The Viscount’s Pearl (Regency Outsiders #2)

Chapter 14 The Pearl Ball

Chapter 14

The Pearl Ball

T he Pearl Ball was only two weeks away. Laurence had the uneasy feeling they should not attend after all, but of course it would be impossible to do so when it was being held in their honour. Frances was pleasant and accommodating in every way, but still, there was something wrong.

Things were not right in the bedchamber, that he was sure of. He could only hope that matters would improve over time, but it hurt him to go to her rooms and be received with such silent stiff solemnity. Nevertheless, he persevered, trying different things each time, hoping for some sign of enjoyment, some hint of what might give her pleasure. As yet, he’d had no success, which was humbling.

Perhaps he had not understood Frances, as his attempts to please her in other ways had failed too. The shell collection – well, that had been a disaster.

There was something different about her rooms, as well, which he could not put his finger on, until one night when he realised that the many expensive and exclusive perfumes and soaps he had ordered for her from Floris and D. R. Harris were nowhere to be seen. Paintings had been removed from the walls, which made them look bare, and the curtains had been taken down and replaced with ones that were plain pale blue, almost white.

He propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at Frances. “You changed the rooms. No perfumes, no paintings, the curtains are plain.”

She looked back at him, face troubled. “You object?”

He shook his head. “Of course not. They are your rooms. Why did you change them, though? What was not to your liking?”

She swallowed, looking uncomfortable under his questioning. “I do not like strong perfumes. I am sure the ones you chose were lovely, but I prefer plain soaps and I do not wear perfume. And there was…” She shook her head. “Too much. There were too many patterns and pictures and I could not look restfully anywhere. I am sorry. I prefer plain things, otherwise I feel… overwhelmed.”

He nodded, then was silent for a few moments. “If there is any other room in the house that you find… overwhelming… you may decorate it however you please. This is your home now.”

She took a breath and let it out as though in relief. “Might I change the dining room and the drawing room? We are there a great deal and they are… exhausting.”

He had never thought of them as exhausting, the dining room a rich red with grand portraits of long-gone ancestors. The drawing room a delicate blue, filled with ornaments and paintings, floral arrangements and furniture.

“Frances, please do as you wish with them.”

“And if you do not like them afterwards?”

He shook his head. “I rarely think about what rooms look like. I doubt I will notice. If the decor bothers you, it should be changed.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was a whisper, but she put out a hand to touch his shoulder and Laurence, eager for any sign of warmth from her, placed his hand over hers.

The ancestral portraits were moved to other parts of the house and the dining room was repainted to a woodland green, with little in the way of decorations but some very fine chandeliers and candelabra. The drawing room retained its colour but lost most of its ornaments and at least half of its paintings, while the floral arrangements increased, making the room less cluttered and more in keeping with the view out of the windows into the gardens beyond. Laurence found the changes agreeable and said so, at which Frances seemed to grow in confidence. She had found her way with the housekeeper and the household was well run, to a strict timetable, so that he could be sure that breakfast would be served exactly at nine, tea at three in the afternoon. Frances seemed to like this regularity, the certainty of knowing what would happen. He was beginning to understand her better, though he still wished to give her a gift that would truly please her.

The gangly young man was sent for again and stood awkwardly in front of him.

“You understand the assignment?” Laurence inquired, anxious since his first gift had gone so badly. “This section of the library is to be entirely devoted to books and other papers or subscriptions… everything that is available on shells. You can place orders in my name, spare no expense. If you need my carriage to travel to London or further afield to collect such items, or require the assistance of a footman, both are at your service.”

“Of course, Lord Barrington.”

“And it must be done quickly. You have one week and one week only.”

“Yes, Lord Barrington.”

In the days that followed, the young man took his task in earnest. A stream of boxes and parcels were delivered to the house, the carriage went out a few times and more than one footman was kept busy with errands. Meanwhile, in the library, there were new shelves to be built and the delivery of a new chair. Finally, all was in readiness and, his nerves rising, Laurence sent a footman to ask if the Viscountess would be so good as to join him downstairs.

