Chapter 7
On a previous visit some days earlier, the drawing room had been arranged with a precision that bordered on the compulsive.
Every cushion sat squarely at its angle, every book on the side table had its spine aligned perfectly with the table’s edge.
The tea things were already set out, though he had arrived unannounced, and were positioned with a symmetry that spoke less of hospitality than of a mind seeking control where none existed.
Frederica sat in the centre of the settee, her posture so upright that her shoulders did not touch the cushions behind her.
Her fingers lay in her lap, still and correct, but as David came further into the room, he noticed the edge of her glove — the left one — had been worried at, threads pulled loose along the seam.
“Hampshire. How good of you to call.” Her smile was taut, a thing assembled rather than felt, and it did not move the muscles around her eyes.
He sat. The chair he chose was the one nearest the fire, though the room was not cold. Frederica’s gaze tracked him, then flicked — quickly, automatically — to the window. The curtain had been left open, but the view was only of the small rear garden, its hedges trimmed to rigid lines.
She was not looking at the garden. She was checking the window.
“You are well, I hope, Frederica?” he began, keeping his tone easy.
“Quite well, I thank you.” Her right hand moved to the arm of the settee and ran along its edge, a back-and-forth motion, fingertips tracing the stitching. She seemed unaware she was doing it. “I — I was not expecting company this afternoon.”
“I apologize for the intrusion. I merely wished to discuss —”
A sound from the hall — the front door, opening and closing — and Frederica’s head turned so sharply toward it that the comb in her hair shifted. Her hand, which had been tracing the settee arm, clenched into a fist against the fabric.
“It is only the butler,” David said, quietly, watching her.
The breath she released was too long and too controlled to be anything other than an exercise in composure.
“Yes. Yes, of course.” She smoothed her skirt, then smoothed it again — the same section, the same motion — and when she looked back at him, the smile had been reassembled, but something in it had shifted and would not sit right.
“Frederica.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”
Her eyes held his for one unguarded moment — and he saw everything she would not say. The fear, raw and live. The plea. The desperate, wordless appeal of a woman who needed help and could not ask for it.
Then the shutters came down, and she reached for the teapot.
“Shall I pour?”
That was a mistake.
Lowering his gaze to the ground before him, David hurried out of the bookshop and back along the road towards his waiting carriage.
He had spent the morning worrying about his visit to Frederica and thus, in an attempt to distract himself from his heavy thoughts, had thought to step into the bookshop.
Being that close to Nora, however, to have her hand on his arm and her vivid green eyes gazing up at him from beneath that crown of auburn had utterly ruined him.
He could not breathe properly, his throat tight, a heavy weight pressing on his chest. His whole body was tingling, alive with the awareness of just how close he had been with her again – and just how much he desired her still.
David climbed into the carriage and rapped on the roof, settling back into his seat and pressing his fist to his mouth.
He had become so distracted by Nora that it had led him to see things that were not there.
For a moment, he had thought that Frederica herself had been standing in the bookshop, a gentleman beside her who leaned in much too close and whispered something in her ear.
The lady, whoever she was, had quit the shop almost at once, and David had returned his attention to Nora, telling himself that he was a fool to even think that Frederica would be out amongst society.
I cannot allow myself to be drawn back towards her. Anger swirled in his chest, anger at his own selfishness, at his own lack of thought when it came to Frederica. I am betrothed. I will fulfill my duty.
The carriage drew up to Frederica’s townhouse – or, David realized, his own townhouse.
This was his house now, given that he owned it as part of his uncle’s inheritance.
With a heart that sank into his boots, David stepped out of the carriage and walked directly into the house, having not even a single modicum of pleasure at the thought of seeing Frederica again.
Stepping inside, he awaited the arrival of the butler, handing the fellow his hat at once.
“Where is Frederica?” he asked, as the butler’s eyes caught his for a moment. “The drawing room, mayhap?”
