by Laura Martin
‘She doesn’t think of me that way,’ Ben said, his mind filling up with images of Francesca’s face lighting up when she saw him, her chin tilting for the illicit kisses, the light in her eyes as they discussed politics or agriculture or London gossip.
‘Nonsense. I’ve only seen the two of you for a few minutes together and even I can see she’s hopelessly in love with you.’
‘A little infatuation, perhaps,’ Ben conceded.
‘Love,’ his father insisted.
‘She’s practically engaged to another man.’
His father shrugged. ‘Does she know a life with you is an option?’
With widened eyes Ben shook his head, trying not to let his complete surprise show on his face. It was funny how a parent, even one you hadn’t seen for so many years, could pull down all the walls you’d built to protect yourself and render you speechless within a few minutes.
‘She has some notion of saving her sister from a disastrous marriage by providing a decent dowry and stopping her father’s creditors from destroying him completely.’
‘She always did take on other people’s problems,’ his father murmured.
‘So even if I did ask her to take a chance on me, she couldn’t.’
‘You could provide the dowry,’ his father said quietly.
Ben blinked, wondering why he hadn’t thought of that. It was simple, and infinitely better than Francesca being married to a man she hated for the rest of her life. Not that he was thinking of doing it so he could be with her...
‘You have the funds.’
‘She wouldn’t...’ Ben was unable to finish the sentence. The thought of being with Francesca was too good, too risky. What if he took away all the barriers and she still said no?
Still, the idea of waking up to Francesca in his bed every morning, taking her out on week-long trips to inspect his furthest farms, producing a brood of wild-haired children who looked just like their beautiful mother, that was tempting.
He watched as his father crouched down beside his mother’s grave.
‘She would have wanted you to find love.’
He remembered his mother, but not well. There were images of a beautiful woman who was always smiling, who took time from running the house to play and laugh with her children. He remembered cuddling up to her for bedtime stories and helping her knead bread in the kitchen.
Crouching beside his father, Ben laid a hand on the cool stone. His childhood seemed a whole lifetime ago, sometimes even a life that hadn’t belonged to him.
They stayed in the graveyard for another few minutes, Ben paying respect to his mother at the grave he thought he would never see.
‘I’ll let you be alone with her, follow on when you’re ready,’ his father said eventually.
As he watched his father walk away he sat down on the cold earth next to the gravestone and lowered his head.
‘What about you, Mama?’ he asked. ‘What do you think I should do?’
Of course, there was no answer, no flash of divine inspiration. Instead Ben reached into the neck of his shirt and folded his fingers around the locket that rested against his chest. Francesca’s locket—the one he’d been accused of stealing all those years ago. He’d worn it every day of his sentence. At first he told himself it was a reminder of how little things can change the direction of your life completely, but now he wasn’t so sure. It had been a piece of the girl he’d loved, his only connection to her.
He smiled ruefully as he thought back to the day he’d been dragged from the county gaol to the magistrate’s house before he was due in the courtroom for his short trial. Francesca’s locket had been lying on the desk in the magistrate’s study, glinting up at him. He’d slipped it into a pocket before he could even reason through his actions and kept it with him ever since.
His fingers brushed over the warm silver and he closed his eyes. There would be no answers here. This was a decision his mother couldn’t help him with. Perhaps his father was right, perhaps he had been alone for too long. Perhaps he needed to stop being scared she would reject him due to their differences in class, or would somehow be taken away from him. Instead, perhaps he needed to find a way to make the woman he couldn’t stop thinking about his.
* * *
Nervously Francesca knocked on the front door. She had spent the remainder of the afternoon with Ginny, the only housemaid left at Elmington Manor. Ginny was in her thirties, an age at which most housemaids had moved up or moved on, either to more senior household positions or to marriage, but neither seemed to appeal to the mousy woman and she stayed at Elmington Manor for a pittance of a wage and her room. Consequently the house was not in a great condition, but Francesca had cajoled the inherently lazy housemaid into opening up her bedroom, airing it off and flicking away the worst of the dust.
Tomorrow she would tackle the task of getting her old dresses, the ones in colours other than blacks and greys and mauves, out of storage.
Here, outside Ben’s father’s house, she felt nervous. Her stomach was roiling and her palms felt hot and sticky inside her gloves. It meant so much to her for Ben’s family to like her, even when she knew she would probably never see them again. When they were younger Ben’s parents had been kind and welcoming and level-headed, a lovely antidote to her chaotic family, and it would appear his father had not changed one bit.
‘Lady Somersham,’ Mr Crawford said as he opened the door, ‘Welcome, come in.’
‘Please call me Francesca,’ she said.
‘Ben is with his brothers,’ Mr Crawford said, ‘They’re talking land management. Would you have a couple of minutes to spare for me before we find him?’