Being summoned by a footman was a formality Frances associated with having done something wrong, again, and being lectured by either her father or her mother. Reluctantly, she made her way down the stairs a week before the ball, where Laurence was waiting for her.

“I have something to show you, Frances,” he said.

She followed him through the hallway and into the library, which was larger than the one she had grown up with and filled with beautiful books on all the walls, in shelves which reached as high as the ceiling.

“This – I thought this part of the library might be especially for you,” he said, gesturing awkwardly towards a niche. He looked anxious, probably thrown by her dislike of the shell display, now perhaps regretting this gift also.

She looked. By a large window was a niche, the width of her outstretched arms. The shelves here were also amply filled, and next to them was placed a rocking chair with a delicate Chinese screen by the side, creating a partly-enclosed area, obscured from the rest of the room. She smiled at the sight of the rocking chair. A book on the shelf caught her eye and she reached up to it. “Donovan’s Natural History of British Shells !”

Laurence’s expression grew more confident. “Yes. And… others… I had a man procure you a small library dedicated to shells.”

She let go of the book, leaving it half-pulled out on the shelf and turned to him, her face lit up. “Thank you.”

He smiled, his shoulders losing their tense posture. “I am glad you like it.”

She hesitated, then moved closer to him and put her arms about his waist, leaning her cheek against his warm chest. She could hear his heartbeat. “You are a very kind husband.”

His arms came around her at once. At first his embrace was too tight, too much, and she was about to pull away, but then something else settled upon her, a strange peacefulness and instead she pressed closer to him, the tightness a release, her breath growing slower, as though she were about to sleep.

They stood like this for some moments and only when Laurence moved to look down at her face, did she step back. He let go of her at once, but his eyes were warm and Frances almost wanted to step back into his embrace, but she was uncertain. Would it be odd, to simply want to stand in silence, arms about one another? Instead she sat down in the rocking chair and rocked gently, smiling up at Laurence, eager to show that she was grateful for this gift, that this space was right for her, that he had better understood her desires than when he had given her the towering display of shells.

Buoyed up by this small success, Laurence sought out an altogether different sort of help. The burly foreman whom he instructed seemed confused by the purpose of the work he was to oversee, but Laurence impressed upon him that it must be completed as soon as possible, and paid handsomely to ensure its urgency was understood.

The night of the Margate Pearl Ball was upon them. It was a full moon, lending a twilight glow to the gardens. The Assembly Rooms were glittering with hundreds of candles as well as the decorations made especially for the occasion, including three chandeliers made out of shells. In the tea room were three giant ice sculptures, one of an open clam shell on which had been laid out hundreds of oysters waiting to be eaten, one a seahorse and one a mermaid, the two of which overlooked a table loaded with brilliantly coloured jellies and iced biscuits, many of which were shaped like shells.

The guests, well briefed on the theme of the ball, had taken the idea to heart. The ladies mostly wore white and their pearls, the gentlemen dressed in black but added pearls here and there to their cravat pins, the studs fastening their cuffs, some even attaching a few dangling teardrop pearls to their watch fobs.

But all eyes were on Frances, whose white silk gown was overlaid with a net into which had been worked tiny seed pearls. She wore the tiara and pearls left to her by her godfather. Laurence gazed at her as he led her in.

“You are utterly lovely,” he said. He felt the warmth of her body against his, thought again of how impossible these moments seemed, when there was closeness and yet no pleasure in their marital bed, wondered if he could bear the ache it left in his heart much longer. How was he to break through her reserve?

“I feel overdressed.”

He looked down at her and shook his head. She could not see it for herself, but the shining white of the silk and the pearls made her dark hair and grey eyes stand out in contrast. No doubt many of the ladies present thought her skin too brown, but Laurence thought she looked far healthier than most of them. He could see the sunny beach and smell the salt air when he looked at her, rather than the powders and perfumes of dressing rooms. It made him want to hold her close to him, to stroke her dark hair and kiss her long dark lashes, but that would be unseemly and already he was beginning to avoid such moments, for fear of her cool rejection.

