Rose held Frances close for a few minutes and then stepped back. “No forgiveness is needed, child. You are here and that is what matters. Don’t waste this second chance, Miss Frances. Make your peace with Lord Halcombe and rebuild your life.” Her serious expression faded and she smiled. “It is always the woman who has to bend. Menfolk are too prideful and don’t want to think about how they feel, let alone act on it.” Her smile deepened and mischief teased her eyes. “Get him in your bed, my lady. There’s nothing like some loving to ease a man’s temper.”
Rose’s parting comment shocked Frances so much that she stared at the door for an entire minute before returning to her chair, not sure she believed her ears. Rose never said things like that, being the proper, godly woman she was—something Frances had good reason to know, since Mrs. Blount had stepped in as both housekeeper and surrogate parent after the death of Frances’ own mother. Rose had been part of the Nesbitt household all of Frances’ life. Her son Thomas was a childhood playmate and continuing friend. Frances would be lost without Thomas. He was the brother she never had.
Frances sighed noisily and resumed reading her correspondence, but half her mind was fixed on whether she could resume relations with her husband. She felt sure he would not come to her. If she wanted it to happen—which she did—the burden rested on her shoulders. She longed for his touch, for the feel of his strong warm hands caressing her. She wanted to breathe in the scent of him and slide her fingers through his hair. Oh, yes, she would gladly have him in her bed. But did she have the nerve to risk rejection, when just the very thought of it flooded her with anxiety?
Putting both the idea and the question aside with an effort, Frances signed and sanded her letters and opened her account book. She had meticulously recorded the work necessary to renovate the Manor, in order of importance, and her estimate of the overall cost. A formidable sum, yes, and some items might need to be deferred until the estate was profitable once more. She knew Halcombe had already paid off the mortgages, repaired the tenant cottages, and purchased various tools, implements and livestock.
Was all her dowry spent? Frances was good with numbers and had some knowledge of investments from assisting her father. Perhaps she could persuade Halcombe to invest in some profitable trading companies. They should have other sources of income besides the estate. The aristocracy generally frowned on those ‘in trade’, but she had no idea of her husband’s opinion on that subject.
The handful of rare books and maps her father had sold for Halcombe were minor acquisitions that her husband’s family had procured over the years. Halcombe’s father had been a serious collector but many of his purchases had been sold before his death, and the proceeds spent on what the prior earl meant to be his crowning acquisition. That her mother-in-law and not her husband had told her of the missing Legacy Folio of antique maps was a sore point with Frances. The dowager had railed at her late husband’s foolishness in wasting so much money and his further stupidity in hiding it.
Frances closed the ledger with a snap. In her view, the stupidity was not in hiding it, but in not informing anyone of its whereabouts. But then, the poor man did not expect to suddenly drop dead one day. No doubt the thing would be discovered eventually when least expected. She was not going to spend any of her time on the hunt. If Halcombe wanted it badly enough, let him search for it. Of course, should his efforts prove successful, he won’t need your money—or you.
“Bah.” Frances noted the direction on her letters and left them on a corner of her desk for Rose. Thomas would make arrangements for their delivery to her correspondents in Europe—how or with whom she did not know, or wish to know. With London being so close, Lord Summerton would have his letter within a day. She was disappointed to send him so little, but her change of residence had disrupted the network.
Wiggling her fingers to ease a sudden cramp, Frances rose, put her correspondence and other papers in a drawer and locked it. More secrets—this time on her part. They were a pair, she and Halcombe. Feeling both discouraged and disgruntled, she marched from the room. It was time to join Flora for their midday meal and some playtime.
When Frances entered the nursery playroom a few minutes later, Nancy was helping the child wash her hands and face. Flora addressed this simple task with great seriousness, scrubbing her face earnestly with a washing cloth before squishing the soap between her fingers. With much splashing, she rinsed her hands, and then held them up to show her mother.
