With an ease that made him acutely wary—for experience had shown that seldom did events go smoothly—Halcombe sold Simon to a farmer for what would amount to a few shillings in England. He could have gotten more. Mules were sometimes scarce, since they were popular with the military and often appropriated. Simon’s new owner was a burly, kind-faced man with a well-kept team hitched to his wagon. The lad with him was clearly delighted with Simon. Satisfied, Halcombe watched them rumble away. The mule was in good hands.
He still had to catch a ship to England, preferably bound for London. Then he must debrief Summerton and meet with his solicitor. Weeks of travel lay ahead before he was back at Halcombe Manor, but each day would see him closer to home. With that heartening thought he went about the business of finding passage down river to a seaport.
Chapter Twenty-two
Sussex, 1809
Reminded of another time when he had halted his horse at the top of the rise that overlooked Halcombe Manor, the earl compared today’s view with that of his return from Europe. The season differed, for one thing. Instead of the bare, unplowed fields of winter, half-grown grain now bent gracefully under the light breeze, while colts ran in excited circles around the grazing mares. The orchard’s then-leafless trees now wore the deep greens of late spring, and while not visible from here, Halcombe knew that hidden in the thick foliage was the promising fruit that would grace many a pudding or sweet jam.
Driven by an impulse comprised of a wish to savor his domain and reluctance to once again face a difficult situation, he dismounted, leaning against Zeus while the animal snuffled at the sparse cover with disinterest.
“Picky, are you?” Halcombe said with a smile. “Simon would have been less discriminating, but then, he had no expectation that a fine meal awaited him, as you do.”
Idly, the earl wondered how the mule was faring. Well enough, if the farmer had managed to keep the animal out of the hands of the military forces that regularly swept up both horses and mules for their use. The vision of bodies strewn over another, now distant field, filled his head. Suppressing a shudder, he cut off the memory. It was over, and no longer his concern. But the unwelcome thought had spoiled the pleasure he had felt minutes before, and he swung into the saddle.
The sound of voices, or rather, childish squeals, came to him when he approached the house. Handing the reins to the groom that ran out to meet him, Halcombe followed the noise to the south lawn. Flora and Frances were engaged in what appeared to be some kind of ‘catch me if you can’ game and, unaware of his presence, he watched them at play.
For a child her age, Flora was surprisingly fast and steady on her feet. The habit of looking over her shoulder to make sure her mother was chasing her, however, tended to send the little girl tumbling, but she was quick to recover. She screeched with excitement whenever Frances caught her, wiggled immediately to be freed, and then dashed off again.
His wife appeared to enjoy the activity as much as Flora did. Her hair hung loosely in a tangled array, her blouse was open at the neck, and a faint sheen of perspiration enhanced a face almost as red-cheeked as her daughter’s. She looked delectable, Halcombe thought. He was glad that thick hedges shielded the lawn from any prying eyes. Especially when Frances captured Flora, spun her around several times, and dropped to the ground to lie on her back.
“Now I have you, you rascal,” Frances panted, holding the child straight-armed above her. She was laughing so hard that Flora wobbled in her grip, making the child giggle wildly.
Unable to stand apart any longer, Halcombe strode forward and plucked Flora from Frances’ firm grip. “No, now I have you!” He held the little girl up in the air. “So you are a rascal, are you?”
“Pa!” Flora shouted gleefully. She beamed at him, squirmed to get down, and flew across the yard. Her loud, “Me, me,” and quick look back was all the invitation he needed. Halcombe shed his coat and went after her, pretending to almost catch her and then letting her outrun him. When at last she stopped, Flora allowed him to pick her up and she instantly slumped against his shoulder. He walked over to where Frances still sat on the grass. She was propped back on her elbows, a wide smile on her face.
“I wondered which of you would give out first,” she said in a low voice, tipping her head toward the child asleep in Halcombe’s arms. “She does that—just drops instantly into sleep whenever she is tired.”
