Chapter 31
James
James returned to an empty house.
Technically, it wasn’t empty. All his servants still bustled about, as it was early in the day, and it wasn’t as though the furniture had gone missing. But it felt empty. Hollow. As though something vital had been carved out of it.
He stood in the entrance hall and looked around. Everything was in its place. The marble floors gleamed. The sconces were polished. The paintings hung perfectly straight on the walls. Franklin had already taken his hat and gloves, had already murmured something about preparing tea.
But it felt wrong.
It wasn’t just that Frances was gone. She hadn’t been here for days, after all. No, it was something else. Something deeper. Something much more profound.
The future that could have been… that was what was gone.
These last few days, even when he had convinced himself that it was best for him to be alone, that he had done what was best for Frances as well, there had always been the possibility that he could change his mind.
In the back of his mind, he had thought that if he ever decided he had been wrong, he could go to her and she would forgive him. That she would love him.
He had been so certain of it. So confident. And now that possibility was gone too.
He made his way to his study and fell into the chair by the fire. The chair where he had sat the night Aunt Eugenia had come to scold him. Where he had poured whiskey after whiskey and convinced himself he was doing the right thing.
What a fool I have been. What a wretched fool.
This was his worst fear. This was one of the things he had been so afraid of—losing Frances.
Yes, he had dreaded that she might die the way that his brother had. But there had been that other fear, too. The one he had never quite admitted to himself.
That she would simply stop loving him.
For if he were being honest with himself, that was what he had been worried about. That was what had always hurt him the most. Because he did remember that when he was a little boy, his father had loved him. He had carried him around on his shoulders.
Or was that his imagination? Sometimes he couldn’t be sure if what he remembered was reality or not.
But he did remember the change. The slow withdrawal of affection. The coldness that crept in.
And he had been terrified that Frances would do the same. That one day, she would wake up and realize he wasn’t worth loving. That he was broken and damaged and too much work.
So he had left her first.
And in doing so, he had made his worst fear come true.
“Your Grace,” Franklin said, entering the room.
“Not now. I am not in the mood.”
“Very well,” he said, but made no move to leave. “So it did not go well?”
James shrugged. “I went thinking I was going to save Frances from her father, but I did very little. She saved herself.”
“She has always been a very self-sufficient lady.”
“Indeed. More so than I thought possible.” He rubbed his face. “Oh, Franklin, I have been a fool. A complete and utter fool.”
Franklin raised his eyebrows, his whole posture reeking of agreement with the assessment.
“I asked her for another chance. Asked her to come back to me. And she said no.”
“Did she?” Franklin hummed. “That does surprise me. I was certain that she loves you.”
“Perhaps she does, but she says she’s not a plaything to be picked up whenever it suits my fancy.”
“That I can understand. But Your Grace, you’re not telling me you’re giving up, are you?”
“What can I do?” James asked. “She has made it quite clear that she is not interested in any reconciliation.”
“She didn’t say that, did she? She said she could not see you. That is what you just told me.”
“Yes,” he said, drawing out the word.
Franklin took a deep breath. “Your Grace, you are not typically one to give up so easily. You entered a sham marriage to solve your problem with Somerset Trust. Don’t you think that perhaps you could think of something that would soften her heart?”
“Like a gesture?” James asked.
“She does not strike me as the sort who puts much stock into grand gestures.”
James rubbed his chin. “What then?”
Franklin sighed. “Your Grace, it is not as though you are entirely unfamiliar with the world of women.”
“Not when it comes to romantic affiliations,” James protested. “I have known women, of course. I do meet women along the way. However, this is a different matter.”
“Right,” Franklin said. “Thus far, your relationship with Her Grace has been practical in nature. Nothing romantic about it. Don’t you think that she might be more inclined to reconciliation if you show her some romance?”
“Romance.” James got out of his chair. His mind was racing. “I ought to woo her. Ladies enjoy being wooed, do they not?”
Franklin chuckled. “I am told that they do.”
“Do not be coy with me, man. I have seen you more than once sneaking a young lady through the back stairs.”
“Very well,” Franklin relented. “Yes, they do enjoy it. What do you have in mind?”
James paced up and down, suddenly invigorated. He was going to win Frances back. He wasn’t going to let her go without a fight. He had spent two weeks building walls between them, and he was going to tear them down, brick by brick.
“Flowers,” he said. “Go to the florist and have flowers sent to her—to my godmother’s house, rather—every single day at breakfast. Along with a card. I will write the card myself.”
“What type of flowers, Your Grace?”
He thought for a moment. Had Frances ever told him about her favorite flowers? He wasn’t sure. Yet he had seen her admiring the flower fields on their drive to Somerset. She had leaned out of the carriage window, practically glowing with delight.
“Daffodils,” he said. “Cornflowers, poppies, daisies. The sort that grows in the fields in Somerset. Nothing formal. I want them to look like she could have picked them herself on a summer walk.”
“An excellent choice, Your Grace.”
“And hot cross buns. She loves hot cross buns. Have some sent to her for breakfast along with the flowers every morning.”
“We are not in the hot cross bun season anymore, Your Grace. It is not Easter.”
“I employ a cook, do I not?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And she is capable of making hot cross buns even when it is not Easter, correct?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Franklin said with a smile. “I will speak to the cook.”
“Good. Tomorrow, I will go to the bookstore. I will buy books on things that she enjoys. She has told me that she wishes to learn how to play the pianoforte. I will find her books on the history of the pianoforte. And I will—” James stopped and snapped his fingers.
“I have an idea. It would perhaps fall into the category of grand gestures, but I think she will like it.”
He continued making his plan until it was dinner time. He thought of everything she had ever mentioned liking or having an interest in, and arranged for surprises based on her likes and dislikes.
By the time he went to bed, he felt much better. Everyone was right—his godmother, Franklin, Gideon, and most of all, Frances. He had to leave his father behind. He could not keep letting his father’s voice scream into his ear for all eternity, ruining everything he held dear.
Tomorrow, he would start making things right.