Chapter 13 Viscountess Barrington
Chapter 13
Viscountess Barrington
T he wedding preparations were underway. A relieved Lord Lilley was determined that his youngest and final daughter to be married should have a sumptuous wedding. Lady Lilley, both delighted and amazed that Frances was finally to be wed, and to someone as eligible as the new, young, rich and handsome Lord Barrington, was equally determined that the wedding should be magnificent, as much a reproach to any who had doubted her daughter’s prospects as any desire to celebrate the marriage itself.
“I don’t want…” became Frances’ useless refrain, as her mother ordered yards of white silk and Brussels lace for the wedding dress, flowers in absurd quantities to decorate everything from Frances to the wedding breakfast table and the dining room itself, as well as a bride cake of vast proportions, to be decorated all over with shells moulded from icing and then gilded.
“But you love shells! And besides, it is too late now. It has been ordered and they have carved the moulds for the shells just for your cake.”
Then there was to be a flower girl to scatter rose petals, “at least six” bridesmaids and Laurence’s carriage would be repainted for the occasion, his new coat of arms proudly displayed on it.
It all sounded too much to Frances, but she was so overwhelmed with relief at Laurence having come for her, for his promise having been kept after all, that she bowed her head and allowed the preparations to whirl giddily around her, even though none of it was what she wanted. She would have been glad of a simple wedding, she and Laurence in a quiet chapel, silence around them so that she might listen to the sacred words that would bind them together, to have the opportunity to pray that he might, in time perhaps, come to love her. This huge bustle seemed very much the marriage of convenience that they had agreed on: full of show and pomp without any true meaning at all and it made her fearful that, having begun this way, it could only ever stay that way between them. Her worry was made far worse by a talk that Lady Lilley delivered, late one evening, coming to Frances’ bedroom and telling Deborah to leave.
“Now, Frances, I must speak with you,” began Lady Lilley, her pale cheeks blushing pink. “About your wedding night and… and future intimacies between you and Lord Barrington.”
Frances thought of how he had kissed her twice, how both times she would have liked more, how warm his hands were, his heart beating when she had laid her hand on his chest and begged him to marry her.
“Yes, Mama,” she said, hopefully leaning forward, ready to receive any guidance that Lady Lilley might be able to bestow which might bring her closer to Laurence.
Lady Lilley swallowed. “So, you must submit to your husband whenever he sees fit,” she began, clearing her throat twice before continuing. “That, you see, Frances, is how children are… begat,” she managed, reaching for a suitably biblical word to help her.
Frances nodded. “I would like children,” she said. “And Lord Barrington will expect them.”
Lady Lilley looked relieved. “Indeed,” she said, more confidently. “Quite right and proper. So, on the night of your wedding, and on any other night, your husband will come to your bedchamber, and you will… submit to him.”
Frances nodded, hoping that more details would be offered.
“And it is most important,” said Lady Lilley, swallowing and then clearing her throat again, “that, as a well-bred lady, you should not in any way behave… wantonly.”
“Wantonly?” Frances was not sure what was meant by this word. The only time she had heard a woman described so was a maid who had promptly been dismissed.
“You need not worry,” Lady Lilley assured her. “You need only keep very still and silent, and all will be well. You can close your eyes.”
“Still and silent?” repeated Frances uncertainly.
“Yes,” said Lady Lilley. “Submit to your husband and stay still and silent throughout the… the act. That way he will know that you are a true lady and be pleased with you. Then he will leave the bedchamber and you… well, Deborah will come to you and help you clean yourself.”
“Clean myself?”
“Yes,” said Lady Lilley, standing up with evident relief at having got through the entire explanation. “Goodnight, Frances.”
Frances was full of questions but they did not seem suitable, so she only nodded. “Goodnight, Mama.”
The door closed behind Lady Lilley and Frances sat and thought for a while. She had received no real guidance, but one phrase stood out to her. That Laurence would be pleased with her if she remained still and silent. She wanted very greatly to please him, to make him happy, to perhaps make him love her. She would do as her mother had instructed.
