Chapter 20 #2
“How could I ever tell them, without revealing the story of Father’s infidelity to Mother?” said Frances with a bitter laugh. “Anyway, I am married now and I hoped that he would not dare to insult me any more as Duchess of Westall.”
“I am sure that Ambrose would not permit it,” Beatrice stated staunchly, sounding just as unworldly and sure of herself as Lydia had done in Hyde Park. “You ought to tell Ambrose if he does. Have you seen Lord Mulford since your wedding?”
“No, but he wrote to me. It was the most horrible letter I have ever received and I burned it straight away.”
“Oh, Frances!”
Lacking the words to communicate as she wished, Beatrice hugged her older sister instead. Stiff at first, Frances relaxed after a few moments, glad to have finally admitted so much to someone close to her and even more relieved at apparently having found understanding.
“I never thought anyone would believe me,” Frances admitted when they stood back from one another. “Both about Father, and then about Lord Mulford. Thank you for not doubting my word.”
“I do believe you. But still, Father loves Mother so much,” Beatrice insisted now, speaking to herself as much as to Frances. “I see it in him every day. I can believe that he was unfaithful but I cannot believe that he does not love Mother.”
“How can there be love without honesty and trust, Beatrice? I don’t understand love in that way. If a man makes a promise, he ought to keep it, and if a man lies, you can never trust him again.”
These strong statements seemed to trouble Beatrice all over again, but still she shook her head.
“People can make mistakes, Frances, men and women. I do, and I know you do too. What if Father made a mistake and he is sorry?”
“A mistake lasting years, and in which he involved his own child as a pawn?” Frances pointed out skeptically, but accepting that Beatrice might be too young yet to reach the conclusions that seemed obvious to her “No, I cannot see that. But let us not argue. I do not want to make Mother unhappy, or you either, Beatrice.”
“I shall not say anything to Mother,” Beatrice assured her. “But I am still not at all sure what to do for the best about Father. What you said to him today was horrible, even though I understand now why you did it. I couldn’t bear to have that scene again and to see our parents so upset.”
“I don’t know the answer either, but for today, tell Mother and Father that I am ill,” said Frances then. “Tell them that I have a migraine and it has affected my temper. I will go and lie down before dinner. I cannot apologize, but you may do so on my behalf.”
“I can do that,” returned Beatrice with a long sigh. “Only please try to be nicer at dinner.”
The two sisters hugged again before they parted and went their separate ways.
In his study, Ambrose exhaled deeply, realizing that he had been holding his breath as he stood aside of the open window where the two young women had stopped to talk.
He’d had no intention of eavesdropping on their conversation and had only been drawn to the window by the initial sound that turned out to be Frances crying. When Beatrice arrived too, he was glad, imagining that she would comfort her sister in a way that was not permitted to him.
By the time Frances began to tell Beatrice the story of Lord Scovell’s long infidelity, it was too late to move without showing himself at the window and intruding on their confidence further.
That window into Frances’ childhood had been bad enough, but the partial story of Oswald Keeton’s predations had been worse still. He was appalled to think of Lord Mulford harassing his wife for so long and with so little protection available to her in the peculiar circumstances.
Well, things were different now. Beatrice was right that he would not permit Lord Mulford’s harassment to continue. Knowing now that Oswald Keeton had sent Francis that distressing letter, some part of Ambrose wanted to get straight into his coach, seek out the other man and confront him.
But Frances must come first. Her stories to her sister gave him some insight into his wife’s conflicted feelings around intimacy, touch and trust, especially where men were concerned. He also felt a strong need to assure her that Lord Mulford could not hurt her any more.
Striding from his study and along the passage to the hallway, he found Frances halfway up the staircase and followed her.
“Frances, can I talk to you?” Ambrose called out and saw her pause, somewhat unwillingly, before she turned to him.
“I have a headache and must lie down,” she told him, which might well be true by now as well as being the lie she had agreed with her sister, for the sake of restoring family harmony. “Can we talk another time?”
“I was in my study just now, with the window open, and I could not help overhearing what you told your sister,” Ambrose stated plainly, knowing that this would hold her attention.
“You were spying on me?!” Frances exclaimed angrily.
“Not at all,” he denied at once. “I could not move without disturbing you and I had no way of closing my ears. But does it matter? I am glad that I know the truth now. It is important for our marriage.”
She looked as though she might cry again, her features tired and vexed, overwrought with what had evidently been an emotionally demanding day.
“I do not see that it can matter to us,” Frances told him, her face red with embarrassment or shame, neither of which he wished her to feel. “It was all so long ago now.”
“It matters greatly,” Ambrose disagreed. “Can’t you see that? In addition, it seems that the trouble you have had with Lord Mulford is not so long ago at all. I really wish you had told me of his behavior. The sooner I deal with him the better.”
“I can take care of myself,” she retorted with odd defensiveness. “I have always managed to ward Oswald off or escape from him until now.”
“But you should not have to,” the duke stressed. “He has no right to torment you and I will not allow it. Lord Mulford will answer to me now.”
Rather than reassured Frances only seemed further discomfited by this assertion.
“No, you must not. I cannot bear to have everything dragged up and for my name to be out around the ton in connection with him. Nor do I ever wish Oswald to know how much he upsets me. It would give him too much pleasure and could make it all so much worse..”
“But Frances, it would be foolish to…” Ambrose began, reaching out a hand towards her.
She slapped him away with a sharp reproof.
“No! You must not. Why can you not leave me alone?”
Baffled, Ambrose let his hand drop back to his side as he watched his wife flee up the stairs.