“Not surprising, considering the energy she expends,” Halcombe said. He sank cross-legged to the ground, settled Flora more comfortably in his lap, and brushed the damp tendrils of hair from her forehead.
Frances sat up and curled her legs to one side. She glanced at him from under her eyelashes, almost shyly, and busied her fingers with pulling apart a cloverleaf. “Flora has been asking for you. She missed you.”
“I missed her, too,” Halcombe said. He wondered how Frances would respond were he to say that he had also missed her. Had he missed her? Not a question he cared to think about and he quickly asked another, less disturbing, one. “I believe Flora has grown these past few days. Has she learned any new words? Or am I condemned to being Pa forever?”
Frances’ soft laughter was a happy ripple in the air between them and he grinned at her. For a second, their eyes met in parental understanding.
“If it is any consolation, I am Ma, and not resigned to it at all. But it will not be forever, I expect.” She smiled and cocked her head, her expression one of mild inquiry. “Did your business in London go well?”
Since he was unsure whether it had gone well or not, he muttered a “Well enough,” and reached for his discarded coat. Avoiding her gaze, he spread it on the grass and placed his sleeping daughter on it. “So, tell me…what have you been doing?”
Frances gave him an odd look, appearing uncertain of his interest, which was not surprising given his indifferent tone of voice. Nevertheless, she answered readily. “I have been viewing some of the paint swatches and material samples the tradesmen left with me, and trying to decide what might best suit the house,” she said, her voice dropping. “I would very much like your opinion.” She darted a glance at him and then returned her attention to the mangled clover in her hands.
A peace offering? Halcombe studied her, but the smooth, relaxed curve of her profile told him nothing. Assume the best for a change. Why think her every utterance has a hidden meaning? Don’t spoil the first agreeable hour you have spent together.
“Certainly. Perhaps we can arrange a time this evening?” He spoke in a casual, offhand manner as non-confrontational as he was able to manage and was rewarded by a grateful smile.
“This evening is fine.” She tossed aside the clover, drew up her legs and wrapped her arms around her knees. Seeming to feel a different subject was in order, she said, “I made the acquaintance of one of Lady Merton’s houseguests whilst you were gone. It was quite accidental, but he has since called and expects to be at her dinner party next week.”
“Accidental in what way?” Halcombe asked. He changed his position so he was stretched out on the grass with his arms folded behind his head. His interest in Victoria’s houseguest was minimal, but he was enjoying the play of emotions that danced over his wife’s face. As such, he was willing to discuss almost anything if it served to prolong this rare interlude.
“Oh, he was riding along the path that runs through the woods, near to our boundary, and his horse’s shoe came loose. Jim and I were also riding there and came upon him walking back to Merton House. I felt sorry for the poor man and offered to lend him one of our horses, since the Manor was much the closer.” Frances looked at him, a hint of apprehension in her eyes. “I did not believe you would object, and I can assure you that the horse was returned promptly. I hope I did not err in my judgment.”
Halcombe nodded his agreement. “No, I would have done the same.” Did she think him so petty a man as to expect censure for so minor a thing? That she might believe so nettled him and he hastily added, “You say this fellow called on you?”
Frances’ worried expression faded, and she smiled. “Yes, the following afternoon, to thank me again. I admit I was initially annoyed at the interruption, but it turned out Mr. Jensen has a fondness for rare books and we had a diverting conversation. He seems nice enough, for a guest of…” She broke off and then swiftly continued, “He is not English and has an unusual accent, but I never did find out where he is from.”
Halcombe swallowed a grunt of surprise at what he suspected she had left unspoken. This gentleman seemed nice enough for a guest of Lady Merton’s? Had Frances even met Victoria? If so, from the tight look on Frances’ face, it appeared that she had not been favorably impressed. Should he ask? No. Better to leave it alone. The less mention of Lady Merton, the wiser.
“We can ask him when we see him next week,” Halcombe said. He sat up and suddenly realized Flora was eyeing him with an odd fascination. He looked at Frances in question.
