Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Are you feeling better?” Harriet asked the following morning.
Frances had chosen the library for the first lesson of the day, but it seemed she had lost her talent for holding the girl’s attention. They had begun half an hour ago, and Harriet had been avoiding the tasks she had been set ever since.
“You have asked me that already,” Frances replied, drawing her attention away from the letter she had been writing. “I am much better, thank you. However, I may find myself with another headache if you do not start making notes.”
Harriet pulled a face. “I only ask out of concern, Frances. You look very pale this morning. Did you not sleep well?”
“I slept wonderfully.” Frances set down her quill. “Harriet, I understand that this is not as exciting as a dinner party or one of my more creative lessons, but it is equally essential. The sooner you make your notes, the sooner we can do something else.”
The task at hand was rather dull: Harriet sat at a writing desk with no fewer than five books of etiquette stacked in front of her, and a pile of paper upon which to write down the most important details.
But Frances did not know another way to teach the dos and do nots that society expected from a lady.
“It is mostly things I have already told you,” Frances continued, “but I find that things… stick better in the mind if they are written down from a book. Besides, the people who wrote those books know far more than I do.”
Harriet groaned. “But the writing is so small, and the language is so boring. Can we not pretend to be at a ball? Or have another pretend promenade? Maybe, we could venture into Bath and do a lesson about fashion?”
“This is also about practicing your handwriting, Harriet,” Frances pointed out. “But, how about this: if you manage at least ten pages of notes, I shall ask your father about venturing into Bath.”
She had been considering it since the day of the dinner party, in truth, for a young lady of the ton was nothing if she was not fashionable. It was an unfortunate truth, but at least Dominic had the sort of fortune that could accommodate a new wardrobe or two.
Harriet gestured aggressively at the books. “I would learn more about current society from the scandal sheets than these, but Father will not let me read them. He will not let us go to Bath, either; I guarantee it.”
“You said I would not be able to get your father to come and dance, but I did,” Frances replied, and immediately regretted it.
The last thing she needed was another reminder of that lovely moment, lost in the music and the company of him. Indeed, she did not need the encouragement, for the memory kept popping up as it pleased, anyway.
“Which reminds me,” she added thickly, “you have two hours of dancing to do this afternoon. Catherine will be your partner; I shall play the pianoforte.”
Harriet groaned afresh. “I was not serious about that wager, Frances.”
“Well, I am, as I do not win wagers often.” Frances flashed her ward a grin, as the girl sat back in her chair and fought to keep a smirk off her face. “Now, come along. Ten pages. If you start to wane in your obvious enthusiasm, just think about the new dresses and bonnets you might soon possess.”
At that, Harriet could no longer hold back her laughter. “Am I such a difficult student, Frances? Oh, do tell me that I am not.”
“You are the most dedicated student I have ever taught,” Frances answered, smiling.
“Then again, you are the first student I have taught that I am not related to. My youngest sister would not have thought twice about telling me this lesson is boring, before leaving to amuse herself elsewhere. But that is expected among family.”
Harriet frowned, ink pooling on her paper. “You make it sound as if you do not get along.”
“Oh, we do. I adore them, and I am almost certain that they adore me, but sisters quarrel, sisters snipe at one another, sisters can be cruel to each other sometimes; it is the way of things.” Frances chuckled.
“Get a new piece of paper. That one is no good now. And that is the last question I shall answer until you have written at least a page, unless it is about what you are reading.”
Rather like Juliet, Harriet rolled her eyes and crumpled up the ruined sheet of paper. She set it to one side and pulled another sheet from the pile, starting all over again.
This time, however, there was a new sort of determination upon her pretty face as she put the nib to the paper and began to write, her gaze flitting between the book and her notes.
Twenty minutes later, Harriet was still deep in concentration, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as her quill scratched across the paper. Frances watched her with a swell of pride so fierce that it held back her urge to tell the girl not to stick her tongue out while she was writing.
She may well be the diamond of the Season. A prickle of guilt deflated her pride, for Juliet was also hoping for the title. Two women competing for the same position, both trained by her.
Just then, a maid came in carrying a tea tray, disrupting the difficult thought.
“His Grace sent this for you both,” she said, setting the silver tray down on a nearby side-table. “He thought you might want refreshment.”
Frances sat up straighter. “That is… very kind of him.”
“Shall I pour you some?” the maid asked.
