Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Ispoke to Lady Fordham and Lord Mulford is not on the guest list,” Ambrose told Frances without preamble as he handed her into the carriage outside the house and then climbed in after her.
“I shall let it be generally known that we will never attend any event where he is a guest. We need not explain ourselves further. Hosts and hostesses must make their plans accordingly.”
While these words were mildly spoken, he was still presenting Frances with a fait accompli. She blinked with consternation but then found herself sighing with relief from a tension she had not realized she carried.
With regard to her tormenter, Frances was glad now that Ambrose had ignored all her previous protests against his interference.
Maybe Ambrose saw the matter more clearly than she did, not having been harried and ground down by Oswald for so many years.
Maybe Oswald really would stay away now that Ambrose had made his position clear.
Something in her husband’s dogged adherence to his own principles also roused Frances’ admiration.
Ambrose had told her that he would not accept Lord Mulford harassing her and what he intended to do about it.
Then he had done it, regardless of Frances’ wrongheaded outbursts or any social inconvenience he might incur as a result of his actions.
There was a solidity and reliability to the Duke of Westall that extended around him like a shield. If Frances could let herself come close enough, she too might always be as protected as she felt at this moment.
“Thank you again for the pearls,” she told Ambrose after a few minutes of silence while she absorbed his statements, hoping that he would understand that her thanks were broader than she could admit. “They do suit me well and are just right for tonight.”
The Duke of Westall’s handsome smile in response made Frances quiver inside and actually look forward to their first dance.
The ball at Fordham House was both crowded and spectacular, bright with candles and jewels and colorful with decorations and extravagant ballgowns.
“Congratulations to you both on your wedding, Your Graces,” said Lady Fordham as she and her husband received the Duke and Duchess of Westall. “We wish you great joy.”
“How could anyone be other than joyful here tonight?” Ambrose returned, nodding to the decor and happy guests as Frances smiled their thanks for the well-wishes, strangely glad to be there for once.
Walking into the midst of the crowds on the Duke of Westall’s arm, Frances felt more at ease than she could ever remember at such as large social event, despite all the interested eyes upon them.
During her past Seasons, she had always carried the weight of other people’s expectations, as well as a wariness of potential impropriety. Now, she was married to a man of rank and fortune and almost all the old expectations and fears had fallen away.
Frances might dance and laugh and eat as she wished without being judged.
No one would be nudging her towards unwanted suitors, whispering spitefully of wallflowers behind her back, or warning her of the supposed awfulness of spinsterhood.
Thanks to Ambrose, she was even free of the worry of seeing Oswald Keeton tonight.
“…Westall, yes, married this summer…”
“…new Duchess of Westall - didn’t you know?”
“…Duke of Westall…new wife…”
While Frances was conscious of such whispering around them from very early on, it did not disturb her.
“People will be less interested in us at our second ball,” Ambrose murmured, bending his head to her ear. “Do not let it trouble you.”
“I shall not,” Frances assured him. “It is hardly a bad thing to hear people say that we are married. It is factually true, apart from anything else.”
Ambrose chuckled and patted the hand on his arm without realizing what he did. Frances only smiled to herself, enjoying his touch as she enjoyed no one else’s and safe in the knowledge that in such a public space there was no danger of going further.
“Look, there is Beatrice with your parents,” the duke pointed out as they reached a larger reception room, filled with couples and groups drinking champagne to the strains of a quadrille underway in the nearby ballroom. “Shall we?”
On the other side of the room, Frances now spotted her younger sister in a pale pink dress with roses in her hair, her face shining with excitement to be here tonight. Had Frances ever felt such anticipation for her first ball? She did not believe so, but was pleased that Beatrice could.
Lord and Lady Scovell stood beside their younger daughter, arm-in-arm and with Helen’s head resting lightly on her husband’s shoulder. Biting her tongue and reminding herself that she must be polite tonight for Beatrice’s sake, Frances crossed the room with Ambrose.
In this tighter space, the whispering seemed thicker and more distinct.
“Look, that’s the one, the new Duchess of Westall…”
“…married more than a month now and still…”
“…seems a fine filly to me. Westall must be mad if it’s true…”
Something in the whispering now made Frances’ nerves jangle.
