Appearing much like she had just swallowed a very sour lemon, Leticia slowly raised her lorgnette and surveyed her daughter-in-law from bonnet to boots. “Humph. You appear rather peaked, which I suppose can be attributed to these uncommon escapades of yours.”
“I daresay,” Frances said with a slight arch of her brows.
Halcombe set Flora on her feet and held her hand. “I would like you to meet your granddaughter, Flora…”
“Anne” was a whispered breath behind him and his hesitation almost unnoticeable.
“Flora Anne. Flora, this is your grandmother.”
Flora stared at the older woman, then uttered a brief “’lo”, and turned and raised her arms to her father. “Up, p’ease.”
Pretending not to hear his wife’s cough of suppressed laughter, Halcombe savored the rush of joy his daughter’s simple request engendered and lifted her.
“Spoiling her already, I see.” Leticia’s voice was caustic with distain. “Undisciplined and saddled with so plebian a name. You will never get her off your hands.”
He glanced at Frances and saw her stiffen, her expression unreadable. She seemed to wait for him to respond. He hesitated and suddenly felt that he had failed in some manner. But surely that was nonsense. He had learned long ago that ignoring his mother’s snide remarks was the wisest course. And the easiest? It was an uncomfortable thought he did not care to dwell upon any further.
“We have some years before we need to marry her off,” Frances said with undisguised amusement. “Flora Anne was my grandmother’s name. She was a Scot, you’ll remember, and they are given to these odd names. Lucky for me, my grandfather was willing to overlook it, or we would not be here—Flora and me.”
The dowager looked like she strongly disagreed with Frances’ idea of luck, and Halcombe’s own back stiffened. “Now that you’ve met my daughter, and seen my wife for yourself, we must be off. Follow the course we discussed earlier, Mother, and this will soon be old news.” He glanced at Frances and handed Flora to her. “Please take her out to the chaise, I will join you momentarily.”
“Certainly,” Frances said. She gave him a curious look, nodded to the dowager and murmured “Mother Halcombe,” as she left the room with Flora.
Halcombe stepped closer to the stone-faced woman who had never shown him anything but the coolest of affections and those often laced with a faint dislike. He had never understood the reason behind it, and had long since accepted that his mother’s primary concern and interest was herself.
“I expect you to support my wife in every way possible. If I should hear even one disparaging story that I can attribute to you, I promise you will regret it. I could house you much more cheaply in a country cottage somewhere.”
“You would not!” Leticia paled and uncertainty tinged her voice.
“I would.” His harshly stated words carried absolute intent, and he watched as fear grew in her eyes.
“You are an unnatural son,” she said bitterly. “I wish you well of your new family.”
Since it was obvious she wished him anything but, Halcombe’s pang of guilt at badgering the older woman faded. Her peevish disposition had caused too much unhappiness in the past.
He bowed, gave her a pitying look, and walked away. Her life was one long complaint, and she would never be satisfied. Almost, he felt sorry for her. Almost.
Giving the butler a curt nod, the earl took his gloves and hat, stepped outside, and halted on the landing. Frances was not in the chaise. She stood beside his curricle, talking to his groom while Flora enthusiastically patted the near horse. The early morning sunlight burnished the flyaway curls on Flora’s head. Halcombe’s chest tightened. His daughter.
The second she had turned to him with her simple ‘up, ‘p’ease’, love for this trusting, beautiful child engulfed him. Did she feel it, too, the connection between them? Blood will tell. It was a euphemism he had heard all his life and never put stock in before today. Now he knew it to be true.
She does not come alone, Halcombe. Embracing the child means accepting her mother, unless you have the heart to separate them, and Frances will fight like a tigress if you attempt to send her away.
He watched his wife walk toward the chaise, Flora’s head on her shoulder, and felt a jolt as Frances’ eyes met his. Her steady gaze held what? Challenge? Expectation? Hope? All of these, he judged as he went to meet her. Another of her mysteries, and one he vowed to resolve, along with discovering every secret she harboured. Then, and only then, could he decide what to do about Frances.
