Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Three weeks passed by in a blur of stress and activity, running hither and thither to collect gowns, alter gowns, fetch a million things, write a thousand replies to invitations, at the beck and call of two anxious sisters and a father who had returned to depending solely on Frances.
She had not had a moment to herself since her return, her name echoing through the hallways of the Highbridge townhouse with grating frequency.
She had accompanied Lucinda to bookshops and tea shops and on outings with her few close friends.
She had walked through Hyde Park with both sisters, at different times, so often that, while bathing, she had noticed a new muscularity to her legs.
Companion, chaperone, lady’s maid, confidante, seamstress, tutor, housekeeper, host, scribe, decorator, modiste, disciplinarian, organizer, and general mistress of everyone’s schedules: she had lost track of all of the mantles she was expected to don.
Her sisters gushed with gratitude, of course, and let her know how much they appreciated her and had missed her, but that did not do much to alleviate the stress of it all.
“My lady, can I fetch you some tea? Draw you a bath?” Catherine urged, as Frances lumbered in from a vicious downpour, dripping water all over the entrance hall.
“I do not have time,” Frances replied, shivering. “I must make sure everything is in order for tomorrow. Goodness, I do not even have a dress for myself.”
She padded over to the staircase and sank down on the bottom step, hunching over as she held her head in her hands.
Catherine approached and crouched down to Frances’ level. “Why are you soaked through, my lady? I’m fairly certain you left in a carriage.”
“I went into Penwortham’s to order some cakes for next week, in case anyone calls upon Juliet or Lucinda,” Frances replied wearily.
“By the time I emerged, the carriage was gone. My sisters had engagements to attend with friends, and I fear they misunderstood me. I think they thought I said that I would see them later, and perhaps they thought I had an engagement of my own. Maybe, that is what I did say; I can hardly remember.”
“You walked from the tearoom?” Catherine gasped. “Why didn’t you instruct me to order the cakes?”
Frances shrugged. “Because we were passing and the thought came to me, and I wanted to just get it off my list of things to do.” Her jaw clenched.
“I love my sisters dearly, but, despite the rain, I was rather glad of the peace. That walk was the calmest I have felt since I returned. It is not their fault, of course, but I wish I had taught them to be more… independent of me.”
“I’m so sorry, Franny,” Catherine said, using the name she only dared to speak on occasion, though Frances had often insisted on informality.
“It cannot be helped,” Frances murmured in reply. “I had the choice not to come back early, and I… did my duty instead. Besides, imagine how the situation would be if I was not here. I daresay my father would have ridden to Alderwick and dragged me back in the end.”
She mustered a laugh, but it echoed hollow, her strength threadbare.
“I feel as if I am drowning, Cathy,” she rasped, her eyes stinging with tears that she would not permit to fall, giving herself every excuse for their emergence: she was tired, she was grumpy, she was soaked through and freezing, she had not eaten, she likely would not sleep much tonight…
Anything but the true reason, that haunted every spare second that she had to herself.
Lying in bed at night, she thought of him.
When pausing to sip some tea, she thought of him.
In the five minutes she stole to be alone in her hideaway pergola, she thought of him.
When she heard something funny, it was him she wanted to tell.
“And I am becoming so… bitter,” she added hoarsely.
“No one did any of this for me when I debuted. Why am I running around like a madwoman when I should let them figure it out, as I did? I know it is my duty as the eldest but, goodness, it is hard sometimes. And when Juliet and Lucinda are married, what then? What life will I have here? The best I can expect is that my father will make a match for me with someone, so I can do the same thing in someone else’s household, and take care of my father when he is older. ”
Catherine rocked forward and put her arms around Frances, holding her tightly; the very thing Frances had not known she needed until that moment.
“I’m so sorry, Franny,” her friend murmured. “I wish I could say that it will all be over tomorrow, after the first ball, but we both know that’s not true.”
“Exactly. It will only get worse, and if I make one mistake, if I miss one thing in someone’s diary, it will all be my fault.
All the tireless good I have done will mean nothing,” Frances whispered back, her chest so tight that she could not breathe properly.
“I was… free, Cathy. At Alderwick, I was… free in a way I have not been for years.”
At times, when thinking of Dominic, she did not know if it was the experience at Alderwick or Dominic himself that she missed.
They were so entwined that she doubted she could ever be certain.
Did she love the freedom or did she love…
No, it was not love. If it were love, she would not have left.
If it were love, she would be somewhere else in Mayfair right now, at his townhouse, excited for Harriet’s debut, excited about life itself.
Love would be impossible with him. In their world, love could not exist without marriage, and he would never remarry.
Nor did she know if he felt anything for her beyond appreciation.
After all, he had not written, he had not sent word that he might visit; he had probably forgotten her already, missing only what she had been able to do for his daughter.
“I am going to take a nap,” she announced, as she pulled away from Catherine and rose to her feet. “If anyone asks for me, tell them I am still walking back from the tearoom.”
Catherine nodded. “I will, my lady.”
“Thank you, Cathy.” Frances sighed. “I truly do not know what I would do without you.”
