Chapter 31 #2
“Your defense of him entangled your name with his at the very moment his reputation was in danger. Marriage was the only respectable way to quiet the scandal.” Lady Ravenshaw looked back at her. “You became… convenient.”
The word struck with humiliating precision.
Convenient.
Had Frances not thought something very like it herself? Had she not known, from the first, that their marriage was a remedy, not a romance? A solution offered by a man who believed every difficulty must be managed before it became ruinous?
“You do not know the nature of my marriage,” Frances retorted.
“No. I do not pretend to. But I know what men of rank will do to preserve themselves.” Lady Ravenshaw stepped closer still. “Once gossip fades, once the world accepts the story he has chosen to present, what need will he have of the lie? What need will he have of you?”
Frances’s throat tightened, but she kept her chin lifted.
“Forgive me, Lady Ravenshaw, but concern is easily claimed.”
A slight change passed across the viscountess’s face. It was gone almost instantly, replaced by grave sympathy.
“You are wise not to trust without proof.”
“I am glad you approve.”
“I did not come empty-handed.”
Lady Ravenshaw opened her reticule and withdrew a folded letter. The paper was creased, the edges softened by handling. The seal had already been broken. Frances stared at it.
“What is that?”
“A letter,” Lady Ravenshaw offered. “Written by the maid before her death.”
The air seemed to thin.
Frances did not reach for it at once. “How did it come to you?”
“Through someone who served in the same household for a time. The poor girl was frightened. She knew she might not survive the birth, and she wished the truth not to die with her.” Lady Ravenshaw held it out. “Read it yourself.”
Frances accepted the letter at last. Her fingers were steady. She was grateful for that. Whatever storm moved inside her, it had not yet reached her hands.
She unfolded the paper. The handwriting was uneven, the strokes uncertain in places, as though written in haste or distress. A smear of ink marked the upper corner. Frances lowered her gaze and read.
Dearest Andrew,
The child is near, and I am so afraid. I know all must remain hidden and that no one must know, but I cannot bear for my baby to be treated as shame itself. If anything happens to me, remember that the child has blood and claim, though I know you will not speak it aloud.
I fear what may come when I am gone.
Your loving,
Mary
Frances read it once, then again. The words did not change.
His name was clear. The ink had smudged over part of it, blurring the letters so that the shape remained legible but not clean. It might have been damaged by damp. It might have been rubbed by a careless thumb. Frances noticed it at once, but she said nothing.
For there was also the rest of it: the fear, the secrecy, the desperate attempt of a dying woman to leave some trace of truth behind her. It bore the appearance of sincerity, and sincerity, even counterfeit, had power when dressed in grief.
Lady Ravenshaw watched her closely.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
Frances folded the letter slowly. “You said the maid was in his household.”
“Yes.”
“And that she was afraid of him?”
Lady Ravenshaw hesitated by the smallest fraction. “Afraid of being abandoned and that her child would be denied.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” the viscountess conceded gently. “But fear does not always speak precisely, does it?”
Frances looked down at the folded paper in her hand.
Her thoughts would not settle. They moved instead in sharp, painful flashes: Andrew holding the baby with careful tenderness, Andrew refusing to speak of the child’s mother, Andrew saying, in that controlled voice of his, that some matters could not be explained.
And then, she remembered Andrew kissing her as though she mattered. Frances closed her fingers around the letter.
“Why give this to me?” she asked. “Why not reveal it publicly?”
Lady Ravenshaw’s expression became pained. “Because there is a child involved. And because, whatever His Grace has done, I do not wish to be cruel. I came only because you deserve warning.”
“How noble.”
The words were polite enough, but something in Lady Ravenshaw’s eyes cooled.
“I understand if you resent the messenger.”
“I do not resent you,” Frances clarified. “I do not know you well enough.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Lady Ravenshaw placed a gloved hand upon Frances’s shoulder. The gesture was light, maternal, almost intimate. Frances had to prevent herself from stepping away.
“I am truly sorry,” the viscountess spoke. “But it is better that you discover this now than later, when your heart is more deeply engaged.”
Frances could not answer.
That was the cruelty of it. Not the accusation alone, nor even the letter, but that final, soft blow: when your heart is more deeply engaged. It was as though Lady Ravenshaw had looked inside her and found the very place Frances had been trying to keep hidden from herself.
The park moved around them. Wheels turned. Horses stepped. Ladies laughed beneath their bonnets. The world remained orderly while Frances felt something in hers tilt.
She gave one small nod. It was all she could manage.
Then she turned from Lady Ravenshaw, with the folded letter held tightly in her hand, and walked away without another word.