Halcombe appeared almost indifferent to the matter, but was he really? Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, Frances wished he was not so expert at hiding his feelings. Except for anger—he shared that readily! She hesitated, not sure of the wisest course here. Should she admit the woman disliked her, had refused to do anything without Leticia’s approval, and undermined any attempt Frances had made to act as mistress here? And further display your shortcomings, however difficult you find it to believe Richard had been unaware of them? Frances suppressed a sigh. She had resolved to act like the strong woman she had become, and here she was, already weighing every word. Unconsciously, she raised her chin.
“I have no criticism to make regarding Mrs. Carroll’s service. It is simply that she and I have different ideas as to running a household. I feel she will be happier elsewhere.”
“Indeed,” he repeated. He drank some wine and looked at her over the glass. “Is that what you plan to do? Run my household to your pleasure? For a runaway wife, you are taking a lot for granted.”
His deceptively mild tone made Frances wish she had abstained from eating after all. “I am not a ‘runaway wife’ as you say, and yes, I will run this household—hopefully to your satisfaction as well as mine.”
“It is going to take more than a well-running household to satisfy me,” Halcombe said with a cold smile. He drained his glass, lifted his serviette to wipe his mouth, and tossed it on the table as he stood. “You have nerve, I’ll give you that. Do you truly think you can disappear for nearly two years and then expect to resume your place here as if nothing had happened?”
Frances pushed back her chair and rose. “I prefer to think of it as making a place here, since I hardly had one before.” Her lips pressed together to contain the words unsaid, she wearily brushed a tendril of hair from her forehead. “What do you want, Richard? Shall I beg for forgiveness? Cry? Plead? Will that satisfy you?”
“Dammit, Frances. What in God’s name do you expect of me?” He gripped the edge of the table with both hands and leaned forward. “Do you have any idea of the absolute hell I went through when you disappeared? The sleepless nights, picturing you struggle in the water, hearing you cry for help…” He shoved the table away with enough force to rattle the dishes, strode to the window, and bracing an arm on the sash, stared into the night. “Seeing you drown.”
Yearning to lay her head on his rigid back, enclose him in her arms and soothe away the pain, as she did for Flora’s childhood hurts, Frances pressed her hands to her face. Breathe, Frances. Breathe. In and out, she counted the breaths, until the threatened tears dried and she was able to speak calmly.
“The past cannot be changed. I can wish it undone—and do wish it so—for I would not have chosen to cause you such pain. I am guilty, yes—of poor judgment in taking the boat out when the weather was uncertain. But the idea the boat would—could—capsize never entered my mind.” She hesitated, and her voice hardened. “The young are ever invincible,” she finished with some bitterness. “I learned better.”
Daunted by the long silence that followed, Frances finally forced movement into her leaden limbs and started toward the door. Her hand was on the latch when he spoke.
“Will you tell me of it?”
She hesitated, having no will to continue this painful episode, but the soft-spoken question was somehow compelling. She turned and said simply, “Yes, if you wish.”
He straightened, walked over to stir the fire, and motioned toward a pair of chairs. With a hand less than steady, he splashed some spirit into a glass. “Do you want some brandy?”
Frances shook her head. This was difficult enough without befuddling her wits with drink. She waited until he was seated in the chair opposite, gathered her thoughts, and began.
Chapter Thirteen
France, 1807
Chut!”
“Il n’y a aucune dame anglaise ici, Jean Claude. Seulement ma pauvre simplette cousine, et oui, elle récupéra.”
Ignoring the dull ache in her head, Frances cautiously changed position in an effort to locate the voices. Someone was speaking of an Englishwoman who was not here and a simple-minded cousin who would recover. It came to her slowly—the realization that the language spoken was not the familiar English of her country. She had a vague memory of the storm that had driven her small sailboat out to sea, canvas sail torn and the stranded vessel at the mercy of the heaving waves. How long had she drifted helplessly, exhausted and half-delirious after the blow to her head? Frances remembered the strong arms that had hoisted her into another boat, wrapped her in blankets and held a cup of water to her chapped lips. But where was she now?