Laurence was excited. All the turmoil and sadness, the nonsense and misunderstandings of the past few months were about to be swept away, leaving him with a fresh new start and a happy life to look forward to. He was a viscount and his estates were all in sound order. He was about to marry Frances and, if he could persuade her, their marriage might become more than one of convenience. Yes, there was the fuss of an overly lavish society wedding to be got through, but once that was done, he could make Frances happy, he was sure of it. In quiet moments, alone, he thought of her wide eyes, her soft lips and that shocking but erotic glimpse of her thighs. He would teach her all he himself had learnt in the bedchamber for their mutual pleasure.
On the morning of the wedding, Frances was roused before dawn to be bathed and dressed, her mother hovering over the servants, making even her accomplished lady’s maid nervous, while faithful Deborah was demoted to an assistant, fetching and carrying. Frances submitted to being dressed in a gown of white silk trimmed with Brussels lace, topped with a pelisse in white satin trimmed with swansdown. The cold pearls were slipped around her neck, her wrists, the earrings poked into her ears, the weight of them pulling at her lobes. Her hair must be curled. Hairpieces would not do for so important an occasion, Lady Lilley decreed, and so she must sit still while the ringlets were carefully teased into position, then topped with the magnificent tiara, from which a delicate veil was draped.
The carriage took her to St James’ church in Piccadilly, for no society wedding could fail to be held there and Frances wilted at the noise and bustle of dozens of carriages, followed by the whispering rustles as everyone took their seats, the overpowering scent of vetiver, the stylish perfume of the moment, bringing on a wave of nausea.
She barely heard the words spoken over them, managed a faint, “I will,” when a silence fell and she was stared at expectantly, held out her hand as the ring slipped over her third finger, then wrote her name. She would have liked to have clung to Laurence, but that would indicate too great an intimacy between them and she did not want him to think her presumptuous. Instead, she only lightly rested her hand on his arm as they accepted well wishes and returned to her new London home in Grosvenor Square, Barrington House, for the wedding breakfast.
More than sixty diners gathered together in the ballroom, which was decorated with flowers and a table laden with every agreeable dish suited to the occasion, from rolls, butter, tongue and ham to hot chocolate and buttered toast, cakes of every kind, the bridecake itself sitting, gold and white, in the very centre. There must be cutting of it and tasting the heavy fruit cake, while many toasts were drunk to their health and to the marriage.
And then it was over.
All the fuss, all the endless noise and smells and tastes, the constant kissing and shaking of her hand. All gone. Now she was alone and at last she could rest.
Except that she was not alone. She was in a strange house, full of unknown servants and, above all, a husband.
“Deborah can take your bonnet and pelisse,” said Laurence. “Then we can go to the drawing room.”
Silent, she nodded and Deborah hurried to undo the bonnet and lift it away from the precious ringlets, unbutton and remove the pelisse. Frances would have liked her to have removed all the pearls as well, but that would be thought of as odd. She followed Laurence into the drawing room.
“We will travel to Margate in a few weeks’ time,” he began, and saw her face light up. He gave an anxious laugh. “Although I should warn you, we have also been invited to a ball held in our honour.”
Frances stiffened. “A ball?”
He nodded. “At the Assembly Rooms, it is themed to be a Pearl Ball.” He might as well tell her the worst of it. “There will be over a hundred guests and our hostess is Mrs Pagington.”
A vast ball at which she, as a new bride, was to be the guest of honour. A ball at which everyone would stare at her and expect her to be the perfect Viscountess Barrington, would judge her manners and behaviour, her grace or lack thereof. Laurence watched her downcast face. He had failed her, though it would have been impossible to have refused without causing offence. He wanted to make light of the ball, to find some humour in their hostess’ overbearing manners, but the look on Frances’ face left him silent.
They ate a small quiet nuncheon, neither having much appetite after the lavish wedding breakfast, before climbing into the carriage to drive to the Surrey estate, a matter of four hours. For much of the journey Frances closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, for any familiarity or friendliness between them seemed to have gone, lost in polite formality.
Ashland Manor was a grand old building. Once a Tudor castle, its various owners down the years had updated it and added to it, so that now it was comfortable and elegant inside, if something of a hodge-podge of styles on the outside, but it had a charm of its own and vast gardens which spoke of the late Lord Barrington’s love of nature. Frances thought she might be happy living here for the greater part of the year, once she had grown used to it.
