A Love Laid Bare

by Constance Hussey

  The sound of doors opening and closing, the heavy footsteps of the servants laden with buckets of water, and a murmur of voices drifted into the room. Her bath was almost ready.

  “It’s always up to the woman to take the first step, men being as prideful as they are.” Frances’ conversation with Rose came back to her while she brooded, denied, and cursed Richard for his hurtful words. It was so unfair, which was an incredibly stupid thought, seeing that life was not fair most of the time, for anyone.

  Richard was wrong. She did not run along roughshod with no regard for others. She was too impatient at times, unwilling to wait for people to make up their minds. Life was so short, so full of perils that might take you at any time. And there were too many possible futures that she could not foresee, or control.

  What she could do was try to repair the frayed and twisted ties that bound them together—beginning with this very night. It may not be the best time to approach him, with both of them feeling raw and vulnerable, but neither was it wise to let things fester, permitting a painful sore to grow ever larger.

  The hell with it. Stop dithering—and for heaven’s sake, stop cursing! You have already shocked Richard and what if Flora was to hear you? Frances had never so much as heard a curse word until her stay in France, but the fishermen were colourful in their language. With a vague curiosity as to why she had translated some of the milder expletives into English in her head, Frances went to take her bath.

  ***

  Once she felt composed enough to approach her husband, Frances knocked lightly on his door. She was momentarily disconcerted to have the valet respond, although after a second’s thought wondered why. Of course Richard’s man was on duty at this time of day.

  “I wish to see Lord Halcombe, Johnson.”

  “His lordship is bathing, my lady.”

  “Oh.” Frances hesitated. Should she return later? If she did not do this now…

  “I will wait out here, in that case. No need to disturb Lord Halcombe. You may tell him I am here, but he is not to hurry on my account. Perhaps you might find me some sherry to drink.”

  “Very well, madam.”

  Johnson stepped aside to allow her entrance. Frances smiled to herself. She had thought for a minute that he was not going to let her in. The man obviously did not approve of this intrusion.

  Although she wanted to roam around the room, Frances did not care to do so under Johnson’s curious eyes. Instead she sat in a large chair, folded her legs under her, and stared at the small fire burning in the grate. She sipped at the wine Johnson handed to her and listened as he quietly performed his duties. She eventually heard a door open and close, followed by the occasional low rumble of voices. It was…peaceful.

  “Madam?”

  Frances was not sure how much time had passed when she finally heard Richard’s voice. She looked up, blinking the daze from her eyes. He was seated in the chair opposite, his hair still damp from the bath, and he held a glass in one hand. The vee between the satin lapels of his banyan exposed his strong neck and provided a generous glimpse of the dark hair that curled on his chest. The firelight cast a reddish glow over his face and deepened the tan that long days in the sun had given him. His blue eyes were startling in contrast. If only she had the right, the courage, to go to him—to sit in his lap and tease his hair with her fingers…rest her head on his shoulder.

  Richard’s gaze swept over her coldly. “I understand that you wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, for a few minutes.” Daunted by his evident dislike of her presence, Frances hesitated. The temptation to get up and walk away was strong. She stifled it with an effort, determined to see this through, no matter what he thought of it.

  “I’d like to tell you something more about my activities in Portugal. It is one of the reasons I continue with my book trading. It will not take long and then I will leave you in peace.”

  “You believe this will make a difference to our relationship?”

  Frances flinched at the cold skepticism in his voice, but then, had she really expected a warm welcome after the scathing tirade she had endured earlier?

  “Not especially. I did, however, feel this is something you should know.” Her mouth tightened. “Given your views on my ‘lies of omission’ as I believe you said.”

  “Indeed.”

  Frances almost smiled at the familiar usage. It was one of Richard’s favourite words and he was quite adept at using it to convey a variety of inferences. In this case, Frances detected strong doubt.

  “Indeed,” she echoed, with no inflection at all. She straightened, set her sherry on the table, and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Collectors in any field of art have certain things in common. They are men—and a few women—who are almost always wealthy, well educated, and have an avid interest in history and politics. They are also secretive, avaricious, and at the same time, clubbish—for want of a better word.”

  Frances glanced at the earl, saw his eyebrows rise, and answered his unspoken question. “For you to understand my reasoning in this, it is important to tell you something about this very singular world.” That garnered a sharp nod from him. Frances paused to order her thoughts.

  “While all my correspondence went through Mr. Verney, as I said earlier, the letters were mine. The responses were sent on to me, unopened, and thus confidentiality was retained.” She lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Many of these people had worked with my father for years and may have suspected that A. Nesbitt was his daughter and not some unknown relative, but no one knew.”

  Frances’ mouth tilted in a wry smile. “Or cared. The most important thing was the acquisition, or sale, and very often, going one better than another known collector. The rumours, truths, and misinformation that pass amongst them would amaze you.”

  “This is going where, Frances?” Richard said with a weary impatience. “You did not come in here to lecture me on the art of book collecting.”