Chapter Twelve
Sussex, 1809
From the day she first saw the tower looming high as they came over the rise, Halcombe Manor had fascinated Frances. Charmingly atilt and, as she later learned, the only remaining part of the original keep, the sun-leached granite was a sharp contrast to the newer golden stones of the manor house.
Frances lingered beside the chaise. How awed she had been then. Other than the few days she had spent at Lord Summerton’s country house after her wedding, she had never been further from Clifftop than the nearest town. The inland countryside, so opposite the rugged coastal plain, had been delightful, with the crop-covered patchwork fields and hillsides dotted with sheep and cows. She had liked everything about it. If only—but then life was salted with ‘ifs’. If you had been older, wiser, not such a child. Had more gumption, and not allowed that woman to intimidate you, or Richard to ignore you.
Frances could spout out a long list of ‘if onlys’, but to what use? It changed nothing. She had been too young, too ignorant—and too accommodating. She was, however, no longer any of those things. Neither Halcombe nor his manor house would find her so easy a mark in the future.
Frances turned to Flora, who was skipping toward her with an excited “Mama!” Awake after a long nap, which happy circumstance had made the latter portion of the journey more restful, the child was brim full of energy. Frances bent to catch her as she hurtled into her arms. The graveled drive was no place for a toddler to run loose, busy as it was with trunks being unloaded and weary horses eager for the stables. Frances shifted Flora more comfortably on her hip and moved toward the long flight of steps.
“Frances.” Halcombe appeared beside her and touched her arm. “I will carry her,” he said in a low voice, and she stopped.
A request or a command? Frances narrowed her eyes as she puzzled out his intent, but it was impossible to judge from his calm expression. Better to give him the benefit of doubt, she decided. Frances looked at Flora and asked, “Shall Papa carry you, pet? We need to go inside now.”
“Go big house?” Flora’s eyes went from the manor to her father. “Go Papa?”
“Go Papa,” Frances echoed, as Flora held out her arms.
“Papa?” Halcombe mouthed over Flora’s head.
“It is easier for her to pronounce,” Frances said with a smile. “You can change it to Father when she gets older, if you prefer.”
“No, Papa is fine.”
The answer came with a readiness that surprised her. Pleased at this small evidence of informality since she had never heard her husband refer to the late Lord Halcombe as anything but ‘Father’, some of Frances’ apprehension lessened. Richard may never soften toward her, but at least he appeared to have accepted his daughter.
Frances stepped into the huge entry hall and glanced around. Nothing had changed. Why had she expected it to? The dark paneling cast its usual gloomy shadows, despite the long window at the landing where the stairs turned. Several sagging, dusty banners hung listlessly on the walls, interspersed with a battle-axe or two. Even that ridiculous suit of armour still stood guardian at the side of the newel post.
“Lady Halcombe, Lord Halcombe, welcome home.” She turned to find the assembled staff staring at her with expressions that ran from amazement to disapproval.
“Thank you, Benson. You are well, I trust?” She smiled warmly at the older man, ever an ally in this household.
“I am, my
lady. Thank you for asking.” He looked at Flora, who promptly hid her face in the curve of her father’s shoulder. “And this is…?”
“Lady Flora is somewhat overwhelmed with so many new faces,” Halcombe said, before Frances could answer. “Flora, this is Benson. He takes good care of our household.”
Flora turned her head and peeked at the butler through her fingers. “’Lo.”
Surprised at even that much of a response from her daughter, Frances judged it unwise to further extend this homecoming. She nodded to the housekeeper standing stiffly behind Benson. “Mrs. Carroll. We are all tired and in need of something to eat and drink. I realize you have had scant notice, but knowing your competence, I’m sure you will have readied my suite. It is not necessary to worry about the nursery this evening. Lady Flora and her nurse will stay with me tonight.”
“Certainly, my lady.”
