Breakfast at Midnight
Page 37
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Taken by Surprise
To the distant serenade of trilling insects and whispering leaves, Frances stood on the ground floor back verandah at Wintersleigh, staring out vaguely into the humid summer night. In the room behind her about a dozen ball guests were helping themselves to a late night supper, George Brearly being the most conspicuous amongst the small crowd. By Frances’s reckoning, he had already consumed two plates’ worth of food, and was embarking on filling up his third. Frances couldn’t help but notice the look of concentration on his face, as his hands, replete with serving tongs, delved into the platters of assorted cold meats and seafood. During a rare moment of indecision, he even denuded a salver of its garnish (a large sprig of parsley) and despite disapproving looks from his fellow diners, munched on it unconcernedly.
In the meantime, the year 1894 was swiftly drawing to a close. Only fifteen minutes remained, and while the Wintersleigh clocks counted down the final minutes and seconds of the year, Frances began thinking about her future, something that was never that far from her mind. On the face of it, her immediate prospects were not bright. She was yet to find work in Hobart, her adored mother had just sent Frances confirmation of the wedding date, and she was living in a house with the haughty Agnes Wentworth, a young woman who took every opportunity of avoiding her. When Frances recalled the long list of her cousin’s offences against her, she wondered how a man like Michael Brearly could possibly love her. Was there a lighter side to Agnes that Frances had not yet seen?
Frances rested her elbows on the railing, and covered her face with her gloved hands. Behind her closed lids an image of the doctor rose up before her. It wasn’t exactly a memory, more of a daydream, and in the fleeting few minutes that the fantasy lasted, Michael was dancing with her once more, in an empty ballroom, with both arms about her waist.
The sound of creaking verandah floorboards beside her heralded the arrival of another person, and Frances woke from her dream with a guilty start. To her surprise, the visitor was George Brearly, holding a plate of scallops in one hand, and two champagne glasses in the other.
‘Well, well,’ he cried, with no small degree of triumph, ‘I have found you at last! Miss Frances Norwood, standing out here, all alone in the dark.’
Frances quickly stepped back from the verandah. ‘I just needed some peace and quiet,’ she explained, ‘and a little time to clear my head.’
‘How odd you are, Frances! Quite the duffer! While everyone else is enjoying themselves in the supper room, me included, you are standing here all alone, enjoying the company of the night air.’ His eyes began dancing with amusement. ‘Still, here you are. Rather, here we are.’ He winked provocatively at her. ‘Have a glass of champagne,’ he announced, thrusting one of the glasses into Frances’s hand. ‘You look as though you could do with something.’ As he leaned over, however, he upset the contents of his plate, causing a scallop to slip off the plate and onto the verandah. ‘Damn and botheration! There goes another one!’
Frances smiled and accepted the glass gratefully. ‘So,’ she began hesitantly, ‘you’ve finally forgiven me. I thought at one point that you were going to avoid me for the rest of the evening.’
‘Come, come,’ George replied smilingly, ‘what was there for me to forgive? You were only speaking your mind. That’s what I like about you, Frances. You say what has to be said.’ He took a loud slurp from his glass. ‘Besides,’ he resumed more seriously, ‘I wanted to dance with you later on, but you seemed to be constantly engaged.’
‘Oh yes, well you can blame my aunt for that. I don’t know what got into her this evening, but she seemed doubly determined to throw me into the path of every bachelor in the room. At one point she literally grabbed hold of my arm, and pushed me in front of one of her unattached neighbours. It was mortifying.’
‘Perhaps so, but you didn’t need much persuasion dancing with my brother, did you? You consented to him very readily.’
Frances was jarred by the tone of George’s voice. ‘He asked me to dance, George. What was I supposed to do? Refuse the hand of a gentleman? Anyway,’ Frances added more calmly, ‘I was discussing my aunt, not your brother.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Why do married women pity single women?’ Frances suddenly asked. ‘What makes them think that we deserve sympathy? They must think that a woman can only be happy if she is married. Then they take it upon themselves to match-make. It infuriates me.’
‘Perhaps your aunt thinks that you are lonely.’
‘Everyone gets lonely at some point, even married women. In fact, now that I come to think about it, some of the loneliest people I know are married.’
‘Well said. Well said indeed, but tell me this, Frances,’ he said, stepping dangerously close to her, ‘have you ever been in love?’
The question, not surprisingly, caught Frances off guard, and she almost dropped her glass of champagne. ‘I beg your pardon, George,’ she began indignantly, ‘I don’t think, rather, I think it very improper of you to ask me such a question. You cannot possibly expect me to answer.’
‘Not at all,’ George whispered. ‘Your eyes have just told me everything I needed to know.’
Frances was struck dumb. ‘I, I think I should leave now. I, I think it best all round.’
She turned to leave, but before she could move, she felt George’s lips pressing up against hers. The sensation of kissing was new to Frances, and having suppressed her initial feelings of repulsion, she closed her eyes with a determination to enjoy the experience while it lasted. But she could not. Her body was frozen with fear and shame, and no amount of George’s hungry kisses could melt her cold and unresponsive lips. Before she could distance herself from George’s touch, a familiar voice stopped them both in their tracks.