CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Divided Reunion
Once the unenthusiastic hugs were distributed, the party made its way into the house. Frances lagged behind the rest of the group, and as she stood behind her cousin Agnes, near the entrance to the drawing room, she noticed that George was dallying just inside the doorway. George’s positioning struck Frances as being rather odd, and she grew even more curious when she saw George and Agnes talking, two people she understood were enemies from years back. Frances was standing too far back to hear their exchange, but she noticed that Agnes was hanging on his every word. In the next moment, however, Agnes’s face changed, and without saying another word to George, she imperiously walked away. In the background, Louisa was talking effusively about her daughters’ unexpected arrival.
‘Oh, what a splendid surprise this is!’ she declared, settling herself into an armchair near the mahogany tea table. ‘Both my girls home for Christmas! I wasn’t expecting either of you until next year. Has something happened? Is something wrong?’
‘No, of course not,’ Agnes said. ‘We thought we’d give you an early Christmas present, that’s all.’ Agnes sat herself beside Michael on the sofa, before looking about the room with an air of preoccupied indifference.
‘And how did you know where I was? Oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter!’ Louisa cried, clasping her hands. ‘This is the best present I have ever had!’
‘Well I don’t know about that, Louisa,’ George remarked, ‘the embroidered handkerchief I bought you for Christmas a few years ago was awfully fetching.’
While Frances stifled a laugh with her hand, Louisa sniffed resentfully and looked away. Frances did not wish to join the circle about the tea table, and stole across to a vacant chair in front of the French windows. Her cousin Charlotte, being equally reticent in social gatherings, followed Frances’s example and took a seat beside her. Frances was, and had always been, rather fond of Charlotte, and she gave her a friendly smile.
‘So,’ Michael ventured rather abruptly, ‘when did you ladies last see each other? It must be several years at least.’
Despite his attempt to lighten the mood in the room, Michael himself looked ill at ease. Frances noticed that he was sitting awkwardly beside Agnes on the sofa, darting anxious looks about the room and fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt.
‘At least,’ Agnes replied.
‘Three years, I think,’ Frances suggested.
‘Has it been that long?’ Louisa cried, looking at Frances in exaggerated surprise.
‘I think so,’ Frances confirmed.
George smothered a loud yawn of encroaching boredom and listlessness, and was met with stony stares from Louisa and Michael. Frances too was already growing tired of the proceedings, and drawing back the summer curtains, peered outside to admire the warm tints of the garden. Above the wilderness of the vast grounds, the blue sky was smudged with an assortment of white clouds. Frances sighed wistfully. What she would give to be outside in the sunshine! She unwillingly let go of the flimsy drapes and returned her attention to the Rosewood party.
‘And hasn’t so much happened?’ Louisa exclaimed after a considerable lull. ‘Dear, oh dear, it’s enough to make my mind spin!’
No-one made an immediate answer to this comment, and in the silence that followed, Louisa smiled and abandoned herself to the recollection of those lost years.
In the background, the antique clock on the mantelpiece announced the procession of dying seconds and minutes. Frances’s fingers began to tap impatiently on the armrest of her chair. George was unusually silent.
‘Aren’t we a quiet lot this afternoon?’ Louisa reflected out loud. ‘I expect it’s all the excitement.’ A deeper stillness began to possess the room. ‘Well, now that we are all together,’ Louisa added after a prolonged pause, ‘I’d very much like to hear about England. Agnes? Charlotte? What have you to say about it? I want to hear everything.’
Agnes exhaled loudly. ‘Oh Mama,’ she protested, ‘must I discuss it now? I’m beastly tired, and am in no fit state to discuss such a lengthy subject.’
‘Of course, dear,’ Louisa said, looking wounded by her daughter’s assertion. ‘I wonder you came here then if you were so tired. Perhaps you should have rested at home first. Either way, I’m very eager to hear about the family in Derbyshire, that’s all. Another time, perhaps.’
The arrival of afternoon tea at that moment provided a welcome diversion for the party, and while the tea and Swiss roll were dispensed to each individual, Frances divided her attention between the two brothers and the Wentworth sisters. Until this moment she had been under the impression that the two families were close. Louisa, in particular, had been keen to create that impression, but as Frances accepted a cup of tea from her aunt, she was struck by the almost palpable undercurrents of antipathy in the room. Frances considered with interest the expression on each person’s face: Louisa’s clouded brow; Agnes staring sullenly at the plate of scones; a brooding George gazing far away into vacancy and Michael maintaining a cautious, watchful vigil of all three.