“The lady has not yet returned, my lord.” The butler inclined his head, as David’s eyes flared wide. “I am sure she will not be long, however. Might you wish to wait in the parlour? Her companion, Mrs. Grant, is on her afternoon free from duty else I would have summoned her for you.”
David blinked rapidly, wondering if the lady he had seen in the bookshop had, in fact, been Frederica.
Whatever was she doing out of doors? She was still in her mourning period and had told him emphatically that she had no desire to be in amongst society.
“The parlour, yes.” Having no desire to share any of his thoughts with the butler, David calmed his expression and then stepped away, knowing precisely where to go.
Pausing, he turned back to look at the butler, doing his best to keep his voice light. “Might I ask where the lady has gone this afternoon?”
“For a short walk in the park, my lord.” The butler kept his gaze low but spoke steadily. “She said that the afternoon air would lift her spirits.”
“I quite understand, I thank you.” Making his way into the parlour, David frowned heavily.
The room was much as he remembered it from his last visit, save for one small detail: the grate had been cleaned recently but not thoroughly, and caught between the iron bars was the curled edge of a letter, its paper blackened but not entirely consumed.
He could make out a fragment of handwriting — not his uncle’s heavy, angular script, but something smaller, more fluid.
A woman’s hand. He reached for it, then stopped himself.
Whatever correspondence his uncle had chosen to burn was none of his concern.
He walked to the window instead, looking out at the street and wondering where Frederica had truly gone.
As he glanced down at the pavement, he noticed a man standing on the far side of the street — not walking, not waiting for a carriage, simply standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed upon the house.
David watched him for a moment, but the fellow turned and walked unhurriedly away before David could make anything of it.
He thought nothing more of it. He should have.
Perhaps she had simply gone out to the park, or perhaps she had been the one he had seen in the bookshop.
If the latter was true, who was it that had been speaking with her? And why had she seemed so upset by him?
The door opened and David turned, expecting to see Frederica step inside. Instead, he was met by a broad-shouldered, stocky fellow with light brown hair and a look of surprise spreading across his round face.
“Forgive me, I presumed… ” The man cleared his throat and then bowed, making David’s attention catch on the brown leather briefcase he held in one hand. “I was waiting to speak with Miss Longleat. We did have an appointment.”
David lifted his eyebrow. “We are not acquainted. I am the Earl of Hampshire. I am also engaged to Miss Longleat. We will marry once her mourning period is at an end.” His head tilted as the man’s eyes rounded.
Had he known nothing of this? “I was unaware of any appointment.” Taking the fellow to be some sort of man of business, he studied him carefully.
“What is it that you wish to speak to my betrothed about, might I ask?”
The man bowed again, both hands now clutching the briefcase in front of him. “You must forgive me, I did not mean to interrupt any conversation between yourself and Miss Longleat. Perhaps she forgot about your presence here. I will return at another time. Good afternoon.”
“Wait, I – ” David stepped forward, reaching out one hand to catch the man’s arm, only for him to hurry out of the room again. Confused, David pushed one hand through his hair and let out a long, frustrated breath, his mouth a hard line as his brow furrowed. Whoever had that been?
“Hampshire?”
He heard Frederica’s voice before she came into the room. Willowy, with brown eyes that very often held nothing but sadness and pain, she came into the room with the same graceful elegance that he was used to – but which did not affect his heart in the least.
“Frederica.” Bowing, he did not come near to her, clasping his hands behind his back. “Good afternoon. Might I ask how you are?”
She did not smile, her face a shade paler than it should have been, contrasted against the dark brown of her hair.
“I am weary, Hampshire. Weary of grief, weary of… of pain and sorrow.” Sitting down, she gestured for him to sit down opposite her.
“Forgive me for my tardiness. My walk through the park took a little longer than I had anticipated.” Her eyes slid away from him, her mouth in a tight line, and David pressed his lips into a thin line.
“That might have been on account of your presence in the bookshop,” he said, watching her closely for any sort of reaction. “I did see you present there, did I not?”