Chapter 11 A Promise and a Bequest
Frances stood in her room at Northfield House and ran her fingers across the shells left on her windowsill.
Lord Barrington had never collected shells in her absence, and anyway he was mostly confined to the ground floor.
Who had placed these shells here in her absence? Could it be Mr Mowatt? Had he visited and thought of her, collected these and deliberately left them here for her? She ran her fingers over them one by one, held a few in her hand.
There was something touching in the idea of his having done so.
She had asked him for a marriage of convenience because she knew that was what he wanted, but if he had not been so certain on the subject she might have offered something more… not that she knew precisely what that might be, but she would have made the offer to explore what it might consist of.
She liked him.
Love? That she was not sure of, no, for surely it was supposed to be something wild and passionate, something all-encompassing.
That was how people spoke and wrote of it.
She had read Byron, she had heard the maids gossiping and even young ladies of the ton, sighing over beaus.
But she liked Mr Mowatt.
She had found his company on their walks pleasant; he talked but not incessantly, and he listened to her with interest.
Sometimes she shocked him, she knew that, but rather than be outraged or dismayed, he had asked more questions, like the day when she had told him of Lord Barrington’s romantic past and he had given it some thought, she could see that.
He had not treated Lord Barrington differently afterwards, which pleased her.
When she had opened up about her feelings while they discussed the selkie women, he had looked at her strangely and after that walk had often seemed to pay her closer attention, but he had not refuted her feelings, had not chastised her for being odd and unable to behave as the ton would wish and expect.
Laurence.
She turned the name over in her mind.
Laurence.
What would it be like to be closer to him, to call him by his Christian name, to spend their days together? To grow closer physically, as well, for the marriage would need to be consummated and she had a vague understanding of what that would entail.
But they would walk together, talk together, he might hold her hand when helping her, they might be arm in arm.
They might… kiss, she supposed.
She wondered what that would feel like.
She wondered if she should, if he did respond to her letter and come to Northdown, offer more than a marriage of convenience.
She could say that she enjoyed his company, that she would be willing for there to be something more between them.
But she did not want to frighten him away.
If he came, it would be in answer to her letter, and she had laid that proposal out very clearly.
She had offered a marriage of convenience, no more or less, and he would accept or reject her based on that assumption.
She must hold to what she had offered.
If he came, the deal would be done.
And then they could tell Lord Barrington.
He would be pleased, she thought.
He had been willing for Frances to be a spinster all her life if she so chose, but he was a romantic man; he would prefer to see her married, even if it were a marriage of convenience.
Lord Barrington had received Frances with every appearance of delight, but when dinner was served, he sat back in his chair and looked her over.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Frances? I usually receive word from you that you wish for an invitation.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Of course not. I am always happy to see you. But these circumstances seem different than usual. I hope you have not run away from home? Your parents know where you are?”
“I have not run away,”
said Frances.
“I am glad to hear it. But?”
“But I have been made an offer of marriage which I am anxious to avoid.”
“You could refuse the man…”
She shook her head. “My parents have decided I am to marry. If I refuse him, they might find someone worse… if there is such a person.”
“Lord Hosmer is not to your liking?”
“You knew already?”
“Your mother wrote.”
“Have you met him?”
“I am… aware of him. He is not a man I would ever choose for… anyone.”
“He has been chosen for me and it seems I do not have a choice. Unless… unless I marry someone else.”
“Is there someone else?”
She swallowed, nerves rising up again at the audacity of what she had done, what she was doing. The scandal of every part of it.
Writing to a man was bad enough. Writing to a man to ask him to marry her…
there could be no greater forwardness. Mr Mowatt would probably never speak to her again, outraged by her conduct.
“There might be, but I cannot speak of it until… until he has made his feelings plain on the matter.”
“Yet you are here,”
said Lord Barrington. “Do you expect to meet him here, or to receive correspondence here?”
“I – cannot speak of it, Sir.”
“Never mind, then,”
said Lord Barrington. “Eat, my dear, you look pale and thin. I cannot have your potential suitor believe you ill. Eat, and we shall speak no more of this until you wish to.”