Charlotte, it seemed, was the only member of the party who was composed and in a good mood. Unbeknownst to Frances, Charlotte had suffered badly from homesickness in England, and was secretly relieved to be back in Hobart, just thirty minutes away from her husband’s house in South Hobart. As Charlotte gratefully subsided in her chair, she sipped delicately from her cup of tea.
Frances stole a look at her silent young cousin. As she studied Charlotte’s serene face, framed by a dark mass of dense fringe and uncontrollably thick curls, Frances wondered whether she too was attune to the ripples of discontent in the room. She had a strong suspicion that she did, but Charlotte was not, to say the least, a demonstrative young woman. Frances knew that any emotion her cousin felt was hidden behind her mask, the ostensibly impervious mask that had been inspired and sculpted by years of her mother’s inattention and neglect.
Unfortunately for Frances, the rest of the afternoon’s conversation drifted on as aimlessly as the clouds above them. Like Charlotte, Frances kept a silent vigil from her position near the window, and while she struggled to keep her weary eyes from closing of their own accord, she began to wonder what reception awaited her at Wintersleigh. She knew her cousin Agnes despised her—for reasons not entirely obvious to her—and coupled with the earlier altercation with her aunt, she anticipated a very frosty carriage ride home with the two women. Then there was the future to think of. Would it be possible for the two young cousins to co-exist under the same roof?
Michael’s house call necessitated his hasty departure at four o’clock. Before he left, however, Frances thanked him for the hospitality he had shown her the night before. The truth was, she had been pacified by his earlier apology and was keen to re-establish their friendship. He received her gratitude with genuine friendliness, and by the time he left Rosewood, they were on amicable terms once more.
Some time later Frances, George and the Wentworth women congregated around the carriage, discussing arrangements for the following day. A game of lawn tennis was soon agreed upon, as well as a family meeting where they could plan Christmas and New Year festivities. It was at this point that Frances decided to tempt fate and speak with Agnes. They had not exchanged a word all afternoon, and Frances wanted to know Agnes’s thoughts about Frances staying at Wintersleigh. Moving away from George’s side—he had been unswervingly devoted to her all afternoon—she approached Agnes.
Agnes Wentworth was an intimidating presence at the best of times, but on this day she seemed particularly daunting to Frances. Agnes, as usual, was clad elegantly in the latest fashions from London, and on this day she was wearing a two piece sage green travelling costume, replete with a tightly fitted bodice and full leg of mutton sleeves. To complement her outfit, her hands were tightly enclosed in a pair of suede gloves, adorned with gleaming brass buttons, and her hair was rather formally drawn together into a bun and covered with a net. The overall effect was so bold and splendid tha
t Frances was almost awe-struck.
‘Welcome home, Agnes,’ Frances forced herself to say. ‘You must be very weary.’
Agnes surveyed Frances from under her thick, black lashes. ‘Quite,’ she replied, as colourlessly as the pallor of her cheek.
Frances could see that the conversation was threatening to become as starched as her cousin’s travelling apparel, and she sought to get to the point of the conversation. ‘In case you aren’t aware, Agnes, your mother has invited me to stay at Wintersleigh. With this in mind, I hope that we can put the past behind us and start again.’ She extended a hand to her cousin.
Agnes raised a contemptuous, manicured eyebrow at the proffered hand, and her coal coloured eyes seemed unnaturally dark with displeasure. ‘I already have my friends,’ she replied with a sneer, ‘and speaking of welcomes, Frances, I have it on good authority that you’ve already outstayed yours.’ She then turned gracefully on her heel, and glided towards her mother, the susurration of her skirt the only sound she made.
Louisa welcomed her daughter’s approach with a smile, and draping an arm about Agnes’s shoulder, led her over to the carriage.
Having received answers to all her questions, Frances now knew where she stood in the equation. An intense feeling of emptiness began to creep over her, and while Frances watched her aunt assist Agnes into the conveyance, she wished with all her heart that she had never uttered a word.
Breakfast at Midnight Page 11