  Ignoring his obvious irritation, Frances calmly continued although she was no less anxious for this difficult conversation to come to an end than he could be.

  “No, I came to tell you that I used this network to collect information…political information I then passed on to London. This is something I still do, and hope to continue.” She met his hooded gaze, and then slowly stood. “Your countess is not only in trade, she is also an informant.

  His expression was never easy to read and even less so in the dim light. But at least he had heard her out. She steadied a voice inclined to tremble and continued. “I assure you that very few people know this about me, and I do not believe you will suffer from my willful and disgraceful behavior. “Good night, Richard.”

  She turned from him then, reluctant to say more. She had no idea what he thought of all this but was very aware of the deep silence that now filled the room.

  Her hand was on the latch when he spoke. “You say you sent this information to London. Where did you send it?”

  “To Summerton, of course…he being the single one of my few acquaintances who has any connection to the government. What he did with it, or whether it was useful, I cannot say. Why don’t you ask him?” she said smoothly and then exited the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Joan had already gone to bed, as instructed. The fire was no more than glowing embers, and the room held a chill that came from more than an absence of heat. Frances shivered. She took up a shielded candle to light her way along the corridor that led to the nursery.

  Flora was asleep on her cot. The sheets had slid halfway to the floor, and Frances set her candle on a high dresser where the light would not disturb the child. It took a great deal to waken Flora once she was sound asleep, but still Frances took care to tuck the covers around her very gently.

  She laid her hand on Flora’s head. The child was all the reason she needed to stay here, no matter what Richard did or how he felt about her. Flora’s happiness and well-being came before all else. And perhaps, if h
eaven so decreed, a brother or sister might yet come of last night’s joining.

  And if not? Then she would act to lure her husband into bed until it happened. Whether he liked her or hated her, he no doubt desired her—that was something she could use to her advantage. He too, wanted another child and Frances resolved to give him one.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Frances was Summerton’s informant? Of all the things he’d imagined she was hiding, he had never conjured up this. Halcombe laughed and shook his head. Incredible as it seemed, it had to be true—Colin had spoken several times of his anonymous informant and Frances could not have had any knowledge of it otherwise.

  Richard drank the last of his brandy and got to his feet as he mulled over this latest development. Why the change of handwriting Summerton had mentioned on his recent visit? Did Frances have someone helping her? She must, he realized at once, and wondered how the correspondence was being transported now that she was here in England. Thomas Blount! Of course, and no doubt he was aided by Halcombe’s new housekeeper.

  Tempted to go after her and demand more information, he instead forced his feet to carry him into his bedchamber. After exchanging his banyan for the nightshirt Johnson had left out for him, he used the chamber pot and then went to bed. There was nothing he could do about Frances tonight.

  The earl lay down with his arms crossed behind his head. Devil take it, he was sick of trying to understand her. She continued to surprise him on an almost daily basis. Any more days like this one and he would be a candidate for the madhouse! A tangle of disordered thoughts and feelings twisted inside him in a dizzying spiral that made it impossible to think clearly. His rant this afternoon appalled him—the words gushing out heedlessly and the consequences yet to be reaped. Gad, what an ass he was sometimes. There are better ways to go about things than shouting at your wife. And that was the meat of it. For better or worse, he had made those vows, and by God, he would stick to them.

  But his choices were maddeningly limited. Compromise or live the rest of his days in a state of war. Frances came to him tonight and shared an important part of her life. While it was certainly a step forward, he needed more from her than a simple recounting of her activities. He wanted to know every last bit of her, not just the body he ached to have under him. He longed for admittance to all that was on the inside—the very core that was Frances. Richard leaned over and blew out the candle on the bedside table. When she trusted him to know the other reason why she did not come home, then perhaps he might know what to do about his wife.

  ***

  In unspoken agreement, they avoided each other the following day. The weather still being inclement, Frances stayed in and spent much of the time with Flora. Halcombe was out and sent word that he did not expect to return in time for dinner. Frances dined alone in her parlour and then read, an activity much neglected in recent days. It was restful not to have every nerve on edge, Frances decided as she wandered off to bed. No doubt Richard felt a similar relief, although men never admitted to having nerves. Men, it seemed, never admitted to experiencing any excessive emotion at all.

  When she awoke the next morning, sunlight glinted around the drapery edges. Frances threw back the covers and sat up, anxious to begin the day. She glanced at the clock. Joan came in at the same time each morning—just one minute from now—and Frances smiled as her maid promptly entered with a tray holding a carafe of coffee and a plate of toast.

  “Good morning, my lady.” Joan set out the plates and a cup and then opened the draperies while Frances went off to attend to her own needs.

  “I’m calling on Lady Alten this morning, Joan. Please lay out the blue walking dress and have the gig brought around at ten.” She did not need a maid to call on a household of females, so Jim’s escort would be sufficient.

  Once dressed, she went to the nursery. Flora and Nancy were busy with the menagerie, popping the animals in and out of the Ark with great enthusiasm. It was a wonderful toy and provided hours of enjoyment for Flora. It was also aiding the expansion of Flora’s vocabulary.