The falsely cordial expression on Alicia Carroll’s face did not completely mask the animosity in the woman’s eyes. Frances had expected nothing else. The housekeeper was no friend to her during the time she had lived in this house.
Putting it aside for now, and suddenly both weary and discouraged, Frances smiled wanly at her husband. She would take charge here, but please heaven, not today.
“Lady Halcombe and I will dine in my rooms later this evening, Benson,” Halcombe ordered after a quick glance at Frances. “Please have Cook prepare a light meal for Lady Flora and her nurse and see that the trunks are sent up.”
Relieved as Frances was to have him step in, she was equally dismayed by his decree that they dine together, an intimacy almost certain to end in confrontation. Any protest would put her at a disadvantage, however, and giving him an infinitesimal nod, she held out her arms for her daughter. “Are you hungry, sweetheart? I am, and I’m sure Nancy is too. Shall we go find something to eat and see where you are to sleep?”
Flora nodded, so serious a look in her wide eyes that Frances’ heart ached. So many changes for the child.
“Milk? Milk, Mama?” Flora whispered.
“An excellent choice. Milk it is.” Frances looked at Halcombe. He had stepped aside to speak to Benson as the other servants returned to their duties. All but Mrs. Carroll, of course, who placed great importance on protocol; she would insist on showing Frances to her room. As if she required a guide! But it was not worth a protest, and here was Halcombe at her side, touching her arm, and they dutifully followed their retainers.
She was surprised to see that nothing in her bedchamber had changed either. She had assumed her husband to have long since disposed of her belongings. But her toiletries lay on the mahogany dressing table, and her now outdated clothing hung in the wardrobe. Frances set Flora on the bed, tossed her hat and gloves onto a chair, and untied the ribbons of Flora’s bonnet.
“I think you are in need of some soap and water,” she said, rubbing at a smudge on the child’s cheek. “Tomorrow you shall have a bath, but for tonight a wash will do.” Frances glanced over her shoulder at the housekeeper lingering at the door. “Have someone bring up some warm water, please, and direct a trundle and a cot be put in my sitting room.
“Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Carroll gave one disapproving sniff and left the room.
“Nancy, if you wish to freshen up, you’ll find what you need in my dressing room, through the door on the right. I will see to Lady Flora.” The wan and apprehensive expression on Nancy’s face reminded Frances that the young woman must be as bewildered by all of the changes as Flora was. She gave the nursemaid a reassuring smile. “It is a lot to take in, I know. You will soon become accustomed.” Frances said. “Beginning with calling our little imp Lady Flora!”
“Yes, my lady,” Nancy said. “It will all take some getting used to.”
She hurried away and Frances sighed, chagrined at her lapse. How could she have forgotten so important a thing? Because it was not important to you—you can rarely remember your own title!
Frances sat beside her daughter and began to unlace her shoes. The spurt of energy that had manifested when they arrived had disappeared, and Flora was content to watch without a single “Me do.”
The requested water arrived promptly, followed by the beds and a light meal for Flora and Nancy. It took very little persuasion to coax Nancy into retiring along with Flora, who was an early riser.
“Good night, my sweet. Tomorrow we will find some cows.” Frances brushed Flora’s hair from her forehead and tucked the blanket around her shoulders.
“‘Night, Mama. ‘Night, Nancy.” Flora smiled sleepily at her mother and closed her eyes.
“Good night, Lady Flora, good night, my lady.” Nancy’s voice sounded as sleepy as Flora’s.
Frances smiled to herself as she quietly closed the sitting room door behind her. At least someone was content this evening. She rang for a maid and gazed longingly at her own bed. The thought of climbing in and snuggling under the covers was far more inviting than a tête-á-tête with her husband. In fact, the thought of the next few hours had her stomach cramping. It would be a wonder if she could swallow a morsel. Better not to make a habit of dining with the man or you will fade away from hunger.
The inane notion had the cheering effect of lightening her mood. The man was not an ogre, after all.