She had made it just a few steps up the staircase when Catherine called out to her, “A parcel came for you while you were out. I didn’t know what to do with it, and I didn’t want to leave it lying around for your sisters to inspect, so I put it in your room.” She hesitated. “It’s rather large.”
“A parcel for me?” Frances glanced back at her friend, frowning.
She racked her brain, trying to remember if she had ordered something for herself, but nothing sprang to mind. Nor could she think of anyone who would send her something, for it was not as if she had time for friends.
Puzzled, Frances mustered the last of her strength to hurry up the stairs and across the landing, straight into her bedchamber. Realizing she was shaking with something akin to anxiety, she closed the door behind her and took a breath, searching the room for the supposed parcel.
It was there on the table by the window, a large rectangular box wrapped in brown paper.
Something from my father?
She approached as if it might bite, her eyes narrowing as she read the name and address on the front. Her name. Her address. No mistake.
It had been a very long time since she had opened a parcel, her fingertips all flustered and clumsy as she tore apart the brown paper to reveal an elegant box beneath.
In curling black letters, a familiar name leaped out at her from the top of the box: Madame Jonquille.
A delicate print of a daffodil curved over the name.
“What on earth?” Frances whispered, as she tentatively lifted the lid.
Her heart seemed to jump into her throat as her eyes took in the liquid-like sheen of Dhaka muslin, the color shifting from sea-green to silver to dusky pink and back again, depending on how the low light of her bedchamber caught it.
An exquisite, gossamer top layer, fashioned on a bottom layer of cream silk that would not interfere with the muslin’s absolute perfection.
The hem and neckline were bordered with golden trim, while delicate clusters of beads added weight and delicate embellishment.
It was the single most beautiful gown Frances had ever seen.
And, according to the small square of card in the box, it was all hers.
Lady Frances,
Something that is all your own, to make up for all the gowns you did not buy.
A token of my gratitude.
Dominic
Frances could not even bring herself to touch the gown, in case it vanished in front of her eyes, and she woke up from the dream she was clearly having.
Perhaps, she had fallen asleep on the bottom step and was still there, imagining this precious gift, imagining that someone cared enough to do this for her, imagining that there was a man out there who had listened to her story of duty and sacrifice, and had bought her what she would never have dared to buy for herself.
A man who was thinking of her, too.
“I shall not sleep a wink tonight,” Harriet said, as she jittered upon the squabs. “Goodness, I am excited! Do you think Frances is our neighbor? How far away do you think she lives? I know she is in Mayfair. Perhaps, we could call upon her while the servants get the townhouse in order.”
Dominic watched the dreary London world pass by the window, the uniform townhouses in their crescents and lines, the neat private parks that barely counted as greenery, the fine ladies and gentlemen taking an evening stroll before it got too dark.
He hated cities. He always had done. But he reserved a special level of hatred for London, with all of its artifice and gossip and relentless noise.
He had never understood Althea’s decision to raise Harriet here instead of the Bath countryside, even after he had offered to reside in the hunting lodge.
“You have a big day tomorrow,” he said. “I think it would be best if we remain at the townhouse. Frances, too, will likely be occupied.”
He thought of the dress he had sent by messenger and wondered if it had arrived yet.
Would she like the gift? Would it confuse her?
What if it did not fit her properly? Madame Jonquille had insisted that she could guess a person’s measurements by sight alone, but then he had been offering to purchase a very expensive gown; she likely would have said anything to ensure he did not change his mind.
It was hard to believe that it had been three weeks since he had last seen Frances. The time between her departure and now had been the longest and shortest weeks of his life, especially in the quiet moments when he had imagined her somewhere in the manor, forgetting that she was gone.
I should have kissed her goodbye at least.
The thought had circled in his mind ever since he had raced across the grounds, worried that he might miss her departure altogether.
It was not entirely true that he had been capturing escaped sheep the night before her departure.
Rather, he had taken himself to the barn that was still in need of some repair and had worked through the night to fix what required fixing.
A distraction from the knowledge that Frances would be leaving, and he had no right to stop her; the only thing taxing enough to get his thoughts to quieten for a moment.
He had fallen asleep at some point, and when he had awoken, he had nothing but the sun to tell the time by. With a choice of just letting her go without saying a word and seeing her once more, his half-awake mind had made the decision, and he had ridden as fast as he could…
More than once in the past three weeks, he had wished he could ride that fast to where she was now.
And say what? He waited for the answer to come. Exactly.
“We could just greet her for a moment,” Harriet urged. “I am certain it is around here somewhere.”
“I am sure we will glimpse her tomorrow,” Dominic replied, his heart feeling strange in his chest. “You can greet her then.”
Harriet smiled and sank back against the squabs, her eyes closed. “My first ball.” She sighed. “I cannot wait… and I cannot wait to show her what a fine lady I am now.”
“She will be pleased,” he said, as he imagined the entire ball falling silent, not for Harriet, but for a fiery, beautiful, remarkable woman in a gown of shimmering muslin. A gown worthy of a woman like Frances.