  “Mama!” Flora half-tumbled from her chair and dashed to Frances, who was very glad Flora’s repetitive use of ‘Ma’ had ended and her greeting of choice had returned to the much more pleasing ‘Mama’.

  “Good morning, pet.” Frances caught her daughter, swung her around in a circle, and set her on her feet. “What do you have in your hand?”

  Flora opened her fist. “Lion,” she said clearly.

  “So I see,” agreed her mother. “Does your lion have a friend?”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Flora shouted, dancing back to the Ark. She began searching through the box of carvings to find the lioness.

  Nancy stood by the vacated chair, and Frances followed Flora to have a word with the young woman.

  “Good morning, madam,” Nancy said, and curtsied. She smiled shyly and gestured to the Ark. “This is Flora’s favourite. I like to play with it, too. The animals are darling.”

  “Yes, they are. I am not above playing with them myself.” Frances smiled. “I plan to stay with Lady Flora for a while, Nancy. If you have other things to do, or wish to go downstairs, please go ahead.”

  “Yes, madam.” Nancy dropped a curtsey and left.

  Flora, having dumped the entire box of animals on the table, had not even noticed the maid’s absence. The quest for the lion apparently abandoned, she carefully lined the animals up, two by two, with grave concentration.

  Frances sat and lifted the child onto her lap. “May I help you? Perhaps I can find the lion’s friend.” Taking Flora’s silence for agreement, Frances reached for a gaily-painted parrot and put it on the roof of the ark. “There, now he can watch over all the others.”

  Flora turned her head and looked at Frances. “No bird. Lion.”

  “Lion it is,” Frances said amicably and resumed the search for the regal little beast.

  ***

  It had turned out to be an exceptionally fine day. Frances and Mary halted on the landing of Mary’s residence. They both looked up at the cloudless sky streaked with a dozen subtle shades of blue. Frances breathed deeply of the soft spring air. “Lovely. The rain has freshened the air delightfully,” she said. She smiled at Mary. “It won’t last, of course, but we can enjoy it while it’s here.”

  Mary tipped up her nose, sniffed several times, and smiled. It was the first sincere smile Frances had seen on her face today. Something was wrong and Frances wished the other woman felt able to confide in her.

  “Most pleasant,” Mary said. “I’m sure the garden appreciated the lengthy rain as well. Everything will be growing like mad, especially the plants we don’t want. ” She looked at Frances. “Have you done anything in your own garden since you returned?”

  Frances let out a resigned sigh. “Nothing at all, I’m afraid. I did peek in and saw that Fuller has kept after the weeds, but I’ve done little else.” She had, in the early weeks of her marriage, and with minimal success, attempted to recreate the garden at Clifftop in a small walled area behind the manor house. “I will get to it eventually.”

  “In your spare time,” Mary said dryly, but amusement glinted in her eyes.

  “Having so much of it,” Frances said with a laugh, pleased to see Mary’s countenance brighten.

  “Oh, there is Jim with the gig. I’m afraid I must go.” Frances shook Mary’s hand and then impulsively gave her a hug. “Please let me help you,” she whispered. “If there is anything at all I can do, I will gladly do it.” She stepped back, knowing that Mrs. Norton hovered in the open doorway, listening to every word. “Thank you for having me. I hope you can come to the Manor very soon.”

  Mary smiled faintly, but her eyes were clouded and the quiet “I will try” was no more than a meaningless polite response.

  Frances hurried along the walk to the drive where Jim stood with the gig. She felt very concerned for her friend who, while never a vivacious woman, used to be more spirited than the listless creature Frances had spent
the past hour with. It was impossible to have a private conversation with Mary’s cross-looking companion always about. Was the woman even a true companion? She did not appear to be but for some reason, Mary never sent her away. It was a mystery and one Frances intended to solve some day in the near future.

  She turned to gaze at the passing landscape, so different from the coastal area where she grew up. The road wound in gentle curves over the rolling hills, the green fields a neat patchwork of squares edged with tall hedges. The scent of the first flowers of the season, bursting from the hedgerows, filled the air. Frances sighed with contentment at the delightful aroma and raised her face to the sun. Her fair skin burned easily, but a few minutes would do no harm. She closed her eyes, savoring the warmth on her cheeks. This afternoon she and Flora would go for a walk. And perhaps visit the stables to watch the foals’ antics.

  Reluctantly, but knowing her limitations, she lowered her head and returned her attention to the passing countryside. There were other people out enjoying the day. On the road ahead, an open carriage moved ponderously up the hill they were approaching. Near the top, two people on horseback had stopped in front of a copse that sheltered a small stream. Perhaps to water the horses, Frances mused, incurious, her mind on the various tasks she planned to take care of today. Her own vehicle would branch off soon, in any case.

  It was not until Jim turned the gig onto the side road leading to the Manor that Frances realized that one of the riders was her husband. She swiveled around, craning her neck to catch another glimpse of them. Yes, it was Richard and unless she was suffering from eyestrain, the woman with him was Lady Merton.