CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
An Ultimatum
‘And what do we have here?’ Agnes Wentworth drawled. ‘George Brearly with my infamous cousin.’ She smiled as Frances hurriedly pulled away from George. ‘Oh please, Frances, don’t let me stop you.’ She gave them a monitory look.
A red-faced Frances guiltily covered her lips with a hand. ‘I, I think I have had too much to drink,’ she stammered. ‘I, I think I should go.’ She made a move to leave, but Agnes prevented her escape by standing in her way. ‘Excuse me, Agnes,’ Frances said, ‘but I really should be going. My aunt will be wondering where I am.’
‘Oh, you’re not going anywhere,’ Agnes smilingly declared. ‘We need to talk, and I’m not letting you out of my sight until we have.’ She leant elegantly against the verandah railing, and while the gentle breeze tickled her fringe, she carefully began removing her gloves.
‘Agnes,’ George interposed, ‘leave her alone. We were only having a bit of fun.’
Agnes looked up from her gloves, and raised one of her neatly manicured eyebrows. ‘Fun? Hmm, I wonder whether my mother would share your opinion on that. What do you think she would say if I told her about your, shall we say, interlude.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ George challenged her. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
Agnes’s dark eyes flashed triumphantly. ‘I wouldn’t hesitate for one second, George Brearly. I don’t owe you anything. And as for you,’ Agnes said, turning abruptly to Frances, ‘nothing would give me more pleasure than informing my mother of your attachment with Mr Brearly. She would be so displeased with you, that I daresay she would pack your bags for you.’
Frances’s uneasiness began to mount. ‘I, I’ve already explained this to you, Agnes. I had too much to drink, that is all. The moment got the better of me.’
‘What are you saying, Frances?’ George grumbled. ‘You haven’t touched a drop all night.’
For a fleeting moment Frances wondered who her real enemy was, and looking down at the glass of champagne she was still holding onto, she noticed that her hand was visibly shaking. ‘The countdown to the New Year begins shortly, Agnes, so I won’t detain you. Perhaps we can have this discussion at another time, when we don’t have an audience, and when you’re more in control of your temper.’
‘Don’t you lecture me about my behaviour, Frances Norwood,’ Agnes snarled. ‘I’m not the one who was caught cavorting with a young man, and I wasn’t the one who danced all night with her cousin’s fiancé. Speaking of my fiancé, I wonder what he would say about your burgeoning relationship with his brother.’ Frances froze, but said nothing. ‘In view of the warning he gave you about George, I suspect the news would not be altogether welcome to him.’
‘Agnes,’ George interrupted, ‘don’t make mischief. Besides, what would Louisa and Michael think if I told them that you were spying on people in the middle of the night?’ He took a sip of champagne and smiled at Agnes from over the rim of his glass. ‘By Jove! What is wrong with you?’ he quipped. ‘Don’t you have a life of your own?’
‘Don’t bring me into this. I’m not the one at fault.’
‘Yes, yes,’ he returned, ‘you’re still harping on the same string. If you continue at this rate, we won’t be able to see in the New Year.’
‘Well go on then!’ Agnes spat. ‘Leave, if you feel you must! I’m not asking you to stay!’
George exhaled a long, disconsolate sigh, and with a loud ‘clink,’ placed his champagne glass on the verandah railing. He then announced his intention of staying by resting his back against the railing, and preoccupying himself with the sleeve of his coat.
‘Make it quick, Agnes,’ George muttered. ‘If we miss the countdown, we’ll arouse suspicion. Someone will come looking for us.’
‘Good!’ Agnes said derisively. ‘The sooner everyone knows about this, the better.’
Frances read the meaning in her cousin’s words, and realised that, for Agnes, the word ‘everyone’ meant ‘Michael Brearly.’ For a moment she couldn’t decide what was worse: having her cousin witness to her imprudence, or Michael finding out about it. Either way, her future rested precariously in Agnes’s hands.
‘What do you want?’ Frances eventually asked. ‘What is it that you want from me?’
Agnes’s smile broadened. ‘I should have thought that was obvious.’
The distant sound of hilarity caught Frances’s attention, and she anxiously glanced towards the back door. ‘Tell me, Agnes,’ she demanded. ‘What must I do to keep you silent on this matter?’
‘Leave Wintersleigh.’
‘What?’ Frances gasped.
‘Agnes,’ George interposed, ‘what the blazes are you talking about?’
‘That’s all you have to do, Frances,’ Agnes replied, stepping menacingly towards her cousin. ‘Leave Wintersleigh and I’ll completely forget about what happened here tonight. Michael and mother will be none the wiser, your precious little reputation will be intact, and without you to interfere in our lives, I daresay we’ll all live happily ever after.’
‘What you’re asking is impossible,’ Frances breathed.
‘Come on, Agnes,’ George whispered urgently, ‘think about what you’re saying here. What would Frances do? Where would she live?’
‘Frances is an enterprising young woman. I’m sure she will land on her feet, somewhere or with someone. Either way, it’s no matter to me.’
As the jubilant sounds of celebration grew ever louder, Frances realised with dismay that the guests were assembling in the ballroom for the countdown. It would only be a matter of time before a search group was sent to look for the missing members of the party: a group that would almost certainly include Michael Brearly. Frances returned her attention to her cousin’s imperious face, and for a transient moment, a surge of hatred pulsed through her.
‘How can I trust you, after the way you have already treated me?’ Frances asked Agnes. ‘How do I know you will keep your word?’
‘Quite frankly,’ Agnes resumed coldly, ‘I would do anything to be rid of you. If that means withholding information from the people who are most dear to me, to preserve their good opinion of you, then yes, I’m prepared to do it. I give you my word. On Michael’s life.’
This last comment stung Frances into an initial silence. ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I will consider your proposal. You shall have my answer tomorrow morning. Now, if you’ll both excuse me,’ she said in a quavering voice, ‘I’m going back inside.’ She thrust the champagne glass back into George’s hands, and without waiting for his response, set off towards the back door. She had not taken three paces when George’s voice reached her ears.
‘Frances!’ he called out to her. ‘What about your champagne? What about the countdown?’
Frances ignored his questions, and hurried her steps across the verandah. She was so ashamed of what had just taken place that nothing could induce her to remain for the festivities. Before she knew it, she had entered the house, and her ears were quickly filled with the buzz of conversation and jollity. From the voices around her, she gathered the countdown was about to begin, and by the time she pushed her way through the blurred throngs of unfamiliar people to get to the foot of the steps, the countdown had begun in earnest. Never before had Frances felt so alone and vulnerable, and as she clambered blindly up the staircase, she became aware that the colours around her were becoming garish and threatening, and that the downstairs noise, particularly the laughter, was growing increasingly louder. For a brief moment she was inclined to believe that everyone was laughing at her, and placing her hands over her ears, she hurried down the hallway towards her bedroom. She entered her room and was just about to close the door when the distant and resounding cries of: ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR!’ reached her ears. Frances grimaced, slammed the door and pitched herself onto her bed. Having convinced herself that the New Year ahead would be the worst ever, she promptly burst into a violent round of tears.
Breakfast at Midnight Page 38