The Viscount’s Pearl (Regency Outsiders #2)

Chapter 9 An Offer of Marriage

Chapter 9

An Offer of Marriage

L ady Lilley was sunk in despondency. Despite the promising idea of the house party, nothing had come of it. The young men had arrived, danced, spoken with Frances and then, one by one, had left, even Mr Mowatt who had stayed an extra day, about which she had been hopeful. No-one had shown real interest, no-one had asked to speak with her or Lord Lilley privately. None of them had even asked for permission to visit again, or expressed hope that they would meet Frances soon in London or elsewhere. Another season was proceeding dismally. It was now late March and in just three short months it would all be over and Frances would be headed for her fifth season. Fifth ! It was not to be borne. The word spinster echoed in Lady Lilley’s head. Perhaps it was as best to acknowledge it. Perhaps Frances could look after herself and Lord Lilley in their old age, although Frances did not have the most appealing bedside manner. Still, it would be her duty as an unmarried daughter to care for her aged parents.

“Hosmer’s coming for a visit,” announced Lord Lilley at breakfast one day.

“Whatever for?” asked Lady Lilley.

A distant cousin of the family, elderly Lord Hosmer had married three times and outlived each wife, though he was without an heir. Two of his wives had died in childbirth, the third had died of some wasting disease, no doubt bored to death by her husband who lived in the far reaches of Wales and was not inclined to mix with society.

“How should I know? On his way to London, stopping in along the way. Feed him dinner, give him a bed for the night and hope he makes it a short visit. Man’s a dreadful bore.”

Lord Hosmer really was a dreadful guest, in Frances’ opinion. He drank his soup and coffee with slurping and gulping noises that made her want to commit violence involving the silverware. He would not stop talking about his views on the best way to do everything from schooling a horse to laying out formal gardens, and his eyes slid over her face and figure in a manner she found objectionable. She tried to keep out of his way, but he found her no matter where she went on the estate. He frowned at the shells on the ceiling of the rotunda, appeared vexed at the sight of her rocking in the library with an atlas balanced on her knees, shook his head whenever she spoke, as though her views were entirely unacceptable. On the third evening of his visit, Frances hastened away with her mother to let the men smoke and drink alone.

“Mama, when will Lord Hosmer be leaving?”

“I am not sure,” said her mother, from behind a magazine. “A day or two, perhaps. He said he was only staying a night in his letter, but he seems to have grown fond of the place – and of us.”

Frances sighed. “I hope he leaves soon.”

In the dining room Lord Hosmer and Lord Lilley drank port and puffed on cigars, speaking mostly of estate management and politics until Lord Hosmer made a startling change of topic.

“Your youngest daughter is still unmarried, I see.”

“Yes, it’s a damned thing. She’s odd in her ways,” said Lord Lilley, allowing himself to be frank, since he was speaking with a member of the family. “But not peculiar, you know, just won’t mind her tongue and speaks her mind far too often for polite society. Probably spoilt her, being the youngest,” he added, taking another gulp of his port. “Can’t be helped now, will just have to find some chap to take her off our hands or give her up as a bad job and have a spinster in the family. Her older sisters were never this tricky, easy enough to marry off.”

Lord Hosmer coughed. “Perhaps I might be so bold as to offer for her hand.”

Lord Lilley choked on his cigar, then regained control of himself. “Frances? My dear chap, she’s forty years younger than you if she’s a day.”

Lord Hosmer shrugged. “No matter. Young enough to bear children. Old enough to be taken in hand. Perhaps what the girl needs is a firm husband. I can assure you she’d be well provided for, both while she’s my wife and in the event of her being widowed. Never managed to get an heir so far, it’s a regret of mine. But there’s still time, if I have a young wife.”

Lord Lilley was silent for a few moments, pondering this extraordinary offer. The reality was, Frances was not going to attract any other proposals of marriage, he was fairly sure of this. His wife’s resigned air after the house party had been obvious even to him and here was Lord Hosmer, a marquis and part of the family, asking to marry her, undaunted by her odd ways. Why, Frances would actually be marrying upwards and have the opportunity to provide an heir to a decent estate, even if it was in the darkest depths of Wales. Certainly, there was a considerable age difference, but perhaps Lord Hosmer was right. Perhaps, being the youngest, the girl had been spoilt and a husband who would impose his will on her would be more successful than her parents had been in making her fit for society. Lord Hosmer was known for disliking parties and other social gatherings, which might actually suit Frances. And if she should dislike her husband, well the truth was he was likely to die while she was still young and she would likely be left with children and a goodly estate and income to provide for her. He, Lord Lilley, could certainly make sure of that through the marriage contracts that would be drawn up. She would also have her marriage portion, which was ample and would mean she would not be reliant on Lord Hosmer for her own wants, should he turn out to be tight-fisted. The notion had seemed absurd at first, but he could see the benefits of it. It was worth considering.

