshire. When I was very young, my mother used to take me on walks, and we used to make flower crowns.” She smiled.
“Well, I think that’s what we did. I often have false memories.
My memories consist more of fragments that I can remember and pieces of the story that were filled in by her friends who live nearby and our neighbors. ”
“So, do you miss it?”
“I am uncertain. My mother’s grave is there, and I used to visit it every single day. I would sit by it and have conversations with her, and I miss that. But I still converse with her now.”
James smiled. “As I do with my mother. And my grandfather. The conversations I have with them are in my head and in my heart, and I think it does not have to be tied to one place.”
“Do you converse with your brother also?” Frances asked, hoping that she was not pushing too far.
James’s hand tightened slightly around hers, and he gulped. “No. There are many things I wish to say to him, but that would entail thinking about that night, and as you have come to learn, I do not like to. It is too much.”
“Perhaps you would find relief from it,” she said.
He shrugged. “I do not know. Perhaps. It has always been easier for me not to think about it. To ignore it. To control my temper so I do not lose control.”
She frowned. “You did not lose control. Why would you think that?”
He lowered his voice. “It is what my father told me afterward. After Marcus…”