“I clean, Mama,” she said, beaming at Frances, who picked up a towel and dried the child’s hands and face.
“Yes, I see that you are clean.” Frances turned the small hands this way and that. “You did a good job.” She gave Flora a smile of approval, laid the towel aside, and picked her up. Her daughter was the picture of health. Her cheeks were rosy with a touch of the sun, glossy curls wreathed her head, and her sturdy body was an agreeable weight on Frances’ hip. England agreed with Flora, it seemed—something Frances should keep in mind when she struggled with her misgivings about returning here.
“Are you hungry? I am hungry as a horse!” Frances pretended to nip at Flora’s neck, setting off a storm of giggles.
“No eat, Mama!” Flora shouted, squirming to get down. “Eat milk! Wabbit eat milk!” She dashed over to pick up the floppy-eared rabbit Frances had seen earlier and waved it in the air.
“Rabbit,” Frances corrected. She took the offering and propped the animal on a chair at the table where one of the maids had set out several platters of food. “And we drink milk, not eat it.”
“Drink milk,” Flora repeated once she was secured in her chair.
Frances sat beside her and uncovered a platter. “What have we today?” The menu seldom varied, but she felt repetition was important in aiding a child to learn their words and Flora’s vocabulary grew daily.
“Bwead, butter, cheese,” Flora crowed, bouncing in her seat as the food was put on her plate. “Ham and berries!”
“Strawberries,” Frances said, laughing. “Red like rabbit’s ribbon.” She touched the bow tied around the cloth animal’s neck and then held up a strawberry. “Red.”
“Rwed,” Flora repeated and stuffed a handful of the fruit in her mouth.
Frances and Nancy exchanged resigned smiles. Flora had not conquered table manners as yet. “Go have your dinner, Nancy,” Frances said with a wave of her hand. The young woman was free to eat with them, but it gave her an opportunity to mingle with adults if she took her meal below stairs. Even though Flora was usually a good child, caring for an energetic toddler was wearing.
***
Wearing and messy, Frances thought when she reached her bedchamber shortly before the appointed time for her meeting with the steward. She sniffed at the splatters of milk on her sleeve and decided the faint odor was not strong enough to warrant changing. Wetting a cloth, she dabbed at the spots. It was only a minor mishap, since she had been successful in avoiding the entire glass of milk that had nearly spilled in her lap. She did, however, tidy her hair and rub some colour into her cheeks before setting forth to gird the lion in its den. Hardly a lion, poor Mr. Compton, who no doubt looks forward to this interview with even less enthusiasm than you. Do keep in mind he is here to serve, and that Halcombe is to blame for these problems.
Keeping a firm hold on that thought, Frances greeted the steward graciously as he entered her parlour.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Compton.” She gestured to a chair, and then absentmindedly fingered the topmost sheet of paper on her desk as she studied the man her husband had entrusted with managing the estate. He was a thin man, of perhaps forty years, with neatly combed brown hair and a pair of brown eyes that held an alert intelligence. Walter Compton was no fool.
Reassured by his air of quiet competence, Frances smiled at him. “I understand you have been here for some time. Are you a Sussex man, Mr. Compton?”
“Born and bred, my lady, but my home is on the coast.”
Frances’ eyes widened.
“Is that so? It seems we have that in common. My childhood home is also on the coast. It is a beautiful area, if somewhat rugged.”
“It is that, my lady.” Compton said. “My father was the vicar in a village not far from Littlehampton, but it is a small place with little scope for a man unless one depends upon the sea for a living.” He smiled. “Not being so inclined myself, when I left school a friend suggested I try my hand at estate management and he helped me to obtain my first position.”
“Was that also in Sussex?” Frances asked. She was always interested in hearing how people came to their positions.
“No, Hertfordshire, and from there to Surrey. While I liked both areas, it was the desire to move closer to family that led me here. I have two brothers and a number of nieces and nephews that I like to visit upon occasion.”