“She does that too at times,” Frances said, sounding amused. “Stares at one as if she has never seen you before when she first wakes up. It never lasts long.”
Flora stirred and proceeded to clamber into her father’s lap. “Up, up,” she ordered, with a decisive bounce that pulled an “oomph” from Halcombe.
“Up, is it? I’m afraid we’ll need to rearrange ourselves a bit first.” Halcombe removed Flora from his lap and deposited her on a patch of grass. After getting stiffly to his own feet, he held out a hand to Frances. “The ground is harder than I realized,” he said with a grimace. “Or I am getting too old to be sitting on it so long.” Frances laughed and bent to pick up his coat.
Halcombe felt a tug on his pant leg.
“Up, Pa!”
“Up, please,” Halcombe said, not scolding, but with a serious enough look that Flora, after a brief inspection of his face, repeated his request.
“Up p’ease.”
Halcombe lifted the child and settled her in his arms. She clung to his neck and softly chanted “Pa…pa…” as they walked to the house. Once more, Halcombe delighted in sharing a smile with his wife, given only to a parent to understand.
Chapter Twenty-three
While their discussion regarding improvements to the house had been both amicable and productive, it was the one time Frances had truly been alone with Halcombe since his return from London. Aside from their private evening meals, he continued to avoid her. Nor had she made little attempt to put herself in his way. Since they were at least conversing on non-controversial subjects while they dined, she was disinclined to upset this period of détente. It could not last, she knew. Too much was unresolved.
Frances buried her face in her pillow, unwilling to face another day. She felt so disheartened at times and feared that returning had been a terrible mistake. But then she saw Flora with her father, or Halcombe said something that encouraged Frances to think that his attitude toward her had softened. She felt caught between one extreme and the other and now she had this dreaded event at Lady Merton’s to suffer through—unless she pretended to some sudden mysterious illness and had an excuse to stay home.
“You are not that good an actress. You have no choice, so make the best of it,” she muttered, tossing aside the bedcovers. She sat up, swiped at her eyes and sniffed. Joan would soon appear to help her dress. Frances did not want to give the servants anything else to gossip about. Her return and Halcombe’s obvious hostility—their hostility—had already provoked enough speculation.
Rising, Frances put on her peignoir and went to look once more at the evening dress that hung on the open door of the wardrobe. She may be miserable, but by heaven, she would be well dressed! The gown was a wonder and just gazing at it raised her spirits. Frances folded back the cloth wrap that protected the luxurious fabric. The white crepe robe, worn over a white satin slip, had a shot sarsenet overskirt woven in multiple shades of rose. The long, full sleeves, gathered at regular intervals, were ornamented with gold ribbon that matched the trimming along the scalloped neckline and the bands of wider ribbon around the hem. It was the most beautiful dress Frances had ever owned and was perhaps too elaborate for a country party, an idea which bothered her not at all. She was already a subject for gossip—a little more hardly mattered. She was determined to look nothing like that schoolgirl who had married an earl.
Slippers of white satin, a carved ivory fan that Aunt Olivia had given her, and her mother’s necklace of gold and pearls completed the ensemble. Joan was skilled at hairdressing, and eager, Frances knew, to do something with her mistress’ thick mane besides twisting it into a knot or braid.
“Good morning, my lady,” Joan said brightly as she entered with a tray in her hands.
Startled, Frances swung around. The cheerful greeting grated, but nonetheless Frances forced a smile. It was not Joan’s fault Frances felt so ill humoured today.
“Good day, Joan.” While the maid set out tea and a plate of buttered toast, Frances used the commode, cleaned her teeth and washed. She would have a bath later, prior to dressing for the evening. She was fortunate in having a separate room for bathing and other necessities. The accommodations were perhaps somewhat antiquated, but it was convenient.