***
In an effort to at least begin the evening with some semblance of formality, Frances used the corridor to reach Halcombe’s suite of rooms instead of the doorway between their bedchambers. Johnson, his valet, responded to her tap on the door, and stood aside for her to enter.
“Good evening, my lady. Welcome home.”
Frances was unable to tell from the man’s stolid expression if he meant well by the comment, but he had always been courteous to her. Why hunt for ill feeling, when there was other household staff, less friendly, to face?
“Thank you, Johnson,” Frances said with a smile, but her attention was drawn at once to her husband. He was dressed in black trousers and jacket, a grey waistcoat, and snowy white shirt and cravat. She was glad she had also taken pains with her appearance. Her gown was one made up by Olivia’s London modiste, and while modest in style, it did not in the least resemble the dresses chosen for her by the dowager. The gowns favored by Leticia were bedecked with ribbons, bows, and flounces, and were not only unbecoming in colour, but overemphasized her youth. You were such a weak-willed creature, Frances—no wonder the woman found you an easy mark. But never in her life had she been subjected to endless criticism and already feeling inadequate and out of place, Frances had meekly submitted to Leticia’s unflattering selections.
Halcombe watched her walk across the room, his expression hooded. He raised the glass in his hand.
“Would you care for some sherry? It is not from your aunt’s winery, but it is quite good.”
Frances nodded. “Yes, thank you.” She stopped some distance from him and looked around. As in her bedchamber, no changes had been made to this room, nicely furnished with a sofa and several chairs flanking the fireplace. Now, a table was set in an alcove, laden with covered platters, and the air was scented with tantalizing aromas that awakened her appetite. Perhaps, if Halcombe refrained from sniping at her, she could eat after all. She took the offered glass with murmured thanks and waited for him to speak.
“I take it you were able to get Flora settled without too much trouble?” Halcombe asked. “She seems an adaptable child, but such a major change in her life has to be difficult.”
“I believe her to be too weary to protest,” Frances said. “Although she normally is a good-natured little girl, this is all so new to her. It is a wonder she has not been more contentious.”
“She looks very like you.” He stepped forward and laid his fingers on Frances’ cheek. “She has your colouring. I’ve seen that portrait of you as a child. I suppose Flora’s hair will darken, as yours did.”
Frances’ pulse quickened in response to his touch. He had always affected her this way. Annoyed, both by the knowing glint in his eyes
and her reaction, she moved casually away and took a sip of wine.
“Perhaps, although it may change to red, as my mother’s did.” She set the glass on a nearby table and gazed coolly at him. “I believe her features favour your side of the family.”
“So they do,” he agreed with a mocking smile and then indicated the table with a tip of his chin. “I, for one am hungry. Are you ready to eat?”
“Yes, of course.” Frances allowed him to seat her and watched as he poured a deep crimson wine into two fine-stemmed goblets and removed the covers from the platters. The braised chicken with mushroom sauce was one of her favorite dishes, and she was warmed to think Cook had remembered.
“I see you have regained something of your appetite,” the earl said, after the not-uncomfortable silence that reigned while they ate. “You hardly touched your dinner last night, or the midday meal.”
Frances stiffened. He did not appear critical, but having him observe her so closely was unnerving.
“Travel does not always agree with me.” She allowed her lips to curve into a slight smile. “Cook’s good food, though, is too tempting to pass up. I am glad she is still with you,” she said, casually adding, “Have there been any changes to the staff?”
“I believe several of the younger housemaids have been replaced. That is Mrs. Carroll’s bailiwick. You will have to consult her.”
Frances laid aside her fork, her hunger gone, and laced her fingers together in her lap. She would have preferred to wait before bringing this up, but now seemed the perfect opportunity.
“So I shall. However, I plan to give Mrs. Carroll notice and ask Rose Blount to serve as housekeeper.” There it was out. And if the matter sparked the fire smoldering under her husband’s calm demeanor, why not this—something that was important to her?
“Indeed. May I ask why? As far as I know, Mrs. Carroll has given satisfactory service.”
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