Laurence helped her down from the carriage and past the overwhelming sight of over a hundred staff waiting to greet them, his hand tightly clasping hers as they entered the manor, for which she was grateful. He led her up the grand staircase and along a corridor.
“These are your rooms,” he said eagerly, throwing open a door.
Frances looked around the bedroom, which had a dressing room and parlour off to the side. She nodded. The room was freshly decorated, she could tell, but it was too much for her tired senses. There were strong colours and patterns, as well as the overpowering smell of perfumes and soaps set out on her dressing room table. It was not a restful suite of rooms.
“It is… lovely,” she managed. “May I see downstairs?”
“Of course,” he said, excitedly. “There is something special I had arranged for you.”
She waited, silent. Her sisters would have made squealing noises, would have gasped or begged to know what it was. To them, receiving a gift was always exciting. But gifts made Frances anxious. She did not know what they would be and she often did not respond appropriately to them if she did not much care for them or was uncertain. She had seen the disappointment from gift-givers too many times, when they looked at her blank expression and frowned or seemed put out at her lack of enthusiasm, an enthusiasm her sisters always displayed, even if afterwards she would hear them dismiss a gift they had declared “delightful,” or “enchanting”.
“Come, it is downstairs.”
She trailed behind him to the drawing room, which was very large and decorated in a pale duck-egg blue, a light and airy room with delicate furniture and a sumptuous fireplace in white marble. This room was not too overbearing. More full of trinkets than she would have chosen herself, but the colour was restful to her eyes. She hoped she might rest here for a while, in silence and peace, for the day had been exhausting.
“There.”
Laurence gestured behind her. She turned and was confronted by a vast cabinet which took up most of the wall. It reached as high as the ceiling and the upper part was glass fronted, while the lower part had many small drawers.
Frances stared. In the uppermost tiers, safe behind the glass, were all manner of huge shells, each larger than a man’s hand, some as large as her head, of many colours and shapes, all of them clearly from foreign shores.
“Open a drawer,” said Laurence.
She reached out in a daze and pulled at the closest handle, which caused a wide but shallow drawer to open, displaying, beautifully presented, row upon row of pink-tinged shells, from those smaller than her little finger’s nail to ones almost as large as her hand.
“And another,” said Laurence.
She pulled at another, hardly able to see, dizziness coming over her. This drawer was arranged by shape, focusing on those shells which curled inwards on themselves, creating whorls and spirals.
“I spoke with sailors from all over the world,” said Laurence. “I had them bring me anything they had to add to the collection and have commissioned more to come.”
Frances stood silent. A wave of tiredness swept over her. The shells were… they were… she did not even have the words, only that she could not bear any more of these surprises, new experiences, new expectations. The burden of being the new viscountess was building higher and higher above her, about to come crashing down. She had a desperate need to be alone, to have silence around her, to have no-one looking at her, least of all Laurence, whom she loved and wanted to make happy, yet could not seem able to do so.
“Do you like it?” he asked, a note of anxiety creeping into his voice.
She did not answer.
“I thought having a collection like this would be a talking point for you when guests visit us,” he tried again, explaining. “Is it – do you not like it?”
“No,” she said.
“Why?”
She swallowed, found the words she had been searching for. “My shells are… private. They are not for others, they are not… a pastime or fashionable accomplishment. They are…” she could feel herself growing dizzy again, could feel, shamefully, tears welling up, her voice wavering, “… mine. They are mine .”
Laurence’s face showed nothing but bewilderment. He half-gestured to the towering cabinet. “They – they are yours, I had them brought here, the cabinet made – all for you. They are yours.”
The tears overflowed, drip-dripped onto her cheek and then the floor before Frances ran, out of the drawing room, through the hallway and up the stairs, mistakenly turning first left and then right along the corridor to her rooms, the door slamming behind her into Laurence’s face who had followed her.
He stood silent outside, then put his hand on the door.
“Frances? Frances!”
He could hear her sobbing, followed by an incoherent speech in which he heard the word shells more than once, but it did not sound as though she were even speaking to him, rather speaking to herself, repeating what had upset her.
“Frances! I am coming in.”
He heard a wavering, “No,” from inside and hesitated, but then turned the handle and entered the room. Frances was slumped on the floor, face resting on her dressing table chair.