A mew of distress escaped her throat. Dear sweet heaven, surely she was mistaken. She could not possibly be in France! How long had she been here? Been at sea? Rose and Thomas must be frantic. And Richard—no. She would not think about her husband now.
“Bon, vous êtes éveillé.”
Frances lifted her eyelids and met the gaze of a neatly black-clad woman. A starched white cap covered her hair and her deep-set dark eyes held a reserved concern that was strangely reassuring.
“Oui, Madame, I am awake,” Frances croaked. She struggled to sit up despite the weakness in her arms, welcoming the woman’s helping hand. If her head would just stop spinning! She searched for the words and settled into her French. “De l'eau, s'il vous plaît?”
The cool water was ambrosia running down her parched throat, which was so sore it was painful to swallow. “Merci,” she whispered after the first greedy gulp, then held the cup in two hands and drank with more restraint. Given the agitation in her stomach, it seemed better not to ask too much of it. It was a decision with which her benefactor apparently agreed, for the stranger nodded with evident satisfaction.
“You are wise to be moderate. Undoubtedly you swallowed some seawater and it will take some time before you feel well again. You have been ill for several days, Mistress, but you have not lost your child. He is a strong bébé, that one.” She smiled, exposing a gap in her bottom row of teeth, which rather than being off-putting, went with the lined, weathered skin on her round face.
“Baby?” Frances repeated as blackness swooped toward her. She felt the empty cup slip from her trembling fingers and slumped back onto the pillows. She was with child! A rush of joy swept through her. A child, Richard’s child, and here she was—where was she?
“You did not know? But the signs are evident, ma chère.” The Frenchwoman placed her hand on her breast. “Moi, I am a mid-wife and know a woman’s body when she is with child.”
Her voice seemed to come from a distance, but it was enough to bring Frances back to her surroundings.
“I thought it might be so, but was not certain.” Frances said. She raised her eyes to face the woman’s curious gaze. “This is France, n’est-ce pas? I remember being pulled from my boat, and hearing a man’s voice. Was it your son, Madame?
“Grandson. Jean-Claude believes it to be a miracle, for he does not normally fish in that area of the channel, especially now with this war. Perhaps he is right, and God’s hand was on you.” She turned away to ladle some thick soup into a bowl, pulled a stool to the bed, and began spooning the rich, warm liquid into Frances’ mouth. “Eat, and I will tell you the tale, short as it is. I am, by the by, Clotilde Fournier, and you are indeed in France.” Setting aside the bowl when emptied, Madame Fournier settled her bony frame more comfortably and went on with her story.
“You can imagine my surprise when Jean-Claude burst in the door three nights ago with a bedraggled woman in his arms—feverish, and barely conscious.” She touched the swelling on one side of her patient’s head. “Lucky for all of us Jean-Claude’s crew is made up of Fourniers, of one degree or another. You can be sure no one will spread the tale.” Madame’s eyes narrowed. “This is our story. Listen well. What is your name?”
“Frances.”
“Bon, you will pretend to be my cousin Francine, whose wits were addled when
she lost her husband. Your poor mother sent you to me in hopes the sea air will be of help.” Madame’s voice hardened. “We can have no strangers here, you understand. The government has ears everywhere these days and, as nonsensical the idea is, hunts for spies under every bed. This is our village, and we will not bring trouble to it.”
Frances stared dumbly at her. Of course anyone English would be suspect. Her identity had to remain hidden. Despair swept through her. How was she to get home? Risking the safety of these people who had saved her life was not to be thought of. Fighting back a sob, she whispered, “No, I will make no trouble.” Frances hesitated. “And my French?”
“It is good enough to pass, given you are not from these parts, but best to limit your speech—which your disturbed mind will account for.” Seeing Frances’ distress, the Frenchwoman’s grave expression softened. “Rest now, and give the good God thanks for saving your life—and your child’s.”
“Yes.” Fatigue swept over her. Frances turned her face into the pillow and slept.