Mrs Pagington had spotted them and hurried across the room to greet them.

“My dear Lady Barrington,” she exclaimed, “I do declare it is a great pleasure to meet you at last. The late Lord Barrington was a dear friend of mine and the very least I could do was hold a ball to welcome the new Lord Barrington – and when I was told he had a new bride – well, it called for a double celebration! Now come, my dear, I must introduce you to everyone!”

There followed an unbearable half hour during which names and faces were presented in such a rapid fashion that Frances began to feel dizzy. When Mrs Pagington said she must tell the musicians to strike up Frances turned to Laurence in dismay.

“We must dance with our hosts and the other guests,” Laurence said reluctantly. “I will return to you when I have done my duty.”

Frances felt the weight of what she had agreed to as she danced with first one gentleman and then another, did her best to make small talk and not be her usual blunt self. She could feel the strain of the effort building up in her, had a desperate urge to run home to the gardens at Northdown and sit on the swing, to feel, in its motion, a release of the tension inside her. But that was not what she had promised; she had promised to be Lord Barrington’s viscountess, to be a good wife to him. These sorts of events would be part of that agreement. So she must find a way to bear it.

She danced with a seemingly endless array of guests, if only to escape the smothering attentions of Mrs Pagington, when at last she turned to find Laurence by her side.

“Will you accompany me?” he asked.

She took his arm. “I would like a jelly and a drink.” What she really wanted was to escape the Assembly Rooms altogether and go and stand in the cool dark gardens of Northdown House, under the old mulberry and cherry trees, but no doubt that was unsuitable behaviour for a viscountess; she had got away with it only occasionally as a girl. A wife could not be permitted such liberties. A drink of something cold and refreshing was all she could hope for.

He shook his head. “No time for that.”

“No time for it? What else is there to do but eat and drink or dance?”

“That is for everyone else. We have something better to do.”

She thought he meant the bedroom and her cheeks grew warm at the idea of his hands touching her, but he did not steer her towards the hallway and front door, but to a small door leading to a side street. She followed, confused, then stopped and stared at the sight of a phaeton and two horses, a groom standing holding their reins, little lanterns dangling from it. “Where are we going?”

“It is a surprise.”

“A surprise?” She was uncertain. If he had said home, she would have gladly gone, but a surprise? Anxious dread grew inside her stomach. Was he going to do something kind but which she did not like again? She would try to seem grateful but she was a poor actress.

“Get in.” He held out his hand and she took it and climbed in with difficulty, trying to avoid the net of pearls from being damaged.

Once in, Laurence joined her and nodded to the groom, who handed him the reins.

“Are you warm enough, or shall I send for a shawl for you?”

She was so bewildered that she could not feel anything, so she only shook her head in silence.

“Very well then.” He shook the reins and the carriage moved through Cecil Square and onto the street that would lead them out to the main road. The full moon was their only pale source of light and deep shadows surrounded them. Laurence guided the horses to a comfortable trot when they reached the main road, heading upwards towards the centre of Margate. Frances sat, trembling at the oddness of Laurence’s actions. What sort of surprise required them to leave a ball held in their honour and drive a carriage through the dark night? More than once she looked at Laurence’s face, trying to make it out in the shadows but his expression was carefully serene.

“Here we are.”

Frances peered into the darkness and saw Belle Vue Cottage. Laurence sprang down from the carriage and held up his hand to her, but she stared at the dark outline of the house, a sinking feeling in her stomach. Had she failed so utterly as a wife to him already that he was returning her here, to live alone? Would he set her up here as she had been living before, his wife in name only? Did he find her company so repugnant that he believed they must live separately? Must she live here, lonely as she had been before?

“Come, take my hand.”

