Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“My goodness, how beautiful!” Frances could not help but gasp as the carriage trundled along the glittering River Avon, an exquisite church of golden sandstone standing proud on the opposite bank, its spire seeming to reach toward the heavens.
Weeping willows grew in abundance, their leafy veils trailing in the water’s surface as rowboats sculled along in the mild Spring afternoon. It might have been a pristine summer’s day if the temperature had been a little bit warmer.
Frances had rarely traveled to her father’s country seat, for he found it drafty and boring and too far from the gentlemen’s clubs he favored. As such, she had never seen a town or city other than London, just as she had never seen much of the countryside until she came to Alderwick.
It was all she could do not to press her face to the glass of the carriage window, to better soak up the new sights of Bath.
“But London is probably more beautiful, is it not?” Harriet asked eagerly, from the opposite squabs.
Frances sighed as the carriage came to a beautiful bridge that looked out over the river and what appeared to be a park of some kind, where couples and families wandered.
A little spaniel had clearly caught the scent of something as it sat at the base of a sprawling cedar, barking up at whatever had evaded it.
“London is beautiful as long as you do not look too closely,” she replied without thinking.
“What do you mean?” Harriet asked, a note of worry in her voice.
Frances froze, cursing herself for not being more careful. Then again, the young woman deserved to know more of the place she would soon be residing, at least for the Season. The trouble was, Frances had to be careful not to color the advice with the bias of her own experiences, her own opinions.
“It is beautiful where there is wealth,” she explained, reluctantly turning away from the remarkable views.
“It is beautiful where it has been created that way: the theaters, the opera, the parks, the botanical gardens, the arboretum, the crescents of Mayfair, the Serpentine, the tea shops and museums and galleries.”
From beside Harriet, Catherine raised her eyebrows as if in warning.
“I do not understand,” Harriet said, frowning.
Frances sighed. “I am saying, do not be fooled by facades and do look more closely at everything. That pertains to your whereabouts as much as the people you may encounter.” She paused, wondering if she was being too critical.
“There is rot wherever you go, Harriet. You must learn how to smell it as soon as possible, so you do not discover the unpleasantness later.”
Harriet sat back against the squabs, chewing her lip. “I still do not understand.”
“That is because I am not explaining myself very well,” Frances admitted with a stiff laugh.
“Even though I have lived there for most of my life, I have always found London to be like a… fair. It is lively and exciting and there is fun to be had, but it is all a performance. As long as you are aware of that, you are already at an advantage, and you can enjoy the city for what it is: a carnival for the wealthy and fortunate.”
“I like carnivals,” Harriet said, fidgeting with her skirts.
Frances chuckled. “My sister Juliet does too. London is paradise for her. Lucinda, on the other hand, would much rather live somewhere like Alderwick. It is all about taste, Harriet, and I am certain that yours will relish the Capital. Now, please, do not slouch.”
The younger woman seemed pleased with that, and promptly sat up straighter, a smile upon her face as she watched the city of Bath unfurl in all of its glory.
A rich and majestic place of the most dazzling architecture, all colonnades and porticoes and cobbled streets and the pointed spires of an abbey, gleaming in that wondrous golden sandstone; so idyllic that Frances could not help but imagine that it had come out of one of her daydreams.
A short while later, the carriage drew to a standstill outside a well-kept square, neatly trimmed lawns leading up to the splendid sight of a theater.
It rose up proudly, the roof adorned with a magnificent statue of the country’s royal crest: the crowned lion of England and the chained unicorn of Scotland, flanking a shield.
Beneath the lip of the roof, decorative stone wreaths curved most appealingly.
“Have you seen any plays here?” Frances asked, marveling at the building.
Harriet shook her head. “It is rather new, and no one bothers to come here anymore, so there is never anything interesting to attend. Not that my father would permit it anyway.”
“What is this slander about your father?” a cheerful voice crowed, as the carriage door swung open to reveal Hugo.