“I will discuss your offer with Lady Lilley,” he said.

Lady Lilley spluttered into her morning hot chocolate, but slowly came round to the idea. Lord Hosmer was not the husband she would have chosen for Frances, but then Frances was so difficult and perhaps, as her husband suggested, an older husband would be right for her. She was not enthusiastic with her consent, but her consent was given nonetheless. All that remained was to inform Frances.

“No!” Frances, appalled, got up from her chair in the morning room and began to pace the room, heart pounding.

“But consider,” said Lady Lilley, “Lord Hosmer is titled, he is a marquis. You will be a marchioness. Think of that, you will rank higher than your mother!”

“I don’t care! He is old. And ugly. And he smells.”

“Frances, really!”

“It’s the truth. Tell me that’s not true.”

Lady Lilley opened her mouth before closing it again. She took a fortifying sip of tea before trying again. “Lord Hosmer has a delightful castle in Wales –”

“Wales? I am not living in Wales!”

“There are beaches in Wales,” tried Lady Lilley weakly. “I am sure you could collect shells there…”

“He has already told me that he thinks shells only fit for children!”

“Ah, children,” said Lady Lilley with some relief. “Yes. Lord Hosmer is very keen to have children, so you will have children to care for, with whom you can of course gather shells and so on. You enjoy spending time with your nieces and nephews, do you not?”

“Yes,” said Frances reluctantly.

“Well then, think what a joy it will be to be a mother.”

“Not if Lord Hosmer were my husband.”

Lady Lilley sighed. “Frances, it is not a choice. Lord Hosmer has offered for your hand and we – your parents – have given our blessing.”

“You would force me to marry Lord Hosmer?” She could not believe what she was hearing, could not believe her matrimonial choices had suddenly been taken away, replaced with an unthinkable certainty.

“It is not forcing –”

“I do not wish to marry him. You say I must. That is forcing.”

“Well then so be it,” said Lady Lilley, standing up, her voice wavering. “Frances. You are to marry Lord Hosmer. There will be no more said about this. I have a headache. I will be in my bedchamber.” She swept from the room.

Frances sat for a few moments, before she was startled by a tap on the door. “Enter,” she said without thinking, then hurriedly rose as Lord Hosmer entered the room. “I was just…” she began, seeking an escape, but Lord Hosmer closed the door with a firm motion, then advanced on her.

“Miss Lilley, I would like to speak with you on a matter of importance.”

“My father…” began Frances.

“Your father and mother are already aware of my intentions and fully supportive of them.”

Frances backed slowly away from him as he advanced, then, finding the backs of her knees against a chair, sank into it, keeping her eyes on the floor. The tips of Lord Hosmer’s shoes came into her view. She did not lift her face.

“Miss Lilley, it is my intention to marry you.”

“I thought it was customary to ask,” said Frances quietly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You have not asked me if I wish to marry you.”

There was an icy silence before Lord Hosmer spoke again. “I was warned of the defects in your character,” he said. “Let us begin as we mean to go on. You will raise your face and look me in the eye when you speak to me.”

Frances kept her face down.

“Miss Lilley. Raise. Your. Face.”

Slowly she looked up, her darting eyes meeting his for a brief moment, before looking over his shoulder at the closed door.

“You will look me in the eye when I speak to you.”

She fixed her eyes on his, discomfort growing in her, meeting eyes with this stranger impossible to maintain.

“Better,” he said. “Will you marry me, Miss Lilley?”

She struggled to keep his gaze. “No, Sir, I will not.” She looked away, the relief almost breathtaking before something hard was thrust under her chin, her head jerked back up by his walking cane.