She picked at the food, unable to eat much when her stomach was balled up tight. By the end of dinner she had barely spoken nor eaten. Lord Barrington watched her rise and waved his hand towards the gardens.
“Perhaps you would like to spend time outside, my dear? It is too chilly for me still, but you younger souls are more robust. I will retire early, if you will forgive me.”
Frances wandered the gardens in the gathering dusk, saw the delicate white cherry blossoms shining in the darkness, their petals brushing her hair as she walked beneath the branches.
All around her was the scent of spring, the warming earth, the fresh grass and leaves, the delicate fragrance of flowers, all flavoured with the salted air.
It should have calmed her, but even the swing could not manage that task tonight.
Her hands shook, and little shivers ran up and down her despite the warm evening.
She was desperate for Mr Mowatt to arrive and yet the idea of him being here was terrifying.
It would mean she had to let go of all her plans for a happy future alone and bind herself to him, out of fear of marriage to Lord Hosmer.
Had she been mad, to write to a man and ask to be his wife? What if he had read her letter and set it aside, scandalised at her brazen behaviour?
If he had, then she was doomed to a marriage she found both disgusting and frightening.
If he had decided to save her, however, he would come here, would tell her that he agreed to her rash proposal and then what? Would he marry her at once?
He wanted a marriage of convenience; might he leave her here at Northdown and go about his life elsewhere?
He had not arrived today; how many days would she have to wait before she knew that his answer was a no?
She had told him the date by which she was bound to return to marry Lord Hosmer, but she did not know whether he would reply at once or after some time of consideration… or not at all?
Perhaps, shocked once too often by her behaviour, pushed too far by the outrage of her writing to propose, he would simply not answer her at all, sever all connection between them and go about his life, scandalised at the very idea of marrying a woman who could do such a thing.
The dusk turned to night and still she sat in the gardens, unable to retire to her room, where she would feel even more locked into her swirling thoughts.
At least out here, in the silent darkness, swinging to and fro, she could try to still her fear at the prospect of being forced to marry Lord Hosmer.
She was interrupted after an hour or so when a footman appeared bearing two lanterns. He did not speak to her, only hung one in a nearby tree and laid one near the swing.
“Thank you. I will put them out before I retire.”
“Yes, Miss.”
And he was gone again.
The lanterns flickered, dimly lighting the small space around her swing.
She supposed Lord Barrington had sent him out, a sign that she might stay out as long as she pleased.
Why could he not have been her father? He would not have forced marriage on her, would have found a way for her to be a spinster if she so desired.
She sighed.
If Lord Barrington had been her father he would have let her remain unmarried, as he had, or else would have set his romantic mind to finding her a husband, and it would not have been Lord Hosmer.
It would have been… She tried to think of any young men of her acquaintance whom Lord Barrington would have offered as a suitor.
A young man, a man with prospects, a man with a kind heart and enough curiosity and open mind to consider an odd girl as his future bride, someone who would walk and talk with her along the beach, someone indeed like Mr Mowatt, but more romantically inclined, for Lord Barrington would not be able to stomach a marriage without love.
In marrying Mr Mowatt, she would at least be marrying someone of whom Lord Barrington was fond, and she trusted his judgement.
There might not be love in the marriage, but there might be affection, some care of one another and trust, a shared delight in their children? These things might be possible.
“Miss Lilley?”
She jumped to her feet, startled by the tall shadow approaching her.
“Mr Mowatt!”
He had come, he had come, he had come to her, had come here to Northdown, did that mean…
“I received your letter.”
He came closer, stepped into the light. His clothes were rumpled from the journey, he looked weary, but his eyes were bright, there was an intensity to his voice.
She stood, the swing pushing gently at the backs of her knees, uncertain of how to proceed. “I knew of no-one else to whom I could turn,”
she managed at last. “I – I thought only of you. You have been – friendly – to me and so I believed that you might consider my offer, that you would not allow me to be forced into a marriage with Lord Hosmer.”
“I would not allow that to happen to you,”
he said and
there was emotion in his voice, something like anger at the idea, which emboldened her.