“I was just explaining why I have never had the privilege of attending a play,” Harriet replied with a dramatic sigh, while she took Hugo’s hand and allowed him to help her down.
Hugo laughed. “Ah, well that will all change soon enough. Once you are in London, you will attend so many plays that you will be utterly sick of them!”
“The theater is little better than a music hall,” Dominic’s voice cut in, his sleek chestnut gelding appearing in view.
The sight of him, so proud and handsome atop his horse, his posture straight and his broad chest puffed, almost made Frances lose her footing on the carriage step as she exited. With a yelp, she all but fell into Hugo… who did not seem to mind being the one to catch her.
“Careful, Lady Frances,” Hugo said with a wink as he released her. “We would not want people gossiping, now, would we?”
In the saddle, Dominic’s mouth flattened into a grim line, the creak of leather making Frances’ heart skip strangely as he seemed to tighten his grip on the reins.
What is he glaring at me for? Would he have preferred it if I had stumbled right onto the cobbles?
Or was it the mention of gossip that had him in such a dour mood?
It had been two days since the picnic, and the news that they were to indulge at the modistes of Bath.
Although it had cost her a sixpence in the wager with Harriet, Frances had been so looking forward to the excursion that she had not stopped to think of how her presence might be received.
All of a sudden, she felt rather exposed, surreptitiously glancing this way and that to see if anyone had noticed her.
This must be why the duke insisted on coming with us.
And it appeared he had roped Hugo into it, for the man’s timely arrival could not be coincidence. Dominic’s cousin was well-liked, well-connected, and rather skilled in the art of distraction: the perfect reinforcements if things should go awry.
Hugo clapped his hands together, commanding everyone’s attention. “Well then, I hear we are to spend an extortionate amount of my cousin’s fortune on gowns and bonnets and jewelry and all the accoutrements a young debutante might need or simply want?”
“We certainly are, Uncle,” Harriet cheered, weaving her arm through Hugo’s. “I should like to visit Milnthorpe’s, then the haberdasher, then Wingate’s millinery, and I simply must see what is in the window—and, indeed, the shop—at Madame Jonquille’s!”
“Nothing French!” Dominic barked, as he slid smoothly down from the saddle and passed the reins into the care of the footman.
Hugo grinned back over his shoulder to his cousin. “But that is what everyone is wearing in London, cousin. If she is not dressed like the ladies of Paris, then what is the point? I am thinking capped sleeves, a daring color, a bold neckline, and no fichu!”
“Cousin, I swear upon my life—” Dominic began to argue, but Hugo waved any remark away as he hastily led Harriet toward the curve of a quaint street.
Just like that, Frances and Dominic were alone… aside from Catherine who had suddenly decide to walk toward the lawned square and lean on the wrought-iron fence, her back to the pair. Not much of a chaperone.
“I… trust you have been well?” Dominic asked gruffly.
Frances nodded. “Very well, thank you. Very… um… occupied.”
“Yes. I apologize for not dining with the two of you; I have had other things to attend to,” he said, though she had not asked why he had not been present at the dinner table the past two nights, nor the breakfast table the past two mornings.
“Wrestling sheep?” she offered.
His expression softened for a moment, and she thought he might laugh. But then the look vanished, replaced with a hard frown. “Fixing things that are broken,” he grumbled. “We should hurry along before they lose us, which I am certain is the plan.”
He offered his arm.
Frances hesitated, her gaze searching the nearby citizens for any hint of recognition. No one appeared to be staring in her direction, but she could not risk it.
“I should not,” she said.
“What?”
She gestured to his arm. “I should not walk so close to you. I do not think it would be wise.”
“Oh…” He straightened the arm against his side. “Yes, of course. Understandable. Unwise, indeed.”
His words, though merely a paraphrased version of what she had said, stung with surprising vengeance.
And as he walked off without her, that sting burrowed a little deeper.
Then again, he had said it on the very first night that they met: he was not going to protect her.
She would have been a fool to think that had changed.