“You will marry me, because it has been agreed,” he snarled. “And damn it, Miss Lilley, I will teach you to be a well-mannered wife, whether by fair means or foul. I have trained hunting dogs and horses and a woman will be no different. If it takes a beating to make you follow my orders, then so be it. You will meet my eyes when I speak to you, and you will marry me. I shall depart tomorrow morning and before I do so I will inform your parents that we are betrothed. I will leave your mother to make whatever foolish arrangements a woman believes necessary for a wedding; trousseaus, flowers and a gown, I care not. I will return to marry you before two months are up and then we will travel to my home in Wales, where you will learn the meaning of the words in the marriage service, ‘to obey’ . I will not take any pleasure in training you with harsh methods, Miss Lilley, but neither will I be so remiss as to fail in my duties as a husband by allowing your stubborn will to prevail. So were I in your shoes, I would submit, and do so gracefully. Your life will be the better for it. You need only be obedient to my will and produce at least one healthy heir and I will be satisfied. It is not much to ask of a wife.” He stopped, wheezing with rage.

Frances sat very still, face still held forcibly up to him. There was a brief silence before he lowered his cane and she bowed her head, hands shaking in her lap though she tried to clench them together.

“Do you have anything further to say, Miss Lilley?”

She shook her head.

“Then I will bid you good day for now and make plans to depart. I will return soon and expect to find you a willing bride.”

Frances said nothing, only clenched her hands tighter, trembling as he made his way out of the room, the sound of his cane tap-tapping sharply into the distance.

Frances sat alone in her rocking chair for a long time that day, but the rocking motion gave no comfort. She had thought that her parents would grow weary of their efforts to find her a husband and instead disburse her marriage portion with which to set up the life she desired, a spinster but happy. But that was not to be the case.

Lord Hosmer was old, that was the one thing in his favour. He might die, and then she would have what she had always wanted: a home, perhaps there would be children, which she had little objection to, but at any rate she would be able to manage her life as she saw fit. But what if he lived to a ripe old age, and she had to stand his company for decades to come? The thought was unbearable. But to whom might she turn who could help her escape the future she now faced? Only one name came to mind, though to even contemplate the thought was scandalous. But she had run out of choices.

Laurence had spent another dismal evening at a ball. He did not know what he regretted more, that he had spent a tiresome few hours in the company of young women who had bored him witless, or that he had turned down not one but two invitations from ladies of his acquaintance. The truth was that neither of the invitations had appealed to him. He had enjoyed these women’s company in the past, but the shallowness of their intimacy was beginning to weary him. There was physical pleasure to be had, certainly, but it left a hollow feeling afterwards, when they hurried home to their husbands while he returned to his empty bed in Albany. He imagined what it would be like to wake with a woman who did not need to go anywhere, who would stay in his arms, what it would feel like to know that she loved him. The half-formed image gave him a pleasure greater than the titillating touches and whispers that had filled the past few years.

“A card from Lady Salisbury, Sir.”

Laurence sighed. Lady Salisbury had been a brief dalliance, an agreeable evening as well as the night that followed, but she had grown overly fond of him, sending her card with what was now becoming an alarming frequency. Laurence had always maintained a careful distance from such women, for they were a risk if they could not make a show of indifference or at least polite acquaintance in public. Once or twice a lady had grown fond of him, and he had been flattered but gently detached himself from them. The easiest way to clarify his position was to be seen with another lady, thus signalling that the previous liaison was well and truly over, but when Laurence cast his mind about for a suitable woman, the options were unappealing. Lady Maurice was too talkative. Lady Harrington too fond of being seen in public with her beaus. There was Lady Lewis but… his heart was not in it. Nor his loins, oddly. None of them were appealing, even though they were all considered beauties.

“Will you be going out tonight, Sir?”

There was no shortage of options. He had barely shown his face at Boodles of late, so an evening at the club was a possibility. His friends would welcome him and he would enjoy an evening of drink and talk, perhaps gaming, a tasty meal in pleasant company. Or he could choose one of the ladies he had mulled over and attend them as their companion for the evening. Or there was a pile of unopened invitations on the silver tray left on his desk. There would be balls and dinners, theatre and opera, he need only choose a diversion and the evening was open to his pleasure. And yet… the thought of any of them bored him. Instead he thought longingly of stretching out on the sofa with an interesting book and a good dinner, a glass of wine in hand and afterwards, the comfort of his bed and an early morning ride in the park, not to see and be seen as everyone did without fail on Rotten Row each afternoon, but only for himself, for the pleasure of riding and the fresh air that always made him feel like a new man.

“No, Roberts,” he said, and a burden lifted from him as he spoke. “I will be staying in tonight. Choose a wine, nothing too heavy, and throw together a meal, I’ll dine alone.”

“Very good, Sir.”

He felt relieved at the decision, but when he closed his eyes he had a better idea.