***
Months later, Frances maneuvered her unwieldy body close to the edge of the well and braced a hip on its low stone wall. She generally savored this task, her sole contact with the world outside the Fournier’s cottage, even though carrying the buckets of water grew more difficult each day. Throughout the months that followed Frances’ rescue, Madame had kept her close and busy. Frances was limited to one daily opportunity to exchange a timid “bonjour” and smile with the other women at the well. Today, however, it was hard to find her usual pleasure in the task. Her back ached, the baby weighed heavily within her, and the air was sharp and cold.
Frances slowly lowered the bucket into the well, waited for it to fill, and then began turning the squeaky crank. It was an arduous job at any time, but this morning it was almost impossible. The appearance of another hand beside hers on the handle was welcome.
“Merci, Martine.” Frances said, smiling at the young woman beside her. Martine was one of Madame Fournier’s many great-nieces and was always ready to help when she saw Frances. Whether it was due to their obviously similar age or simple curiosity about a stranger, Frances was unsure, but whatever the reason, she was grateful for it.
Martine helped balance the bucket on Frances’ shoulder. She steadied it with one hand, and after bidding the Frenchwoman good day, began to walk along the dusty street. Whitewashed houses, leaning companionably against one another, lined both sides of the thoroughfare, their facades brightened by colourfully painted doors. The Fournier’s door was blue—the same piercing blue as Richard’s eyes. Frances suddenly felt the pang of loss more keenly than usual. She found it unwise to dwell on her circumstances, however. Acceptance was difficult enough without constantly brooding about it. There was no way to change things.
She lowered the bucket to the ground and breathed in the fishy, salt-laden air. Rubbing her lower back, she sank onto the bench that stood beside the door and arranged her shawl tightly around her shoulders. The water was not needed immediately. There was time to rest for a few minutes and think about her situation, without Madame’s constant chatter and endless instruction.
The poor woman had been horrified by Frances’ lack of domestic skills. Gracious, Frances had not even known how to lay a fire! Cooking, sewing, scrubbing—she had had to learn them all. She studied her chapped, reddened hands and grimaced, but she had no real regrets. It was a small price to pay for the knowledge that meant never again being dependent on someone else to care for her.
At first, the hard physical labour and appalling sameness of the daily routine had sorely tried her patience. Accustomed to walking, riding or sailing almost every day, reading for hours at a time, she chafed at the restrictions and endless lessons in housewifery. In desperation, Frances had taken to reading Madame’s single book, the Bible. Not that she objected to reading the Bible. Not at all, but when it was the only book available….
Frances had by now read it end to end several times, and she often read aloud to Madame and Jean-Claude of an evening. She found solace in the timeless, wise words when homesickness threatened to overwhelm her. The loss of her father was a void only now beginning to fill. She missed Rose and Thomas—and Richard, always Richard, no matter his betrayal. Somehow, she had to get home, but the sense of urgency she had felt so strongly at first had faded as the precious child grew inside her.
Which is just as well, Frances, since Jean Claude won’t risk crossing the channel or attempt to send a letter to England. It is out of your control, so stop whining and go inside before you freeze out here. Hissing softly under her breath, she heaved herself upright, grasped the bucket handle, and opened the latch.
A steady blaze warmed the good-sized room, where most activity took place, but the two smaller chambers were cold at this time of day. Fortunately, Frances slept out here, next to the fire that burned day and night. Humming softly, she set the bucket beside the fireplace. She was ladling water into the large pot that permanently rested on the wide hearth when a sudden acute pain made her gasp. The ladle clattered to the floor and a warm liquid trickled down her legs.
The baby! The baby is coming—and Madame at a neighbor’s! Frances folded her arms across her stomach and straightened. Her heart racing and panic rising, she stumbled to a chair. Calm yourself, Frances. Madame will be home soon and from all you have heard these past months, babies rarely come quickly. Another spasm gripped her. She bent over, clutched her middle, and waited for it to pass. Everything was ready—swaddling blankets for the infant, clean linens and bedclothes for her. There was even a keen-edged knife, used for nothing other than birthing, to cut the cord.