Half listening to Joan’s prattle while she thought about what needed doing today, Frances nibbled at her toast. Very little, she decided. Today was ‘great hall day’. Some of Halcombe’s men were going to prepare the walls for an application of varnish. The ancient battle flags had been carefully removed and packed away in the attics along with the suit of armour and battle-axes. The flagstone floor had received the first of what Frances felt sure would be multiple cleanings, and the huge fireplace had been swept out and the chimney blocked. It was never used and only served to funnel cold air into an already chilly area. All in all, the task was a major upheaval, and one that did not require her supervision. In fact, Frances preferred to avoid it as much as possible.
“I plan on riding today,” Frances said, finishing the last of her tea. “Please send word to the stables that I will need Jim this morning directly after I see Lady Flora.” Unconsciously, her brow furrowed. It seemed that she was becoming predictable in her activities—play with Flora, a morning ride or walk, meet with Cook, supervise work on the house, write letters. Perhaps this dinner party would shake her out of this rut she had fallen into.
Frances scowled. What she needed was a husband—a friend to talk to, to do things with…a strong body to curl around her in bed and keep her safe and warm.
That she did not was entirely her fault. She should have contacted Richard when she reached Portugal, instead of putting it off day after day while she wallowed in self-pity because her husband had a mistress and did not love his wife—a relationship which described half the marriages in England! Why expect hers to be any different?
Bah. These thoughts are useless. Done is done and cannot be changed. It is the future that counts now. Frances knew it was up to her to see that it was a worthy one.
***
Although Frances seldom devoted huge amounts of time to her wardrobe or adornment, she had spent the better of three hours preparing for Lady Merton’s dinner party. An effort that was amply rewarded by the look of appreciation in Halcombe’s eyes when she descended the stairs to where he waited below.
He, too, was handsomely clothed, and Frances felt an instant tug of desire. His coat of deep blue superfine fitted snugly over his shoulders and offset a brilliantly white shirt and a waistcoat of pale gold. His cravat was tied in a complex knot and an ornately fashioned gold stickpin was nestled in the center of the sharply creased folds.
When she reached him, he took her hand. “You look lovely,” he said.
His touch was warm and she wanted to strip off her glove and twine her fingers with his. “Thank you,” Frances murmured, and contented herself with holding fast to his hand. In a breathy voice that betrayed her disquiet, she added, “You are very fine tonight.”
He released her, but remained close—so close that his breath fanned the curls Joan had left loose to
soften the intricate arrangement of Frances’ hair. She stared at him, lost in longing, as he touched the necklace twined around her throat.
“This is exquisite. Was it your mother’s?”
His palm brushed her skin and Frances felt a flush rise in her face.
“Yes,” she breathed. She wanted to say more, but fear of spoiling the brief interlude held her silent.
“You must forgive me. I realize now that I have never offered you any of the family jewelry. Perhaps next time you might choose to wear something from the collection.”
He studied her with an intensity that made her breath catch. Flustered, and afraid of what he might see in her eyes, Frances stepped aside. “We should go,” she said, deploring the breathless timbre of her voice.
“As you wish.” Halcombe turned, took his hat and gloves from Benson, and held out his arm. “Madam?”
“Thank you.” Frances winced inwardly, appalled at her inability to say little more these past ten minutes. She laid her hand on his forearm, nodded to the butler, and walked sedately beside Halcombe to the waiting carriage.
Still tongue-tied, and with her husband now seemingly lost in thought, the short journey was made in silence. Frances was relieved when the vehicle stopped in front of the wide steps that led up to Lady Merton’s imposing residence. Merton House was Georgian in architecture. Although not as large as some she had seen in paintings and guidebooks, it was an impressive building and conveyed a grace that suited its mistress.
Swallowing against the sudden dread roiling her stomach, Frances remained silent as they walked up the steps. She was aware of Halcombe’s curious glance at her and wondered what he saw on her face to make his mouth tighten so. Or perhaps it was due to his own thoughts—thoughts of seeing his lover…his paramour…whatever label one uses to describe a woman such as Lady Merton.
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