“Roberts?”

“Sir?”

“Book a post-chaise to Margate tomorrow morning and pack my bags. I believe I’ll visit Uncle Barrington.”

“Of course, Sir. Will we be staying long?”

He shrugged. “A week or two, depending on the company.”

Miss Lilley would probably be there. She would surely have coaxed her mama into escaping the ton once again and he had to admit she made interesting, if odd, conversation. If he found her there, he might stretch his visit a little longer. Miss Lilley would make a refreshing change from society in London, with her direct gaze and her outspoken opinions.

The journey was tedious as usual but Laurence eagerly anticipated his arrival at Northdown House, which looked at its best in the spring, the gardens filled with all manner of flowers, from daffodils and crocosmia, and the fresh green of newly-opened leaves. Uncle Barrington would not mind his arriving unannounced, if he were still awake, and so it proved.

“Laurence, my dear boy! What a pleasure it is to see you here again so soon. Are you staying?”

“For a few days at least, Uncle, if you’ll have me.”

“Always, my boy, always. Andrew, make haste and let Mrs Norris know there is a hungry young man to feed, she will take it as a challenge. I have already dined, for late dining does not agree with my constitution, but you need a hearty meal inside you to make up for the long journey here.”

They made their way to the dining room, where Mrs Norris managed to conjure up a remarkable meal, including a rich onion soup, a hearty beef steak pie, potted partridge, cardoons, Spanish peas and a large portion of trifle. Laurence tucked in while Lord Barrington drank tea and nibbled on some gingerbread which he claimed was beneficial to his stomach.

“Frances, sadly, is not with me, as you see. Her mother insists on her staying in town now that the season proper has begun, I hear she has vouchers promised for Almack’s. Poor girl, she will not like it one bit, but her mama will not rest till she is married off.”

“I will confess that I had hoped to find her here, Sir. She is… odd, but her company has grown on me, I have found our walks…” Laurence groped for the right word and stumbled on one that seemed wrong, given their many disagreements, and yet which somehow was also right, “…peaceful.”

“Those who look for seashells will find seashells; those who open them will find pearls.”

“Sir?”

“Al-Ghazali. A Persian polymath of the eleventh century. Frances may appear odd, but she has much to offer those who take the time to know her.”

Laurence nodded. A pearl was too romantic a word for Miss Lilley, with her stubborn nature, unsuitable topics of conversation and her blunt words, but he understood his uncle’s metaphor.

“I do not think she enjoys the season.”

“No, but she does not have a choice in the matter if her parents have enforced her attendance.”

“They might let her choose her own path,” ventured Laurence.

“Not marry at all? Why, Laurence, I never thought to hear such words from your dutiful self.”

Laurence shrugged. He disliked the idea of Miss Lilley being forced into a staid marriage, one where her oddities would be flattened and eventually lost altogether. He preferred to think of her as she was now, strange ways and all, and if that required her not marrying, well, it would suit her nature better, even though the ton would find it objectionable. “I should not like to think of her being unhappily married,” he mumbled.

Lord Barrington smiled. “Quite right, Laurence. Quite right. We should all hope for the happiness of our fellow man, or in this case, woman. More port before we retire for the night?”

The next morning dawned sunny and with the promise of warmth.

“Should we follow our absent friend’s ways and take a stroll along the beach?”

Laurence assented and rode the amiable Hippomenes alongside his uncle’s carriage, down to the promenade, where they spent a happy morning strolling to and fro. Laurence enjoyed the salt air and the peaceful nature of their conversation. As they went along, he spotted odd shells that took his fancy and stooped to collect them, putting them into the pockets of his breeches, an activity which his uncle did not refer to, only speaking of the new fruit trees he had planted in the orchards last autumn and how they were now showing their first new leaves.

“There is even blossom on one or two of the strongest, though fruit in their first year might be too much to hope for. But I am a patient man, and besides, I do not plant for myself, Laurence, I plant for your future.”

Later that day, having changed for dinner, Laurence recalled that his breeches from earlier in the day were heavy with shells. He took them out and laid them on his bed, examining their ridges and whorls, their delicate shades of cream, pink and grey. A thought came to him and he scooped up the collection and made his way out of his room and along the corridor, to the Green bedroom, where Miss Lilley always stayed. The room was empty, some of the furniture draped with holland covers, the bed stripped. It was cold and stark, but he fancied he could still smell her here, a faint memory of her skin. Carefully, he deposited his assortment of shells on the broad windowsill, then spent a few moments aligning them into a pleasing pattern, smiling at the thought that on her next visit here she would find them and wonder at who had placed them there for her. Lord Barrington would deny all knowledge and besides, he rarely ventured to the upper floor. She would know, then, that they had been left here by Laurence, that he had thought of her in her absence, had continued her work of gathering shells and had left them here for her collection. He hoped that this would bring a smile to her sober face, that she would think of him kindly when she took up the shells into her hands, understanding them as a gift.