Madame has delivered a dozen babies. Now get up and walk as you’ve been told to do.
She was between contractions, making another round of the room, when Madame Fournier came home. Frances had managed to remove her damp petticoats and gown and was clad only in a chemise and nightdress.
“Francine! Your time has come, oui?” Madame hung up her cloak, removed her gloves, and hurried to where Frances had stopped to grip the back of a chair. “I am sorry I was not here, but it cannot have gone on too long. Did you have the water?”
“Yes, some time ago,” Frances said with a gasp.
“Good, good. Move as best you can while I light a fire in my bedchamber. You need a proper bed for this. Then I will tell Bette to send one of hers for Martine. The girl is young but already shows a gift for nursing.” The Frenchwoman smiled kindly and wiped the moisture from Frances’ forehead. “All will be well, child,” she said, and darted off.
Frances resumed her careful amble, dreading each contraction but somehow enduring them in silence. Madame Fournier was more than kind, but now she needed a familiar face. She wanted Rose—she wanted to be home. If only she had never taken the boat out! Never overheard Halcombe’s tryst with that woman. What if she died here? Women died in childbirth all the time!
What if horses could fly? You could soar right across the water. Don’t be stupid, Frances. You are young and healthy and you are not going to die.
“It just feels like it,” she panted and staggered to a nearby bench. No more walking or she might fall flat on her face. And given the size of you, it will take more than Madame to pick you up!
Then Madame was back, and Martine appeared soon after. With the two of them beside her, voicing encouragement, Frances managed a few more turns around the room before she was settled on the Frenchwoman’s bed, propped up with pillows behind her head and shoulders and thick pads of linen beneath her. Madame pushed Frances’ gown up to her hips and tut-tutted her approval, while Martine massaged Frances’ belly.
“You are doing well, ma chère,” Martine said. “Breathe with the pain—it will make it easier.” The Frenchwoman chuckled at Frances’ look of disbelief. “It does not seem so, oui? But I have seen it so and you have some time yet before your little one makes an appearance.” She folded one of Frances’ hands around a length of cloth tied to the bedpost.
Frances gripped the cloth as if her life depended upon it. The contractions came more and more frequently as the hours passed. She felt as if her body was turning inside out and pain was her whole existence. “I can’t do this!” she sobbed, ashamed of her tears, but she hurt so.
“Of course you can, child. You are doing it. Try to push. Bon…bon, you do well.”
With the last of her strength, Frances pushed.
“The head is through,” Martine said urgently. “Now, bear down once more.”
“Très bien!” Madame Fournier’s cry rang out, and the thin wail of a newborn baby filled the room. “A girl, ma chère, a healthy girl,” she said and swiftly cut and tied off the cord.
Crying, laughing, Frances held out her arms, her heart swelling with joy. “A daughter. Please, may I see her? I want to hold her.”
Martine cleaned the infant’s face, swabbed out her mouth and deftly swaddled the tiny body. “But you are not yet finished. Push once more for me and we will get you cleaned up as well.” The young woman laid the baby on Frances’ breast and then leaned on her womb.
Frances’ felt the gush of the afterbirth, but not even this pain distracted her from her fascination with the tiny person lying over her heart. Red-faced and wrinkled, wisps of fair hair plastered to her head, she was the most wonderful sight in Frances’ life. “She is beautiful. So perfect.”
Frances held out a hand to Martine. “Thank you. Thank you both so much. You saved me, saved Flora.” She touched the infant’s cheek. “Her name is Flora Anne, after my grandmother.”
***
Sussex 1809
A few candles still burned when Frances emerged from the past, the rest having spluttered out as the story unfolded. Richard, seated now, was more shadow than substance in the fitful firelight, but his gaze lay on her with an almost physical intensity. She closed her eyes, uneasy with the long silence. What was he thinking? That you had no one but yourself to blame? That you could have tried harder to get word to England? Perhaps it was true. Had she used the safety of the villagers as an excuse?
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