“You are fortunate in your family, Mr. Compton. Feel free to invite them to visit you now and again,” Frances said. She glanced at the paper under her hand, and continued. “You will have read over the list of projects I feel necessary to bring the house into a more modern and comfortable state. As you can see, a substantial amount will be required to accomplish it all. Before embarking on any of these projects, I need an accounting of finances, both mine and also what monies, if any, are available from the estate. With Lord Halcombe being much too busy to involve himself with running the household, this project has fallen to my charge.
More that Lord Halcombe cannot be bothered. Why should he be, when you are quite capable? Do you really want him interfering? Frances answered that question with a resounding, if silent no and returned her attention to the steward.
“As you requested, I have a copy of the marriage settlements for you,” Compton said, placing a sheaf of papers on the desk. “Your father endowed a generous amount, much of which is soundly invested. The rest is held by Barclay’s bank and you are free to draw upon it as necessary.” He paused, curiosity showing in his dark eyes. “You have not seen this as yet?” Frances shook her head and he went on. “May I summarize?”
Bemused at the grave tone of his voice, Frances nodded. “By all means.”
Compton laid his hand over the documents. “This is a somewhat unusual arrangement in that the settlement is entirely assigned to you. While the law decrees that a wife’s property is considered to be her husband’s upon marriage, it is possible to draw up a trust that allows you to retain access to your funds and gives you the sole authority to oversee them. This was done, and agreed to, by Lord Halcombe. There are some restrictions, which I have noted. Most involve your potential remarriage, should such a thing occur in the future. In the event of your death, the funds go to your progeny direct. Should you die without issue, half reverts to his lordship and half to a school for young women.”
His expression was more speculative now. Frances stiffened, half-expecting some disagreeable surprise.
“Mr. Nesbitt made several generous donations to New Brook School in past years. Were you aware of this, Lady Halcombe?”
Relieved, since she was indeed familiar with the school and her father’s interest in it, Frances sat back and smiled. “Yes, my father was a great believer in the value of education for females. He believed that even the most basic skills would enable those less fortunate women who have no one to support them to find employment. I plan to continue helping the school, as is possible.”
“You will have no problem doing so if you wish, my lady. You are a wealthy woman,” Compton said, returning her smile. He then named a sum that made Frances start. Goodness! However did father keep this a secret? Not that it matters in the least. You had everything you needed—or wanted. But this, combined with your dowry…
A heady sense of freedom, along with a wave of love for the man who had provided it, swept through her. Frances blinked away sudden tears. Dear Papa. The pain of his passing had eased some over time, but she still missed him sorely. She kept her eyes on her desk until she regained her composure.
“My father had a knack for business,” she said finally. Amused at the blatant understatement, she deftly changed the subject.
“If you will give me a list of the investments, Mr. Compton, I would appreciate it. Now, I know you have many other concerns. Would you please tell me if any funds are available to me from the estate? While it appears my personal fortune is adequate, I prefer not to overly deplete those funds.”
“Nor would your trustees approve of doing so. While they will not interfere with your decisions, they do have the right to question any expenditure or investment they feel is unwise.” Unexpectedly, Compton smiled widely. “They would frown upon investing in a gold mine in the West Indies, for example.”
Frances laughed. “Since that is quite unlikely, I believe I can satisfy those gentlemen with my choices.”
“I’ve no doubt of it,” Compton said. He went back to her earlier question. “With so much of the estate’s working capital being reinvested in the land, Lord Halcombe is not in a position to pay for all you wish done.”
Compton named a sum, not paltry by any means, but less than Frances had hoped. She grimaced. If it was all that could be spared, then Halcombe simply had to agree to invest in other enterprises. Frances did not want to depend entirely upon the land to support them. What if the harvest failed, or disease swept the herds? Yet another thing she wanted to discuss with her husband. The list was growing and she could not postpone it much longer.