Frances buried her head still further into the chair. How to explain to him? Even in the whirl of other emotions there was the hot flush of shame. Laurence had spent not just time and money but care in collecting such extraordinary shells and having them placed inside the beautifully made cabinet. He had tried to do something to make her happy and she was weeping. It was ungrateful, but the desolation came from him not understanding her at all. The shells were her world, her passion and comfort. They were not, never had been, a pretty pastime to flaunt to the world. They had never been something others understood the way she did. People would exclaim over how pretty they were, before their eyes glazed over and they would pass on to something else, some other more important topic of conversation, the latest fashions, the latest gossip. The shells were a secret part of herself and Laurence did not understand. Why was his lack of understanding so painful? After all, she had never cared whether her father and mother understood about the shells , nor any of her siblings, and so it had not hurt when they did not.
But there was something about Laurence, she now realised, that had made her want to share the shells with him. He had walked the beaches with her, had offered shells he had found, had listened. He had, during the house party, understood something she had not even known herself, which was that if she thought about shells she could dance, could find grace and rhythm within herself without the constraint of social rules and the niceties expected of her. He had made her his wife and she had thought happiness might lie within her reach. But this kind gesture brought the illusion crashing down. The shells he had collected and displayed for her were a talking point, a pretty, fashionable pastime for a viscount’s wife, something to impress visitors, not part of her private world. And she did not know how to explain it to him, how to reject his gift in a way that he would understand. How could he? He had done what he thought was kind, and generous, and he was right, would have been right had Frances been any other woman. Any other woman would have embraced him, would have thanked him and shown off the gift as a mark of her husband’s care of her, his love for her.
The heat of shame flooded through her again, the inability to be as others were. She had failed again. And now he was her husband. A husband who would shortly expect her to… Lady Lilley’s worried face and paltry lack of details when explaining how Frances should behave on the wedding night and indeed what was to occur, had not been in the least reassuring, but Frances was determined to do her wifely duty, such as running the household and bearing children and if bearing children meant lying still and allowing the new Lord Barrington to do as he pleased, then that was what she would do.
She sat up. “I am sorry. I am just… very tired.” Weary to the bone was what she wanted to say, but Laurence was trying so hard to please her, she did not want to distress him further.
His face cleared at once. “Of course. Of course. I should have thought. It has been a very long day and what with the travel and everything… Shall I have them send up a tray for your supper? Deborah can attend you and then you can sleep.”
“But…”
“But?”
She swallowed, her cheeks turning hot. “It is our… wedding night…”
He shook his head, smiling. “It can wait, Frances. We have all of our lives together. You need rest.”
The next day progressed more smoothly. Appalled by how badly the first day of their marriage had gone Laurence had given strict instructions not to wake Frances, to allow her to get as much sleep as she needed. He inquired of Deborah what kind of breakfast her mistress would most like and had hot chocolate and buttered toast sent to her room as soon as she wakened. He hovered downstairs until she presented herself, when he had hurried her away from any staring servants and instead took her for a walk around the gardens, which she seemed to enjoy. They ate a light midday meal outside, the better to enjoy the warm spring day, and then he took her in an open-topped carriage for a drive around Ashfield Manor’s estate so that she might get her bearings and see her new home. He carefully suggested she might like to rest again in the afternoon, before welcoming her to dinner, ensuring there should not be the overly-formal seating she had once objected to, the two of them instead seated opposite one another at one end. There were rabbits with onions and collared mutton, an asparagus soup, stewed celery, roast chickens, French beans, lamb cutlets, orange jelly and raspberry puffs.
Laurence made a point of asking Frances about her shells, promising they should spend some time collecting them in Margate after the Pearl Ball, and she seemed in good humour. At the end of the meal she hesitated, looking about her as though expecting a signal which would once have come from her mother.
“Perhaps you would like to retire to your rooms now,” Laurence suggested carefully, “and I will… join you there in a while?”
She blushed at once, her cheeks growing rosy and murmured some kind of assent, before disappearing upstairs.
Laurence waited a while before ascending, hoping to find her comfortably lying in bed, but instead she was sitting stiffly at her dressing table, wrapped in a dark blue robe, from which he could see her bare feet peeping out. He himself was naked under his silk banyan robe, and he sat on the bed and patted the covers beside him.
“Come, Frances. Make yourself comfortable.”