She could not say that she was hearing anything really negative, even if some remarks from gentlemen seemed a little crude.
She told herself that she was only set on edge by the usual nauseating experience of watching her father pretending to be a devoted husband.
Did Ambrose hear people talking about them too? Glancing at his face, Frances doubted it. He seemed entirely focused on her family, smiling towards them with genuine pleasure. She decided to follow his lead and ignore them. As Ambrose said earlier, people would be less interested in them next time.
Lady Scovell greeted them both with her usual affection, kissing Ambrose’s cheek and then embracing Frances while Lord Scovell shook his son-in-law’s hand.
“How fine you both look tonight,” Helen Harcourt pronounced happily, looking over her daughter and son-in-law with great pleasure. “I have never seen a better matched couple. Lady Kempleforth will be very pleased with herself if she is here. Your pearls are exquisite, Frances.”
“What a lovely dress, Beatrice,” Frances remarked in turn, embracing her younger sister. “It suits you very well. I am glad to have you finally out in society too. We can keep one another company.”
“Don’t you have a husband to keep you company?” Beatrice noted with a cheeky smile, looking now to Ambrose as he raised her hand and kissed it.
“I daresay the company of a husband does not compare to the company of a sister,” he replied, flagging down a waiter to bring them all champagne, “although I hope I have my uses.”
Everyone laughed as they raised their glasses and drank to a happy evening, Frances beginning to relax again and stop straining to hear background voices.
“Oh look, there’s Lydia,” observed Beatrice, and Frances turned her head to see her dark-haired friend hurrying towards them with a somewhat anxious expression on her face. “She doesn’t look very happy, does she?”
“I’m sure we can resolve that with champagne and good company,” Ambrose suggested to Lady Scovell’s approval, swiping another glass from a passing tray and giving it to Lydia as soon as she reached them.
“Frances, I must talk to you alone,” Lydia whispered in her friend’s ear once the necessary ceremony of polite greetings was done. “Come to the retiring rooms with me.”
“Are you well, Lydia?” Frances whispered back. “I have some muslins in my bag if your monthly visitor has come unexpectedly.”
Lydia shook her head.
“I am well. This is…something else. I really have to speak with you privately. You must come now.”
Wondering what on earth could have happened to upset her usually stolid, horse-obsessed friend, Frances nodded.
“Lydia and I must go the retiring rooms,” she announced, catching her mother’s eye and hoping that Helen Harcourt would reach the same mistaken first conclusion as Frances had done. “We will be back presently.”
Lady Scovell nodded sympathetically.
“We will take good care of Ambrose until you return, my dear. Do you need…?”
Discreetly, she raised her own bag a little but Frances shook her head. Taking Lydia’s arm, she walked with her back into the main corridor, still none the wiser as to what might have sparked such urgency.
“What has happened, Lydia? Is your family well? Has there been some incident tonight?”
“No, nothing like that. Just wait, I must find us a quiet space.”
Lydia had walked past the main ladies’ retiring room and was now trying the handles on other doors in that corridor, which all seemed to lead to either storage cupboards or small rooms already occupied by groups of ladies either chattering or fixing one another’s hair or dress.
At last, they reached a room that seemed to be filled only with clean spare chamber pots, likely not to be needed until the guests had drunk more champagne and the servants began to empty those already in the retiring rooms.
“This will do,” Lydia pronounced and pulled Frances inside, closing the door behind them and then pulling a folded pamphlet from her pocket.
“What is that?” Frances asked blankly as her friend held out the printed paper towards her.
“One of the most popular scandal sheets in London. Read the column on the right of the second page.”
“Why? Oh, alright, if you insist,” replied Frances, moving closer to the candlestick on the mantelpiece and complying with Lydia’s request despite not understanding it. “‘A reliable source informs me that…”
Frances gasped and almost dropped the pamphlet on the floor as she reached the end of the sentence.
“‘…that the Duke of Westall’s recent marriage is not what it seems. The Duke and Duchess of Westall are known to be living separate lives. Despite a month of supposedly wedded bliss, the lady in question is still virgo intacta and likely to remain so indefinitely …’”