The next afternoon, while Lord Barrington took his usual nap, Laurence rode out on Hippomenes, taking the road down to the clifftops and then riding along them for some miles, enjoying the brisk breeze, the steady sound of the waves breaking on the shoreline, the cries of the gulls wheeling above him. He returned late in the afternoon, full of energy. As he dressed for dinner he thought that he might offer to call in on Miss Lilley in London, to see how she was faring and perhaps take a letter from Lord Barrington to her, for he knew they corresponded regularly. Yes, it would be the gentlemanly thing to do, to call on a lady of his acquaintance and pass on the regards of his uncle. He might even stop off at Brown’s and order some of their iced biscuits for her, they were practically works of art. Perhaps he could even bespoke her some biscuits decorated as shells, as a nod to her passion for them. He strode down to dinner in an excellent mood and spent some time describing his ride to his uncle, who seemed pleased that Hippomenes had received exercise and that Laurence was exploring the neighbourhood.

“I have received some news from Lady Lilley,” said Lord Barrington after dinner, when they were enjoying port together. He pulled from his waistcoat pocket a folded piece of paper, on which was written, in a lady’s hand, a lengthy message. “I thought, since we both have a connection to the person in question, that you might wish to hear it.”

“Indeed, Sir?”

“It seems Frances is to be married.”

Laurence’s stomach lurched in a quick dip downwards, almost giddy, but it quickly turned to a leaden weight. There was no reason for this, of course. Miss Lilley was only an acquaintance, perhaps slightly more than that only by virtue of her connection to his uncle, and therefore they had spent more time together than might have been usual with other young ladies of his social circle, but there was no reason why he should…

He swallowed, realising that his uncle was watching him, waiting for an answer. “In-indeed? My felicitations, Sir, I know you are very fond of her, you must be delighted on her behalf. To – to whom is she engaged?”

Lord Barrington gave a half smile and referred to the letter before him. “A Lord Hosmer, apparently.”

Laurence tried to bring to mind a Lord Hosmer from amongst the members of the ton , but the only person he could think of was… “The Lord Hosmer of whom I am aware is a marquis,” he managed at last. “But he is – or was – at least sixty years of age, which is, not meaning to offend you, Sir, far too old for Miss Lilley. Is it his son?”

Lord Barrington’s mouth twitched again. “No, no, it is the gentleman to whom you refer who is to marry her. Lord Hosmer has no heirs, I understand.”

Laurence leapt to his feet, unable to keep still. He felt a need to walk about the room, or perhaps strike something or someone, though he was unsure what or whom, only that his hands had become fists and that his jaw was clenched hard. “She cannot possibly marry someone so old. You must forbid it, Sir!”

“I cannot do any such thing,” replied his uncle. “Lord Hosmer has made her an offer, which it appears she has accepted, Lord and Lady Lilley are delighted.”

“But it is – absurd – unacceptable – unthinkable that a young lady should marry a man in his dotage and be happy!”

“Perhaps she has decided that an older gentleman would suit her best after all. It appears Lord Hosmer is keen to have a young bride, as he has no heirs. She can look forward to the comfort of children and will be a companion to him in his later years, once there are no more… expectations of her.”

The idea of Lord Hosmer, whom Laurence had once met at a ball, who had abominable breath, gnarled hands and a stooped back, having… expectations of Miss Lilley, as his uncle had so delicately put it, was more than he could bear, the very idea was disgusting. Laurence turned first one way and then another, pacing about the room. “You surely cannot think she would be happy Sir, that the marriage would be in any way suitable. It is a monstrous suggestion.”

Lord Barrington leant back in his chair, his eyes following Laurence as he paced the dining room. “Your consternation in this regard leads me to ask whether you yourself had any intentions of marriage towards Frances.”

Laurence stopped, stunned. “No, Sir.”

“None at all?”

“She does not wish to be married, Sir, you know this yourself, it has been the subject of discussion between us more than once.”

“I did not ask about her intentions, but about yours. Is there a part of you that had considered her as a possible bride?”

