Chapter 10 A Letter
Chapter 10
A Letter
L aurence arrived back in London, stiff in body but excited in his mind. He had spent the eight hours of jolting carriage ride unable to sleep, instead gazing out of the window, going over and over his newly-found feelings for Frances. He revisited every moment of his acquaintance with her, from the first glimpse of her on the beach, when he might have thought her a maid, his startled surprise at her topics of conversation, which even now brought a smile to his lips. Her simple understanding of his uncle’s romantic past and her fearlessness when caught between the tides, both of which made him admire her character. And between these recollections were other memories that stirred different emotions in him, that made him realise why he had grown weary of the married ladies of the ton , why none of this year’s sparkling debutantes had managed to make any kind of impression on him. Her wide grey eyes framed with dark lashes, her chestnut hair tumbling down her back while at play with the children, her face, uplifted and eyes closed, while on her swing. And her bare legs, white against the dark rocks, strong against the swirl of water rushing across her skin. The things he could do to her once they were together, the pleasures they might share and then wake in one another’s arms, no hurried secretive flirtation this but instead a deeper satisfaction.
Once inside his set at Albany, Roberts busy with preparing dinner, Laurence washed and changed before sinking down in a chair in the drawing room and pouring himself a port. On the sideboard was the post tray, with a letter on it. Glass in hand, he stood and made his way to it, picked the letter up. The writing looked feminine; he wondered if it was one of the married women he had dallied with over the past years, but something about it was not right. He lifted it to his nose but there was no perfume. As he lowered it, he caught the oddly shaped letter y and suddenly knew it for a letter from Frances. That oddly curled y, so like a shell, was her hand, he was sure of it, though he had seen it only once. But an unmarried young woman would never write to a young man, it would be impropriety of the highest order. He must be mistaken. He put the port down, carefully opened the letter and began to read.
Sir,
As it is your intention to marry soon, I will be so bold as to ask you, in the name of our friendship, to choose me as your wife.
Laurence’s heart thudded. He took a step backwards, fumbling behind him for the chair. Finding it, he sank down onto it. His hand was shaking and he lowered the letter onto his knee, then continued reading in shocked disbelief.
You may have heard, perhaps from Lord Barrington, that I am engaged to Lord Hosmer. It was not my choice to accept him, it was forced on me by my parents who cannot imagine that a woman might not wish to marry and so have insisted upon this engagement. I acquiesced, thinking that such an old man might well die, leaving me a wealthy widow and able to live the life I would have chosen myself, alone and free.
He could not help it, he let out snort of laughter at her bluntness. No doubt many women had made just such a calculation, but they would have kept it to themselves. Not Frances. She was too honest for that, she might even have told Lord Hosmer to his face.
But as the day of our nuptials approaches…
When was the day? How much time was there left? Had he received the letter too late?
I find myself unable to bear the idea of becoming Lady Hosmer. We have nothing at all in common, which I might be able to bear, only that he has already said that he will “take me in hand” and force upon me such parts of life to which I am least suited.
And she might not even know, thought Laurence, what other things Lord Hosmer might force upon her. His stomach had settled into a lead weight.
And so I ask if you will marry me. I see now that I cannot remain unmarried. I must marry, but I would rather be your wife than Lord Hosmer’s.
Warmth rushed through Laurence, a sudden happiness. She loved him! She had realised it only recently, just as he had, but now that they had both realised their true feelings… He read on.
I know that you wish for a marriage of convenience, that love would not be part of our marriage, and this I willingly accept. I know that you think me odd, as most people do, but I can assure you that I am not without practical abilities. I will be able to run your household as you would expect, I am willing to bear children and care for them. You will not find me ungrateful. I will also fully understand should you spend much time away from the estate and maintain friendships with ladies of your acquaintance. I will not draw attention to such liaisons, nor in any way reproach you for them.
The tingling warmth was replaced with a sudden cold. She did not love him. She believed, as he had told her, that he wanted a loveless marriage, and she too wanted only a marriage of convenience. She would not care if he were to dally with other women, would in fact expect it and turn a blind eye. She offered a marriage, but not the one he desired.
If this arrangement were to suit you then I beg that you make haste and offer for my hand. I cannot break the engagement to Lord Hosmer without an alternative suitor, but if you are willing to marry me then I will curtail the agreement and we can be wed at once. I have begged to be sent to Margate on the tenth of this month to tell Lord Barrington the news as my parents hope he will be generous on the occasion of my being wed, but I am to be married soon after I return. Come to Margate. If I see you there, I will know you agree to my proposal. If I do not see you there, I will know it cannot be and will submit to becoming Lady Hosmer, but I beg you as a friend not to abandon me to such a fate.
I am yours,
Frances
The tenth… she had been in a carriage on her way to Margate even as he had come to London in search of her. Their paths must have crossed. If he had but stayed in Margate one day longer…
I am yours … but she was not. She would be his in name only. He did not doubt her word, honest to a fault as she was. If he married her, she would undertake to run his household well, to bear him children and to all lookers-on appear a devoted wife. She had accurately described all he had believed he wanted from a woman, from a wife.
But now he wanted more. He wanted tenderness and passion, he wanted love. And cruellest of all, he wanted those things with her, Frances. What would it be like to live side by side with a woman he desired and cared for and yet receive only dutiful obligation in return?
Unbearable. He would not do it, it would be a sham and a torture of a marriage. Even to lie with her… yes, certainly, he would do so, for she had agreed to bear him children, but he did not wish to lie with a woman who submitted to him out of wifely duty. He wanted his wife… he wanted Frances to welcome him to her bed with open arms, to seek him out, eager for the touch of his hands, his lips on hers, he wanted to hear her sighs of pleasure, he wanted to love her entirely and be loved in turn. No. He would not go to Margate. He would stay away, she would be married off and he would learn from this that a marriage of convenience was not what he wanted after all. Yes, his heart would be broken for some time but no doubt one got over these things. After some time he would find someone else to love and the sentiment would be returned. There were love matches amongst his acquaintances and his own parents had loved one another, it was not impossible. He would stay away, and she would marry Lord Hosmer.
She could not marry Lord Hosmer.
The thought utterly disgusted him.
Not only was Lord Hosmer old, and ugly, but he was not even kind. Frances would, apparently, be “taken in hand,” as though she were a hunting dog to be trained by the master of the hounds, to be schooled to his command and punished for failures. Hosmer would shape her or, more likely, break her. He would not tolerate her bluntness, her rocking, her shells. He would beat them out of her, whether through words or the back of his hand or worse. Laurence would see her again one day at some social gathering and barely recognise her, a puppet on strings, moving at the will of her puppet master. The Frances he had grown to love would have gone, never to return. Even when Lord Hosmer died, which one could only pray would be soon, it might be too late. She would have been broken beyond repair, beyond rescue.
But he could rescue her now. He could save her from the dark fate hanging over her head. And if she could not love him, then she could not, but he could love her. He could love her and be close to her and perhaps, perhaps, she might grow to love him in turn. She had reached out to him, after all, she had turned to him in her hour of need, seen him as someone who might be relied upon to care for her.
He would not fail her.
“Roberts!”
“Sir?”
“Do not unpack my bags. We return to Margate tomorrow morning at first light.”