Chapter 32
Frances
“Hot cross buns again?” Marianne asked the following Sunday as she joined them for breakfast.
“Yes, he has sent them every single day for the last week, along with an assortment of wildflowers,” Aunt Eugenia said as she stirred her tea.
“And what is this?” Marianne asked, pointing at a wrapped item sitting beside Frances’s plate.
“It came with the hot cross buns and the flowers this morning,” Frances replied. “I have not looked at it yet.”
“Why not? If a gentleman gives you a gift, you want to at least see what it is,” Marianne urged.
“I do not want to see his gifts. I never asked him for anything other than to treat me with respect. That is what I wanted from him. Not hot cross buns, or flowers, or gifts.”
Marianne and Aunt Eugenia looked at one another for a moment.
“What?” Frances prompted.
“Don’t you think that perhaps this is his way of showing you that he has changed?” Aunt Eugenia suggested gently.
“How can I believe that, when he’s warm one moment and cold the next?” Frances scoffed. “How can I believe that he has truly changed this time?”
Marianne smiled. “I know something of gentlemen whose tempers shift with the hour, who will shower you with affection one day and be cold the next. Lucien was just the same. It took almost losing me for him to understand that love deserves a chance.”
“James is not Lucien,” Frances pointed out, staring down into her teacup.
“No, but that doesn’t mean he is beyond redemption,” Marianne said.
“If anything, you could say that the two of them are very much alike. Lucien was the way he was because he married a woman he thought he loved, but who did not love him. She was unfaithful to him and then took off in the middle of the night in a carriage that crashed. He continued to blame himself for years afterward, vowing never to marry again because he thought that any woman he loved would meet the same fate.”
Frances swallowed hard. That sounded very familiar. Although James was not worried about a woman being unfaithful to him, they both had the same fear—losing someone they loved because of their own actions.
“Why is it,” she asked, “that gentlemen must carry burdens that are not theirs to carry? It is infuriating.”
“Indeed, it is,” Aunt Eugenia agreed. “It seems to be something that afflicts a great many men. I was fortunate that my Frederick never did, but I have seen it many times throughout my life.”
“I understand why you are angry, Frances,” Marianne said, “and you have every right to be. But if James has truly changed, perhaps you should give him another chance. He has never declared himself in such a way.”
“Gideon and I scolded him most severely for his foolishness,” Aunt Eugenia added.
“The moment I told him that your father was coming, he declared that he wished to protect you. Do not say you do not need his protection. We live in the real world, and as proud as I am of you for standing up to your father, you can never be sure that he will not try some scheme or other inspired by his wife. And in this world, unfortunately, we do require protection, and there is only so much I can do.”
“That is true.” Marianne nodded. “But that is not why you should give him another chance. You should give him a chance only because you truly wish to, because you truly love him. Which I think you do.”
Frances shrugged and turned the hot cross bun she had picked up earlier on her plate. Her fingers dug into the soft edges as she turned it repeatedly.
There was something so soothing about the motion. It kept her hands busy, allowing her mind to wander.
She did love James. She had loved him for some time now. And he had proved before that he cared. He had rescued her from a rainstorm, after all. He had sat with her all night when she was ill. He had stood up for her before.
She cringed as she remembered the time she had spoken to her father and had declared that she was going to be as miserable as her mother, thanks to him. For a man who feared losing those he loved, those words must have been devastating.
But James had understood once she explained, hadn’t he? And who was she to judge someone for how they reacted to such terrible devastation in their lives?
Yet there was that pain. That horrible pain that had cut so very deep into her soul when he had told her that he did not want to see her, that he wanted to annul the marriage. She didn’t know if she could ever get past that.
To distract herself, she opened the gift he had sent.
He had sent an assortment of gifts every day, along with the hot cross buns and flowers.
Theatre tickets one day. A stack of magazines discussing architecture the next, because she had once mentioned in passing that such things interested her.
Yesterday, he had sent an entire plum cake.
As she unwrapped the brown paper, she found a stack of newspapers—the Times, the Morning Post, the Gazette—all recent editions. On top was a note in his familiar handwriting.