How eager he was to return her here. Had the ball been only a moment to show her off, a facade for the world, before taking her back where she belonged? There was a faint glimmer from the windows. Perhaps the servants had not waited up and she would have to make her way upstairs to the cold room that she had thought she had escaped. She would have to remove this dress by herself, trapped in its pearl nets, a dress suitable only for a successful viscountess, not for a failed wife, a spinster-wife. Slowly, she climbed out of the carriage, stood before him, waited while he tied the horses to a tree and then turned back to her, his face serious.

“I do not want this marriage, Frances.”

The cold dread grew in her. She was right. He did not want her, he had never really wanted her. She hung her head. The weight of failure again, the knowledge that she was unwanted by everyone, that she was never enough, never how others wanted her, always a disappointment.

“Frances. Look at me.”

It was hard to look into his eyes. But she did it, held his gaze with difficulty, waiting for the verdict, the judgement. He would say that they must keep separate homes, that he could not live with her, that it was not even a marriage of convenience.

He gazed into her eyes and when he spoke his voice shook. “I cannot live like this, Frances. I do not want a marriage in name only.”

Divorce? He was going to ask for a divorce? Beyond failure then. Utter humiliation and disaster, scandal, shame. Her eyes burned with tears, but she held his gaze, her chin raised up high. Better to hear it straight, no falsities, no half-truths now.

“I love you, Frances.”

She stared at him. She had not heard correctly. He must have said that he did not love her, that much was plain, there was no need to state it. She waited to hear the rest of what he had to say to her, eyes glazed over, unable to bear his gaze.

“Frances? Do you hear me? I love you.”

She blinked and frowned, tried to focus on what he was saying, to understand, but suddenly he was holding her close to him, his face only inches away, speaking urgently.

“I do not want a marriage of convenience. I want you to be my real wife. I do not want you to hide yourself from me, to run away one day like a selkie bride because you cannot be yourself. I need you to be happy, so that you will stay with me forever, because I love you. I –”

He broke off and grabbed her hand, pulling her towards Belle Vue Cottage, then turning the corner before they reached the door, pulling open the wrought iron gate that led to the garden, his hand gripping hers so hard it almost hurt, her dancing slippers encountering hard pebbles beneath her feet, stumbling in the shadows.

He stopped, at last, panting, by a large flat rock Frances had not seen before in the garden, let go of her hand and bent to lift it, sliding it to one side with a grunt, revealing a large hole in the ground, from which light dimly glowed, the shape of a ladder disappearing downwards. She stepped back, startled.

“What is down there?”

“A gift. Do you trust me?”

She looked into his face. “Yes,” she whispered. She could not yet believe what he had just said to her, not fully, but there was a desperation to it that spoke of truthfulness and she wanted to believe him, wanted to hope that what he had said was true.

He moved round the hole and began to climb into it, feet on the ladder, slowly moving downwards until his head was at her feet, when he looked up and lifted up his hand to her. “Come.”

It was difficult in her dancing slippers and the silk and pearl dress did not help matters, but she made her way down the ladder, hands shaking as she held the rough wood, Laurence’s hands pressed gently about her waist, guiding her and stopping her from falling. Finally, her feet touched solid ground and she let go of the ladder, turned to face him.

They were standing in a dirt tunnel. Above them was a domed ceiling containing the hole up to the garden of Belle Vue Cottage. Around them, a wider circular space cut into the earth, the chalk walls the height of a man and a half. Leading away from the space in which they stood were three passageways, each one also full height, the width less than her outstretched arms. All along the walls were little niches, into which were set flickering candles.

Her voice came out as a whisper. “What is this place?”

Laurence stood before her, his face hopeful, excited. “A place for your shells. A place for you and you alone. No-one need know it exists, even, if you do not want them to. You can be alone here with them, if you wish. We will have to be at Ashland Manor for part of the year, but we can be at Northdown whenever you choose and Belle Vue Cottage can be your secret place. It – it is not all finished yet, there was not enough time, but I wanted to show it to you tonight, I could not be patient any longer. Later, when it is all complete, I will have them dig a tunnel from the cellar of the house so that you can come here easily. But for now we had to climb down – shall I show you the rest?”

