Chapter 6
FRANCIS
NOW, CAMbrIDGESHIRE, ENGLAND
Francis sits on the sofa, tapping one impatient finger against his thigh.
It is the dreariest of winter days. Cold, damp, grey.
He should go for a walk, but nothing stirs him to do so.
He turns sixty today. The thought causes him to slump into the cushions, but only for a moment.
No need to slouch just because his back is sore.
His very first nanny used to chide him constantly: Shoulders back, hold your head up.
He had done it too, even when he preferred to be bent over a book.
He was seven when they’d retired Nanny Pam, the week after his mother’s death.
She’d been moved into the dower house to tend the roses; consolation he supposed for having suffered through three generations of Fitzhenry children.
You were the least troublesome of them, Francis, she’d often told him as she faded towards the grave; I loved you best. It had been hard to tell with Nanny Pam, any maternal warmth kept well hidden beneath her enormous bosom and her impenetrable Scottish accent.
Still, he had passably decent posture, according to his physiotherapist, and probably Nanny Pam to thank for that.
Also for the timely arrival of Dorothea—her hastily located replacement—the doting presence his seven-year-old self had sorely needed.
He considers the evening ahead, feeling vaguely nauseated.
His cousin is holding ‘a little drinks do’ for his birthday, quite against his wishes.
Oh, Frankie, don’t be such an old curmudgeon!
she’d chastised. Araminta is quite aware that he doesn’t like to be around people.
She’s simply being obtuse with this gathering she’s arranged.
He doesn’t know who’s coming, but he can guess. It turns his stomach.
Francis hasn’t always been so reclusive.
Once he’d been quite a friendly sort. Occasionally he’d had flings too, but he’s been staunchly single for nearly two decades.
He has a romantic’s view of the world. The right person will show up at the right time.
He knows it. He also knows, as he enters his seventh decade, that some say he might prefer to lower his standards to hurry the process along. He doesn’t prefer. He just knows.
Darling, Araminta often blathers, you won’t meet anyone if you sit at home!
His cousin should stick to polo or whatever else it is she does when she isn’t running the business.
His love-life is perfectly safe in his own hands.
The person of his dreams is unlikely to appear at any of Minty’s little soirees.
God help them if they do, because he won’t be there to save them.
Apart from tonight. Hard to dodge a party in your honour, particularly when there are embossed invitation cards.
The ghoul factor is a drawcard for guests, he supposes.
Frankie Fitzhenry, back at the scene of his horrific childhood.
Good evening, My Lord, lovely to see you again.
Just admiring the jolly good portrait of your great-grandfather—the twelfth viscount—over there by the Christmas tree.
A Leighton, is it? Any news in recent years on that terrible business with your father?
It’s been the same all his life, the references to that awful day.
God, he hates that house. He looks out the window—past the lake and across the potager gardens—towards the towering monolith of his childhood home.
Bleddesley House. Beyond the low picket fence of his own little house, tourists are wandering towards the gift shop.
Few people know he lives on the grounds.
He converted the old stables into his private accommodation when Araminta wanted to open a polo school and build something world-class for her horses next door.
Moving into this cottage made sense, given he spends large parts of his time at his bolthole in the Italian countryside, preferring not to suffer the English weather where possible.
But sometimes the hankering to be anchored back in the happy part of his childhood—before it all fell apart—overcomes him and he spends a month or two wandering the banks of the river, pottering in the grounds, thinking of the love he once had.
He uses these times to catch up with the few people in England he still cares for.
And, of course, he is forced to have meetings with Araminta, who runs the business for him and likes to keep him in the loop.
He pretends to care about the house and the business: Historical Society gatherings, cafe shenanigans, garden shop sales and house tours.
But Bleddesley House is of little interest, except as a sort of mausoleum to the cherished memory of his mother.
He has no desire to actually enter its draughty, dark hallways and cavernous rooms. Still, tonight he must.
There is a knock at the door. ‘Yoo-hoo, where’s the birthday boy?’ Araminta’s voice rings out as she lets herself in.
‘Happy birthday, Frankie!’ She whooshes across the room and envelops him in a hug. He breathes in her familiar scent of sandalwood and orange blossom.
‘Hello, Minty darling.’ They kiss on both cheeks. ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t forget. Seven o’clock. Have you sorted your outfit?’
‘No.’ Francis sighs. ‘I shall ponder it the moment you leave. Have you decided on yours?’ She is currently wearing jodhpurs, riding boots and a waisted puffer vest, so he assumes she will be improving on that.
‘Absolutely. Vintage Chanel. No time for shopping.’
‘Lovely. Coffee?’ Francis gestures towards the kitchen.
‘No time. Meeting with Timothy. Need to change the cafe menu. It needs serious zhooshing, don’t you agree?’
Francis frowns, wonders vaguely if the horses are as alarmed as he is by the dreadful chartreuse tones of Araminta’s puffer vest. It does something terrible to her complexion.
‘You do a terrific job,’ he says, wondering what’s wrong with Timothy’s cafe menu, ‘and I should be more supportive. I shall have lunch there for my birthday.’ He looks at his watch. ‘In an hour.’
‘By yourself?’ She frowns.
‘Join me?’
‘Can’t, darling. Party to organise.’ She squeezes his arm. ‘Don’t be late!’ She buzzes out the door.
He follows her bustling form through the window as she heads to one of her many and varied onsite meetings.
He’s lucky to have Araminta but, still, his shoulders droop as he thinks of tonight’s party.
He mentally flicks through his wardrobe for an outfit.
The green silk Alexander McQueen, perhaps.
An Etro scarf? And the Louboutin loafers in metallic gold might work.
He has the afternoon to decide. He switches on the kettle and selects his favourite teacup and saucer.
Perhaps that lovely Cartier brooch to finish the look.
If one is going to brave the battlefields, one prefers to be in full uniform.