Chapter 11 #2
Frances stilled. The question was quiet, almost casual, but it touched a part of her she had not meant to expose.
Her writing was not shameful. She told herself that often.
It was work, escape, defiance, pleasure, and freedom all tangled together.
Yet in the wrong mouth, the word novels could become condescension, a reminder that women’s thoughts were harmless so long as they remained bound in pretty paper and hidden in drawers.
“You know I write?” she asked.
“Your sister mentioned it once.”
Frances studied him. He did not look amused. That, at least, was in his favor.
“Then you understand that I require time for it.”
“For writing?”
“Yes.”
“You are now a duchess.”
“I did not imagine the title came with nothing but a better carriage and more people curtsying.”
“Then you accept that your time will be altered.”
“I accept that my time will be shared, not surrendered.”
The words came firmly, but Frances felt the old fear beneath them.
It rose from somewhere deep and familiar: from years of watching her mother’s voice grow quieter, her opinions gentler, her desires less visible beneath the weight of being wife, mother, viscountess.
Frances had not married for love, but even a loveless marriage could consume a woman if she permitted it.
She would not be consumed.
“I will keep up appearances,” Frances said, grateful for the steadiness of her voice. “I agreed to that when I married you, but I will not be treated like a guest in my own home.”
Andrew said nothing.
“This is my home now,” she continued. “You said so yourself.”
“I did.”
“Then I shall act as its mistress. I will learn the household. I will work with Mrs. Carter. I will know the servants’ names, not because it is expected, but because they are people and I prefer not to command strangers.”
“That is reasonable.”
“And the child,” she continued, glancing once more toward the cradle.
“I will not pretend she is a chair in a room I am forbidden to enter. If she is under this roof, and if I am to be part of the fiction that protects her, then I will not be asked to care for her reputation while denied any concern for her person.”
Andrew’s face closed again. “I told you–”
“Yes,” she interrupted. “You told me she is your responsibility. Very well. Keep your secrets for now, if you must. Carry your burdens in that noble, insufferable way gentlemen seem to admire in themselves. But do not imagine I shall look at that child and see only an inconvenience to be managed.”
That silenced him. Her anger faltered.
“I am not asking to take her from you,” she said more gently. “I am not asking to replace anyone. I am not even asking for all your truths tonight. But if I am to live inside the consequences of your silence, then eventually I shall need some part of the truth.”
His eyes met hers, and for a moment the room seemed to hold its breath.
“There are things I cannot say,” he replied.
“I believe you.”
He looked surprised by that.
“But there are also things you choose not to say,” Frances continued. “I shall try to learn the difference.”
He thought about it for a moment. “Very well. You may involve yourself in the household. You may have time for your writing. You may… care for the child.”
“How generous of you,” she offered.
“Well… you are relentless,” he said.
“And you are evasive. We shall both be exhausted by Michaelmas.”
“I intended for us to be separated by then.”
The words landed with such clean force that for a moment Frances did not understand them.
Separated.
The warmth fled from her face.
“When the gossip fades,” Andrew continued, returning to that calm, awful practicality of his, “there will be no reason for us to remain constantly in the same house. You may live where you prefer. Sinclair House in town, if you wish. One of the smaller estates. Your own household may be established with every comfort.”
“My own household,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“I have more than enough work to occupy me elsewhere.”
Of course he did. Men always had work: estates, clubs, Parliament, horses, affairs. That was the convenient machinery of a life designed to keep them from noticing the ruins left behind them.
Frances turned slightly toward the cradle, though she did not truly see it.
“How efficient,” she said. “We marry in haste, behave prettily for society, pacify the scandal, then divide ourselves like property after an auction.”
“That is not how I would have phrased it.”
“No, I imagine you would have made it sound almost respectable.”
“It is respectable.”
“It is lonely.”
The word slipped out before she could stop it.
Frances hated herself for it at once. She did not wish him to know that the prospect had touched her.
She did not wish him to think she had imagined anything else.
And yet the thought of being placed in some elegant house, protected, respected, and abandoned with every comfort, had opened a hollow space beneath her ribs.
She smoothed one glove over the other. “Still,” she said, gathering herself, “I understand. Once the gossip fades, we lead our own lives.”
His eyes held hers. It would have been easier if he were cruel; easier if he were vain, selfish, or careless; easier if his coldness were born of arrogance rather than fear.
Frances knew how to resist arrogance. She knew how to despise selfishness. But this was something else.
Andrew Hill, Duke of Sinclair, was trying very hard to be honorable while giving as little of himself as possible.
And Frances feared, with sudden certainty, that honor without tenderness could still wound.