Frances,
I know that you do not wish to talk to me or see me, but I know your mind, and it is ever keen.
And I figured if you do not wish to see me in order to have lively debates with me about all manner of things, perhaps these newspapers will keep your mind occupied.
And I hope that you do not mind, but I have written a few of my opinions within the margins and attached notes to various articles that I thought might interest you.
Yours always,
James.
She laughed. The first time she had really laughed since that awful day.
“What is it?” Marianne asked, confused.
“It is a stack of newspapers. And he has written his own opinions on the pages, with notes attached to various articles.”
“You should read them,” Aunt Eugenia urged. “It might remind you of when you first met, when you would debate with one another.”
“Perhaps,” Frances murmured.
Although she also understood that by allowing James back into her life, even in a small way, it might open the door to something she wasn’t ready for.
That afternoon, she sat in her chamber by the window and read. James hadn’t written too many messages, but there were several. And she read them all eagerly, hungrily even.
She found that in most cases, they agreed. And even in the ones where they didn’t, he had made good arguments. It reminded her of the first time they had quarreled, back when they barely knew one another.
She could almost hear his voice as she read his words.
On the matter of the window tax, he had attached a note that read:
Is it not most ridiculous that most gentlemen would rather brick up a window to save a few shillings rather than consider keeping, perhaps, one less carriage that is entirely unnecessary?
And have you noticed that it is usually the servants’ windows that are bricked up? It is a crime. I am positive of it.
She smiled. They had discussed this very thing once, early in their marriage.
To an article about bachelors paying more tax for their male servants, he had added another note:
I always thought it rather scandalous that we are expected to pay more for a male servant than a female servant.
It suggests that a male servant is worth more than a female servant, which is utter nonsense.
I would never trust Franklin to do any of the chores my housekeeper or my cook does.
But it is the bachelor who is punished, not the logic.
And to an article about the state of workhouses:
This is unconscionable. That we treat our most vulnerable citizens in such a manner is a stain on our nation. Something must be done.
On and on it went. He had written notes on almost every edition of the newspapers, commenting on one or two articles in each. Some of them made her laugh. Some of them made her angry. Some of them made her want to reach for a quill and immediately write a response to him.
But what they all did was stir longing for his company.
She missed him. She truly did.
Perhaps he had changed. Sometimes one had to come to an awakening before one could truly understand the error of one’s ways.
It had taken her being discarded by her father, being pushed into a position as a companion by her aunt, and then being talked into marriage by James before she decided that she had to stand up for herself. That she could not rely on others to speak for her.
Perhaps the lesson she had to learn in life had been much smaller than the one James had to learn, but it seemed that even he had learned it.
She sat up, and before she knew it, she had dressed herself and called for a carriage to be prepared. She put on her pelisse and her bonnet and rushed downstairs.
Marianne had returned home by then, but Aunt Eugenia was sitting in the drawing room, smiling at her knowingly.
“Do you have somewhere to be?” she asked.
“Yes,” Frances replied, although she wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do when she arrived at her destination.
In any case, she climbed into the carriage, and it rolled down the busy streets of London until they arrived outside James’s townhouse.
She rushed up the stairs and knocked. A moment later, Franklin opened the door.
“Your Grace!” he exclaimed.
“Franklin,” she greeted. “Is…”
How was she supposed to call him? James? His Grace? My husband?
Fortunately, Franklin made the decision for her.
He smiled. “He is in the drawing room, preparing a delivery.”
“A delivery?” she said, but he said nothing further and simply led her to the drawing room.
There, she found James with a cloth in one hand, polishing a large pianoforte.
“I did not know you had taken up music,” she remarked.
He turned to her and rose to his full height.
“Frances,” he said. “I… I was not expecting you.”
She looked at the instrument. It was beautiful, rosewood with ivory keys, and there was a gleam to it that told her he had been polishing it for quite some time.
“It is for you,” he admitted. “I meant to send it.”