“No,” said Laurence promptly. “She is… not…” He fumbled for the words he needed, but none of them were readily at hand. “She does not wish to marry, and for myself I would require a wife who is well versed in all social niceties, which Miss Lilley, begging your pardon, Sir, is not.”

Lord Barrington nodded. “Quite so. But then it should not really concern you whom she marries.”

Laurence swallowed. His uncle was right, of course. Every year, all kinds of unsuitable matches were made across the ton , and though some had raised eyebrows in the past, he had not felt this rush of emotions in regard to any of them. He had not known outrage, or anger, or despair or… or jealousy . And that was what this feeling was, it was jealousy. He did not want Frances married off to Lord Hosmer because he wanted her for himself. Odd, blunt, stubborn Frances. He wanted her. He stood silent for a few moments, then sank back down into his chair, legs weak at the realisation. Lord Barrington watched him closely, then poured him a glass of port, which Laurence downed in one gulp.

“Have you had a change of heart, dear boy?”

“I – I think so, Sir, I… had not realised it before but… yes.”

Lord Barrington leant back in his chair, a warm smile on his face. “Well done. I am proud of you. An excellent choice.”

“But…”

“But?”

“ Is it an excellent choice? She is… very odd, Uncle. Would it be wrong of me to marry a woman who may not be able to fulfil her duties as Viscountess Barrington?”

“In what way might she not be able to fulfil her duties?”

“She will need to be a hostess, she will need to attend social occasions…”

“And do you doubt her ability to do so?”

“She does not care for small talk, she does not like balls. She…” He tailed off, remembering her unhappy face at Almack’s. All that arose in him at the thought of it was the desire to comfort her, to take her away from whatever might cause her discomfort and instead bring serenity back to her countenance by whatever means necessary, and truth be told by comforting her he meant clasping her to him, brushing her lips with his and then… He shook his head. “She would shy away from company.”

Lord Barrington nodded, his face grave. “When you imagine being with her, what do you think of?”

Laurence must have looked shocked, for Lord Barrington corrected himself. “I do not mean in the bedchamber, Laurence. I mean when you imagine your life together, what do you think of?”

Laurence opened his mouth and then hesitated, for he had been about to describe a ton marriage: the annual season in London, the summers hunting, with formal dinners and balls held at both Northdown House and the Surrey estate. But what had he really thought of? He had imagined…

“Holding her close,” he managed at last, the words coming slowly but more surely as a smile grew on his uncle’s face. “Our children about the fire at Christmastide, walking with her on an empty Margate beach when all the invalids have gone elsewhere, watching her when she is happy with her shells. Reading together, riding together, talking of what interests us. Sitting together in companionable silence with her head on my shoulder. Rowing with the children on the lake.”

“There do not seem to be many other people in what you describe,” observed Lord Barrington. “I do not hear mention of balls, of formal dinners. It seems to be you and Frances and your children, happy together at home. Is that what you long for, Laurence? After all your years in London?”

Laurence swallowed again at the wave of emotions that had risen up in him as he described their imagined life together. “Yes,” he said quietly and then, more decisively, “Yes. I long for Frances and me to be together, quietly. I do not care if she does not want to be a hostess for grand dinners or balls, she need not force herself. I want only that she be happy at my side.”

Lord Barrington’s eyes shone and his voice came out hoarse. “Then go to her, my boy.”

“What can I say to her? She has already made her choice.”

“I very much doubt it was her choice.”

“Her choice was not to marry at all, she told me so herself.”

Lord Barrington leant forward in his chair. “Tell her what you just told me. Tell her how you saw the two of you. Ask her to imagine her future with Lord Hosmer and then with you. She will choose you, Laurence, I am certain of it.”

“Over her own desire to be alone?”

“Few of us in this world truly wish to be alone, Laurence. We may choose to be so when the other options are closed to us or are made too difficult for us to bear. But all creatures of this world desire affection, to find safe harbour in the arms of someone who loves them. Frances may have seen no other option but to be alone. If she were allowed to be her true self, I think you would find that she would be a loving wife. Go to her, Laurence.”

Laurence stood again. “I must tell Roberts. We will leave on the first post-chaise I can secure to London, Sir.”

In the cold light of dawn Laurence climbed into Lord Barrington’s carriage, which would take him to the inn where he could hire a post-chaise back to London. He looked out of the window to where Lord Barrington sat in his chair by an open window, his hand raised in a farewell which looked like a blessing.