She stepped closer to him, so that they stood face to face, within arm’s reach, looked up into his face.
“Then you will marry me?”
He hesitated and that frightened her.
She spoke again, anxious to secure him, to escape her looming future with Lord Hosmer. “As I said, I know that you wish only for a marriage of convenience, and I am happy to abide by that choice. I will be a good wife.”
He opened his mouth to speak but she could not let him refuse her, she must make her plea now, or risk a lifetime of unhappiness.
“I know that I can be odd in my manners at times, but I will try harder, I will not disgrace you in the eyes of the ton or of our neighbours. I am willing to bear children, you have seen me with my nieces and nephews, I am fond of them. Our marriage will be everything you wanted to achieve.”
She stepped closer and now they were only a hand’s breadth apart, she could feel the warmth of his body.
Summoning all her courage she placed a hand on his chest where his heart was beating hard and fast below her palm.
She did not want to be too emotional, he might not like it, but there was too much at stake, she must plead her case. “Marry me, Laurence.”
Her voice shook. “Please.”
He looked down at her and slowly raised his hand, placed it over hers, warm over her cold skin.
There was one last moment of hesitation and then he said, “I will marry you, Frances.”
Relief swept over her, and she sagged.
Her movement towards him was met with him pulling her into his arms, holding her stiffly as though surprised at the turn of events.
He looked down at her, frowning, then lowered his face to hers and kissed her.
It was a soft kiss, and then he drew back, looking into her face as though seeking something there.
Frances only gazed back up at him, uncertain of what to do.
The kiss had been tender and gentle, she almost wanted him to kiss her again so that she could experience that unexpected touch again and better understand it, better explore all the sensations it had stirred in her.
But she had agreed to the marriage being one of convenience, and tender kisses were not part of that.
Perhaps the kiss was intended only to seal the agreement between them, she did not know if that was a custom, something a man would be expected to do to agree a betrothal.
She stepped back and at once he loosened his arms, letting her go.
She was right then, it had only been an acknowledgment of the agreement between them.
Even though she had liked it, she must not expect such intimacies regularly, for this was an arrangement, not a love match.
She would speak and behave more formally, so that he would know she was not trying to change his mind.
“I am grateful to you, Mr Mowatt. I am certain that our marriage will be a good one, you will not regret your decision. And now I will leave you, it is growing late and you have had a long journey. I will ask the servants to bring you a tray for your dinner, so that you can be comfortable. I will see you in the morning. Goodnight.”
He opened his mouth as though to speak but then closed it again and bowed. “Goodnight, Miss Lilley.”
She walked through the house, checking more than once that she had behaved correctly.
She had repeated her intentions to be a good wife.
She had secured his agreement and accepted a kiss as confirmation, without in any way suggesting that she would expect further intimacies, returning to using his surname rather than his first name.
She had thought of his comfort, withdrawing so that he might rest and arranging for him to have something to eat after his journey here.
These were all the actions of a reliable wife, she thought.
She had done her duty.
There was a lingering sensation of disappointment, of something just out of reach but she supposed that was only because of her planned life as a spinster, which was now gone from her future.
That was to be expected.
She would set the feeling aside.
It was better to be married to Mr Mowatt than to Lord Hosmer. She must make her peace with the sense of disappointment; it would fade, she was sure of it.
Laurence stood in the garden for some moments after Frances had left him.
One of the lanterns, burning low, sputtered and went out, the other lantern flickering as a chill wind passed, leaving him in deeper darkness.
He was engaged to the woman he loved.
A reckless joy rose up in his chest, making him want to shout out with happiness, but it was balanced by a cold chill that sank to his stomach like a lead weight.
What had he agreed to? He was to marry a woman he loved… but with the agreement that there should be nothing romantic between them, that the marriage was to be only one of expediency: he had saved her from a wretched future, she was to provide him with a suitable wife and, one day, with heirs.
That was all.
Nothing more.
But her lips.
He had watched her from the door before he had approached her, seen her swinging back and forth, her face set with a worried frown.