“The rest?”

He took her hand and began to lead her.

They walked through a tunnel, perhaps thirty feet long, then came to a large empty room, rectangular in shape, at least fifteen by twenty feet, filled with glowing candles, lending the dark chamber an otherworldly air.

“It is like a church,” she whispered. “How did you find it? Was it here all along?”

He turned to her, grinning. “I had it dug out.”

“All this?”

He nodded.

“For me?”

“For you.”

She looked up at him, gazed into his face as though seeking answers.

“I want you to be happy,” he said. “I tried before, with your room and the shells but then I realised they were not right.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, a wave of sadness rising up in her, the familiar sense of failure. “I was rude, and I did not –”

“No,” he interrupted. “No. You were right. I did things to please a bride. A human bride. But you are a selkie bride.” He gave a laugh and his eyes shone with tears. “You are not like other women, and I gave you the wrong gifts, gifts that would please a different woman. I did not stop to think about what I knew of you, what you showed me of your true self.”

“The library –”

He nodded. “The library was better. I learnt from my mistakes.”

She looked back at him and then leant her head against his chest, felt his arms come gently about her and then tighten. Once again the tightness was too much, trapping her, squeezing her. But there was another desire inside her, a desire to be held, and she took a deeper breath and let it out, leant into him, the tightness now safety, love, belonging.

They stood there for a long time, in silence. Finally, Laurence loosened his embrace and she looked up into his face.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, waiting.

“What you said before…”

“I meant every word. I love you, Frances. Will you – would you be happy to have a true marriage with me? I cannot bear for us to have only a marriage of convenience. You are not a convenience to me. You are – you are everything.”

She took a step back and he frowned, but she put out her hand and he took it in his.

“I will.”

He let go of her hand, touched her cheek, then cupped her face in both hands and kissed her softly. At once she stiffened under his hands and lips. He looked down at her, disappointed. “Frances, do you not like to be kissed? To be… touched, when we are alone… in bed, even? Tell me.”

She frowned up at him. “It is… wonderful,” she managed at last. “It is… so much feeling that I think I will… I do not know what, that I might die from so much pleasure.”

He stared at her, lost for words. “But…” He tried again. “But you lie so still, you close your eyes, you do not…”

Her frown grew deeper. “My mother said… that a lady must not… must not show…” She swallowed. “She said a lady should lie still and silent, that she should close her eyes and let her husband do as he wishes,” she finished, cheeks crimson and voice low. “Is that not right? I tried to do it right, but it was difficult to stay still when I felt… so much.”

“Oh, Frances,” he whispered. “Oh Frances, my strange selkie. Your mother was… she was so wrong , Frances.” He grabbed her and crushed her to him, and she startled, but then embraced him as tightly as he held her. “Frances, promise me you will never follow the ways of the ton , ever again.”

She let out a gasp of laughter. “I have never been adept at following their ways.”

“Then leave them entirely behind. I beg you.” He held her at arm’s length, looking into her face, then gently pulled her back to him and kissed her again and this time she was soft in his arms, her lips moved beneath his, her mouth opened to his touch and they were lost in one another.

“Come,” he said after a few moments.

“Come where?” She hoped not back to the ball, although she could bear it better now.

“Down to the sea to find the first shells for your grotto, of course.”

“But the ball…”

“You see? You are the perfect guest.”

She laughed as he steadied the ladder for her, climbing out and then reaching her hand back for him, his grasp firm on her hand as he reached the top and brushed himself down, sliding the cover back into place.

“We cannot go back like this, anyway,” she said. They were both dusty and her train had a little rip in it.

“The other guests will not mind,” he said. “They have music, a ballroom and fine food and drink. They do not need us to enjoy themselves.”

The horses were munching grass. Laurence helped Frances back into the phaeton, took the reins and they proceeded at a brisk trot down the hill to the beach at Margate. They sat close now, their bodies pressed together, and glanced at one another from time to time as though disbelieving the other was there at all.