“Along with the wildflowers and hot cross buns?” she asked, because she didn’t really know how to respond. This was such a grand gift.
“Yes,” he replied. “I heard that you have started taking lessons, and I thought that it would be nicer for you to have a beautiful instrument such as this rather than…” he trailed off. “Rather than having to use whatever is available.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then said quietly, “You know that you cannot buy me with gifts.”
“I am not trying to buy you,” he murmured, setting down the cloth. “I am not. I just… I wanted to do something for you. Something that showed you that I was paying attention. That I care about what matters to you.”
“Hot cross buns and wildflowers and newspapers with your opinions scrawled in the margins,” she said.
“I know it seems foolish—”
“It doesn’t seem foolish,” she interrupted. “It seems… thoughtful. It seems like you were listening all along, even when I thought you weren’t.”
He took a step toward her. “I was always listening, Frances. Always. Even when I was too much of a coward to act on what I heard. Even when I was pushing you away.”
“Then why?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Why did you send me away if you cared so much?”
“Because I was terrified,” he sighed. “Terrified of losing you. Terrified of becoming my father. Terrified of failing you the way I failed Marcus.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But all I did was ensure the very thing I feared most. I lost you anyway. Because of my own actions.”
“You haven’t lost me,” she said quietly. “I am standing right here.”
“Are you?” he asked, his eyes searching hers. “Or are you just here to tell me to stop sending you things?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I came here because I read your notes in the newspapers and I… I missed you. I missed arguing with you, debating with you, talking with you. But James, I cannot go through that again. I cannot be with you one day and cast aside the next. My heart cannot bear it.”
“Then I will not do it again,” he promised, taking another step closer. “I swear to you, Frances. I will not push you away again.”
“How can you promise that? How can you be sure?”
“Because the pain of being without you is far greater than any fear I have of losing you,” he said.
“These last weeks have been hell. Sitting in this empty house, knowing you were just across town and I couldn’t see you, couldn’t talk to you, couldn’t hold you.
I would rather face every fear I have with you by my side than spend another day in that lonely existence. ”
“I was surprised by your words. You stood up for me, even though I had rejected you.”
“Of course I did,” he rasped. “You are my wife. And more than that, you are… you are everything. The way you stood up to them, the way you spoke your truth even though it terrified you—I have never been more proud of anyone in my life.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I was so angry with you.”
“You had every right to be.”
“I still am, a little.”
“I know.”
“But I also…” She took a shaky breath. “I also love you. And I miss you. And I don’t want to be angry anymore. I am so tired of being angry.”
James closed the distance between them and cupped her face in his hands.
“I cannot promise you that I will be perfect, Frances. I cannot promise that I won’t make mistakes or that I won’t sometimes let my fears get the better of me.
But I can promise you that I will try. Every day, I will try to be the man you deserve. The husband you deserve.”
“I don’t need you to be perfect,” she said, placing her hands over his. “I don’t need you to be a different man. I just need you to give us a chance. A real chance. Not a marriage of convenience, but a real marriage.”
“I want that,” he said. “More than anything. I don’t want an annulment. I want to be married to you. Truly married to you. I love you, Frances. I love you so much it terrifies me, but I am done running from it.”
“I love you too,” she whispered.
He kissed her then, and it was different from the kiss in the park. That had been desperate and afraid. This was certain. This was a promise.
When they finally pulled apart, she was breathless and smiling.
“So,” he murmured, “does this mean you forgive me?”
“It means I am willing to try again,” she said. “But James, if you push me away again—”
“I won’t,” he vowed. “I swear to you on everything I hold dear, I won’t.”
She looked at the pianoforte behind him. “It really is a beautiful instrument.”
“Shall I have it sent to Somerset?” he asked, and she noticed how he said our home, not my home.
“Yes,” she said. “And perhaps you could come with it? We have much to discuss.”
“I would like nothing more.”
He reached for her hand, and she gave it.
They had a long way to go. There would be difficult conversations ahead, wounds that needed to heal, trust that needed to be rebuilt. But they would do it together.
And that, Frances thought, was all that mattered.