“Yes, thank you.” Frances smiled and waited for the relief to hit.
This was what she had wanted, was it not—for Dominic to cease his involvement in her lessons? But the relief did not come.
“There’s a letter for you, Lady Harriet,” the maid said, as she poured the tea through a small sieve, balanced on the teacup.
The young woman suddenly jolted up from her studious work, jabbing the quill so violently into its holder that Frances heard the feather snap. Harriet scraped back the chair and walked quickly to the maid, her hand out.
“Here it is, my lady.” The maid slipped the letter off the tray and put it in Harriet’s eager hand.
The young woman did not return to the writing desk, but darted for the reading chair close to the French doors, where sunlight streamed in from the gardens. It also happened to be the only chair that no one could walk around, the back of it tucked into the corner. A chair that assured privacy.
Frances thanked the maid and took her cup of tea, a frown furrowing her brow as she observed her student.
She had never seen such a giddy look upon Harriet’s face before, and she had seen the girl at the very height of excitement, thrilled by a dinner party or a promenade or a story about the ton. It was enough to give Frances pause.
“Harriet?” she said. “You are not yet done with your work. You should leave that letter until afterward, as a reward.”
Harriet did not bother to look up, her eyes flitting left to right as if she could not devour the words fast enough. “In a moment.”
“Who is it from?” Frances could only ask the obvious question.
“A friend,” Harriet answered, a note too quickly, the cadence almost rehearsed.
“Which friend?”
“Amanda.”
“Amanda who?” Frances pressed, cringing inwardly, for she sounded so much like a mother hen again.
“Grantham,” Harriet replied with that same, suspicious speed. “Lord Ainsley’s sister. She and I have decided to be good friends. I suspect she may ask you to teach her everything you have taught me, when it comes time for her to debut.”
It was a reasonable explanation. Indeed, it should have cheered Frances, to hear that Harriet was making new friends. But there was something about Harriet’s manner, and the eagerness with which she was reading her letter, that felt… strange to Frances.
Or, perhaps, you have forgotten what it is like to be young and to have friends. She tried to imagine being so enthusiastic over a letter from a friend, but she could not. No one wrote to her, for her only friend was usually at her side.
“What does she have to say?” Frances tried again.
Harriet folded up the letter, a grin upon her face. “She was regaling me with what she had read in the most recent scandal sheets. It was our agreement.”
Another reasonable explanation, though Dominic would not like it. So, why was there a nagging feeling in the back of Frances’ mind that would not go away? Or was she just being too involved, too overbearing, making the same mistakes she had made with her sisters?
“Sometimes, dear Franny, it is as if I cannot breathe without you questioning it,” Lucinda had once said, in a rare moment of outspoken frustration.
Frances could not recall what had caused the response, but she knew she was occasionally too much like a mother; the kind that society mocked for always fussing over their daughters. It came from a place of love and concern, but that was not always enough of an excuse for those burdened by it.
She has no reason to lie. Do not lose her trust now.
“If your father finds out, he will be rather cross,” she said, instead of the countless questions that trickled from that nagging suspicion in the back of her mind.
Harriet stuffed the letter down the neckline of her dress. “Then, do not tell him.” She walked back to the writing desk. “Please, do not tell him. I have so few friends; I should hate to lose one.”
Frances sighed, offering the girl a smile. “If you write your ten pages, I shall not say a word.”
The girl brightened and dutifully picked up her quill… only to realize she had snapped it. With a shrug, she selected another and resumed her work as if nothing had happened.
Frances knew she should not keep things from Dominic, but if it meant that Harriet continued to progress toward the grand objective of her debut, then perhaps she could make an exception.
“Oh,” the maid said, as she was about to leave, “His Grace also said I was to pass on a message.”
All thoughts of Harriet’s letter vanished from Frances’ mind. “What sort of message?”
“He’s asked if you’ll both accompany him for a picnic this afternoon.”
Harriet perked up. “Yes! Tell him that we will.”
Frances shook her head at her student, knowing full well why she was so enthusiastic; it meant at least one afternoon without having to practice her dances.
“It will be an opportunity to instruct me on picnic etiquette,” Harriet protested with a mischievous grin.
Aware that she would not win this, and finding that she did not truly want to, Frances puffed out a sigh. “Very well.” She looked at the maid. “Tell him that we will join him.”