“When we walked together that day and were caught by the tides,” Laurence said, “I was shocked by you. The way you lifted your skirts and walked through the sea.”

She shook her head. “I wanted to show you how wrong you were, about the tides. I was being stubborn. I should probably have let you carry me. It would have been more ladylike. I lifted my skirts higher than I should to scandalise you.”

“I saw your stockings and ribbons,” he said, his voice grown husky at the memory. “I saw a glimpse of your thighs. I have never desired a woman so much in my life.”

She said nothing and he wondered if he had offended her, but then she reached out and took the reins from his hands, turned the horses’ heads to the right.

“What are you doing?”

She did not answer and he, wondering, allowed her to drive them along the cliff path, away from Margate. When she finally reined in the horses, they were at the start of the pathway that cut through the cliffs and down into Botany Bay.

“What are we doing here?”

She held out the reins to him. “Tie up the horses,” she said, and climbed down from the carriage, walking away from him down the little path.

He tied them up and hurried after her. “The tide is high,” he called after her. “It may not be right for collecting shells.”

She only kept walking and he followed her as she made her way to the vast cliff stack and its archway, the space she had once walked through, rendering him breathless. The sea was where it had been that day. The same depth, almost to the knees, and she was not stopping. She knew the tides intimately, must have known they would be the same height as they had been that day. She walked into the sea without stopping, without pulling up her silk dress, and made her way to the centre of the archway, then turned to face him and held her arms out to him.

Laurence stood and stared at her, her white figure ethereal, otherworldly, then he ran across the sand and walked into the sea. The cold water swirled about him but his eyes were only on Frances, her face tilted up to him as he drew closer. He hesitated, but she did not. Her arms slipped about his neck and she pulled him close to her, her mouth on his, eager for him.

He pushed her against the cold hard chalk with one hand, fumbling to undo his breeches with the other. And then she was pulling up her skirt, pearls falling off the netting into the dark water below. He was first shocked at her eagerness, then aroused by it, her panting breath and clenched hands full of silk revealing her stockings and their ribbons and above that, her bare white thighs, which had filled his thoughts since that day a few months ago when she had walked into the sea ahead of him. He reached behind her, pushing past the silk to grasp her buttocks and pull her towards him, her feet in dancing slippers first on tiptoe, but when he pulled her harder upwards her feet left the sand with a gasp, so that she was held between the rock and his body. He gripped himself and watched her face as he entered her, eyes wide, lips parted. And at last this was the Frances he had always desired, who pushed back against him, gripping his shoulders as he thrust inside her, opening her mouth to him, her tongue seeking his with a passion he had never yet found in her, a passion which made him grow still harder as he drove faster within her and yet she matched his rhythm, rode against him, velvet soft and hot inside, as the icy water swirled around his knees. His hands gripped her behind as she cried out, pressed against him so that her breasts strained against the white silk and he felt her pleasure even as his own came, a rush of feeling so great he gasped her name, “Frances,” and they panted softly together, mouths still seeking the last moments of delight. All the women Laurence had known until now had been nothing compared to this woman, his wife, his treasure.

Gently he lowered her to the ground, back into the water but she did not flinch at the cold, still pressed against him.

“You are perfect, Frances,” he whispered to her. “I love you.”

She gave a tiny laugh and half shook her head against his chest. “I am too rough to be perfect. I ought to be smoother to be a viscountess.”

He laughed. “Is that what you think? Do you know what happens to little rough things?”

She shook her head.

“The shell that holds them coats them with layers until they are shining pearls.”

“Are you going to coat me with layers?”

“Yes,” he said. “I will hold you tight and cover you with love for the rest of our lives.”

She nestled into his warm embrace as the cold sea rushed over their feet. “I love you, Laurence,” she whispered, so low that he only just heard her.

He was quiet but when she raised her head to look up at him his eyes were shining at her declaration. “My selkie,” he said, tightening his arms about her so that she felt the beat of his heart against her breasts. “My pearl.”