She rose at once and made her way to the bed, where she removed her outer robe, revealing her long white nightgown, trimmed with fine lace. Peeling back the heavy covers and sheet, she lay down cautiously on the bed, her ankles neatly together, her hands folded over her stomach, eyes closed.
Laurence almost wanted to laugh at the sight of her, but she must be shy. He would be gentle with her and soon she would willingly be in his arms, he was sure of it. He had waited for an eternity since he first realised his feelings for her and now they were together at last.
He lay on his side next to her and gently kissed her lips. She lay, unmoving, her eyes still closed.
“Frances?”
She opened her eyes and gazed at him, her expression telling him nothing at all, then closed her eyes again.
He stroked the curve of her neck and bent to kiss her there, then gently pulled away her nightgown from her shoulder so that he might kiss her there also, his lips tracing the curve of her collarbone. Her skin was like warm silk and he slowly unbuttoned her nightgown, exposing her breasts. Her eyes remained closed, she did not even turn her face towards him, her expression blank. Perhaps she was too exposed. Perhaps she would prefer to be held close, a more intimate position. He put an arm about her and pulled her lightly towards him, that he might hold her in his arms, close to him. She moved obediently but then lay still in his embrace, almost as though she were asleep.
Laurence frowned down at her, uncertain at her odd behaviour, then redoubled his efforts. He caressed every part of her, all the while holding her to him, kissed her soft lips and breasts, revelling in the beauty of her. He desired her, but she seemed so… absent. So silent, so still.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered to her, thinking her perhaps uncertain of her appearance. “I have been desperate for this moment with you to come.” Slowly, he let his hand slip down her nightgown, pulling it upwards so that he might touch her most intimate treasure.
It took all the willpower Frances had to obey her mother’s instructions. She was shy at first, trembling as she waited for Laurence to join her. Once on the bed, though, his touch was so gentle, so blissful, that she longed to return it, not that she knew what to do but she wanted to return his kisses at least, to lay her hands on his bare skin and feel it warm beneath her. He touched her in ways that made her want to gasp with both shock and delight, but she tightened her lips and remained silent. She also kept her eyes shut, as instructed, but when he began to move above her she was unable to resist and tried to look at him through her lashes, saw his face lost in passion and wished she might hold him closer to her. Even when there was a little pain, it was entwined with a delight that was tantalisingly out of her reach. If only she could touch him, hold him tightly, a greater joy would be hers. But her mother had been very certain and this was a marriage of convenience, after all. Their purpose in this bedchamber was to make a child, an heir, and so she steeled every part of herself only to lie still and make no sound. When it seemed to all be over she lay quietly as Laurence kissed her again and then fell asleep beside her, even though Lady Lilley had assured her that he would return to his chamber. When she was certain he was asleep, she dared to lay one hand upon his bare arm, enjoying the warmth of his skin, hoping that she had brought him pleasure.
Laurence awoke early the next morning. He turned his head to look at Frances, asleep beside him. Her long dark hair fell over part of her face and her expression was peaceful, one bare arm resting close to his hand. He wanted to wake her, to try again to bring her pleasure, but the thought of last night made him draw back.
A cold fish.
She was a sea-creature, a chilly siren who had lured him with her wide eyes and her unusual ways. He had believed that there was softness inside, that if he found his way into her heart she would open up to him and him alone, that there would be an intimacy between them. He had thought they could grow closer together, that there would be love between them and the warmth he had been longing for these past months. But she had lain there without moving, without any expression, had not uttered a sound, had kept her eyes closed as though the very sight of him was offensive to her. He was a skilled lover, able to indulge different women in ways that achieved gratification for each, for he had been a willing apprentice in the past. Now, with his beloved in his arms, he had expected to give her whatever she desired and yet he had failed. She had been utterly unmoved, and his own pleasure had been the lesser for it. He would try again, of course. They were married and they must have heirs, but how was it that the delights he had hoped to share were now to be denied him, impossible to achieve? Truly it would become only a marriage of convenience. He sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands. Was he to return to the married women of the past years? His shoulders sagged at the idea. He had enjoyed them, certainly, but now, with his love for Frances, he had hoped for more, he had hoped that he might enjoy her intimacies and bring her pleasure. Now it seemed to him that the dream he had cherished was only a foolish notion.