She had startled at his voice, then come to him, put her hand on his chest, made her case in a shaking voice that made him want to sweep her into his arms and hold her tightly, to promise that she would be safe with and loved by him, always.
But that was not what she had offered.
She would have been shocked by his change of attitude, might even have withdrawn the offer.
He knew the life she wanted: to be left alone to gather her shells, the days passing in solitude.
She did not really want a husband, she was simply afraid of the one being forced upon her.
His only chance of having her by his side was to agree to what she had offered, to save her from a barbarous future.
He made his way back into the house and was met by the footman, who assured him that Miss Lilley had made good on her word, a tray was about to be sent to his room.
She had asked for hot water that he might wash, and for one of the maids to put a bedwarmer in the bed to take off any chill.
He stood in his room and watched the steam rise from the water in the jug and basin.
Frances was keeping her word, being a thoughtful wife.
She would stick to her word, he was sure of it, but in that moment he would have given up the warm bed, the hot water, the fine meal, for one more kiss in the garden, just one.
She had moved towards him when he said he would marry her and it had made him reach out for her, take her in his arms and kiss her.
He had not been able to help himself.
But when she pulled back he had hastily let go of her and now he regretted it.
He should have held her, have asked gently if she would in time consider something more between them.
Too late.
The quick kiss would stand only as a token of their agreement, not the start of something more.
Could he now begin a conversation to change the terms of their agreement, would that be unwanted? He considered going along the corridor to her room, to softly knock and say… but no, that would be ungentlemanly in the extreme, would frighten her and make her think him a liar and a breaker of promises.
No.
He would leave it as it was for now.
Once the marriage was done, he would try, perhaps, to suggest that there could be more.
He would tread gently, he would not startle her with new demands.
It was possible, after all, that after their wedding night, when intimacies had been shared in which she took pleasure, she might reconsider their agreement, might open up to his suggestion that there could be love and pleasure in their marriage.
Yes.
He must tread with care.
He would behave with more formality, so that she could trust his word.
The next morning, Laurence woke late and found that Lord Barrington and Frances had already headed to the beach.
He refused breakfast, taking only a cup of coffee, and then mounted Hippomenes, urging the horse to a gallop to the shoreline.
There he dismounted and found a boy to watch the horse, all the while scanning the sands.
He spotted them with ease.
Frances, head down, the breeze playing with her skirts, making her way along the beach, which was full of visitors old and young.
Some way off, Lord Barrington sat in his chair, his carriage nearby, the footmen in attendance.
Laurence would go to him in a moment, but first he must see Frances, must touch her and speak with her, know that she was truly his betrothed, that he had not awakened from some strange dream.
“Miss Lilley!”
She turned at once and her face lit up with a smile that made his heart swell. He hurried across the beach to her, making his way past people. “Excuse me, good morning, excuse me…”
until he stood before her. She was dressed in a pale frothy green dress, as though newly risen from the sea, her cheeks and lips pink, eyes bright, meeting his gaze directly, unlike that first time when she had kept her eyes lowered even when speaking to him.
“Mr Mowatt…”
she began.
“Please call me Laurence.”
She swallowed. “Laurence,”
she repeated, voice low. “Good morning.”
It was not a dream. She had called him by his name.
“Frances,”
he said, panting with the dash of getting to her and the rush of emotions.
He looked down at her lips and badly wanted to kiss her again, but her wide grey eyes seemed anxious and instead he took her hand and pressed it.
He wanted to shout out loud, tell the whole world that she was promised to him.
She was to be his bride and that was all that mattered.
He wanted a witness of what had been agreed, wanted to make it real as soon as possible.
“We must tell Uncle, he will be very happy with the news.”
Frances nodded.
Her cheeks were flushed and when Laurence offered her his arm she took it without question.
They walked along the beach, feet slipping occasionally in the soft sand.
It took them a few minutes to reach Lord Barrington, whose head was reclined on a small pillow made for this purpose, eyes closed, resting in the bright sunlight.
One of the footmen had been dispatched to Northdown to bring back a picnic for the midday meal.
“Uncle Barrington?”
Laurence said.