In response to her involuntary expression of dismay, Compton hastened on. The man was quick, Frances acknowledged, confirming her initial impression.
“Lord Halcombe wanted me to assure you that you are free to call on the estate’s own craftsmen. We have several highly skilled carpenters on staff, as well as a metal smith.” He smiled. “And many strong backs, my lady, willing to paint and such, if you can use them.”
Frances brightened. She had hesitated to take Halcombe’s men from their current tasks, but since he had suggested it, she would no longer do so.
“That will be helpful. Some projects will require specialists but there is much that can be done in-house. Please tell Lord Halcombe I will take him up on his offer,” Frances said. If Mr. Compton wondered why she did not tell him herself, he gave no sign of it, but stood when she did.
“By your leave, my lady.”
“Good day, sir. Thank you for your time.” Frances swept all the papers on her desk into a drawer. Later she would read the settlements word by word. Now she needed to see Flora, change her dress, and prepare to sit through another interminable meal with her husband.
Chapter Eighteen
His bath was prepared and clean clothes lay ready when Halcombe came in. He was later than usual and was tempted to call for some meat and cheese in his suite. He had come to dread the hour of forced conversation with Frances as much as he suspected she did. Nothing had been resolved between them, and he was no closer to any solution than on the day she had reappeared.
Bathed and dressed, he dismissed his valet with a message that he was delayed. Driven by some irrational impulse, he opened the door that connected his suite to his wife’s. As he expected, the room was unoccupied. Frances was either in the nursery with Flora, or downstairs, and the maid had gone to her supper. He stepped inside Frances’ bedchamber, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it.
Even though he had not heard or seen any signs of renovation, he was still somewhat surprised to see it unchanged. True, a shawl lay folded over a chair and a nightdress was draped over the footboard of the half-canopied bed, but the toiletries on the dressing table were lined up as precisely as his wife had left them. Frances was ever an orderly person. In that she had not changed. Nor had her choice of soap, the scent of which clung to the silken fabric of her nightdress.
Halcombe looked down, startled to see the garment in his hand. He brought it to his face and breathed deeply, felt his cock stir, and dropped the gown as if scalded. Damn the woman for making him want her! She had his insides in knots. Anger and hurt vied
with a wrenching feeling of regret. It pained him that the sweet promise of their marriage had deteriorated into a state where they rarely spoke to each other. If it was not for his daughter, his sweet Flora, who filled his heart with joy, he might wish Frances had never returned.
Devil take it, Halcombe. Be honest. You don’t believe any such thing. What you want is to change the past into a history where Frances never disappeared, where you were able to watch her grow large with your child, where you celebrated Flora’s birth together.
He scowled at this maudlin lapse. Life was not like some child’s fairy tale. There was no going back. He walked out, his strides long and angry. He’d accept no more of this “I don’t know” business. The woman owed him an explanation, and by God, he would have it this very night. Or…or what? Will you beat it out of her? Lock her up and feed her on bread and water?
There was a part of him that liked the idea of being her jailer—keeping her isolated, naked and vulnerable, and pleading for the barest scrap of clothing. Would she lash out at him? Cry for forgiveness? Or beg him to touch her.
Hell and damnation! The picture in his mind was so clear that he stopped midway on the stairs, gripping the banister hard enough to hurt his palms. Frances, on her knees, hair flowing over breasts and shoulders, her arms upraised in supplication. Frances, obeying his every whim, desperate to please him.
Cursing silently at his wayward manhood—the damn thing was hard as a rock—Halcombe focused on the intricate grain of the glossy wood under his hands. Think of something else, you idiot. The stable. That’s it. A nice solid—ha, ha—subject. Do we need to enlarge what we have or build an entirely new structure? Gradually his heartbeat slowed, his breath steadied, and he felt able to move. Perhaps he was going mad, imagining a scene as fanciful as any two-penny novel. And if you do not already have bats in your belfry, Frances will put them there.
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