‘Of course,’ Francesca said, the nerves rearing again. She didn’t know why Mr Crawford would want to talk to her in private, but she felt like a naughty child, probably because the last time she’d seen him before this afternoon she’d been ten years old and always getting into trouble with Ben.
‘Come through to the garden.’
He led the way, taking her through the warm hall and out through the door in the kitchen to a garden that smelled of wet earth and herbs even at this time of year.
‘How have you been, Francesca?’ Mr Crawford asked, as he motioned for her to have a seat on a little bench that looked out over the grass.
‘Well, thank you,’ she answered, remembering all the times she’d come for lunch in this happy home as a child and all the times she’d wished it was her home.
‘I’m not making small talk,’ Mr Crawford said, and even in the darkness she could tell he was smiling. ‘How have you really been?’
She hesitated. It wasn’t the done thing to air all her woes to a man she hadn’t seen for eighteen years, but Ben’s father had a soothing way about him that made her want to spill every disaster and every uncertainty in her life.
‘Ben said you were married,’ Mr Crawford prompted, ‘although he hinted it wasn’t the happiest of unions.’
‘Father arranged it,’ Francesca said. She sighed and gave in to the urge to talk, no matter how improper it was. ‘Lord Somersham was never violent, but when that is the best you can say about your late husband it is hardly a ringing endorsement, is it?’
‘You were unhappy?’
She nodded. Although for years she’d tried to pretend she was content, tried to accept this was what she had been born for, she had never been happy in her marriage.
‘Yet you are considering marrying again, another man you do not care for.’ He said the words so quietly it took Francesca a moment to absorb them.
‘I must,’ she said, ‘My family...’
Patting her on the hand in a fatherly fashion, he shook his head. ‘It is a poor state of affairs when a child has to be responsible for her parents. And the consequences of their actions.’
It was true, but there wasn’t much she could so about it.<
br />
‘If you were my daughter, your happiness would be paramount.’
Francesca laughed, trying to hide the bitter edge. So many times as a child she’d wished this man was her father instead of the drunken gambler that resided at Elmington Manor.
‘I think you would be happier if you married Ben,’ Mr Crawford said.
Francesca almost choked on the air she was breathing.
‘Mr Crawford...’ she said, but didn’t know how to continue.
‘You would,’ he said with a shrug. ‘You love him. And love is a decent foundation to base a marriage on.’
‘I barely know him,’ she protested.
‘Nonsense. You were inseparable for years.’
‘Two decades ago.’
‘People don’t change.’
‘Of course they do. I’ve changed.’ She thought sadly back to the happy, carefree girl she’d been as a child and knew that person had been slowly eroded away until the woman she was today was all that was left.
‘Not really,’ Mr Crawford said and even in the darkness she could see him smile. ‘Oh, maybe on the surface,’ he conceded, ‘but deep down, that core inner person, that will never change.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes and Francesca wondered at the warmth and love in the heart of this man. No wonder Ben had managed to survive such a terrible experience in his childhood. He had solid foundations built by his parents, foundations of love and self-belief and confidence in his decisions.
‘Have a think about it,’ Mr Crawford said. ‘Consider whether you want to spend a life with a man you don’t care for or take a chance on love.’
He stood before she could reply, turning and walking back towards the house. Francesca felt the tears slipping down her cheeks. Whatever she’d expected to find here it wasn’t this wonderful kindness. Mr Crawford had taken a precious few seconds away from his time with his son to talk to her about her future happiness. Her father wouldn’t ever do such a thing—half the time she suspected he didn’t even see her as a person, just a commodity to be traded—yet here was a man she had last seen eighteen years ago and he was trying to advocate for her future happiness.
Love. Was that what there was between her and Ben? Until now she’d been too scared to call it anything but affection, but perhaps it was love. She felt her whole being lift whenever Ben was close, thought about him constantly when they were apart and could only truly be happy when they were reunited again. Thinking back to the day they’d spent in his bed, she felt a now-familiar tingle of desire, but that wasn’t all there was.
You’ve loved him for years, the little voice inside her head said. Surely it couldn’t be true. She hadn’t been able to forget Ben, but she’d always put that down to the terrible way they’d been torn apart.
‘I see my father has been spreading his wisdom.’ Ben’s voice came from somewhere behind her.
‘He is a very persuasive man,’ Francesca murmured.
Ben sat on the bench next to her, looping an arm around her back and pulling her closer in a supremely intimate gesture.
‘He thinks I am denying myself love and affection,’ Ben said, grumbling in a way that told Francesca he probably agreed with his father, but didn’t quite want to admit it. ‘What did he want with you?’
‘He was concerned about my future happiness,’ Francesca said carefully. She wasn’t ready to admit her feelings for Ben yet, not when she wasn’t sure herself what they actually were.
‘Then he has got some sense in him. Everyone is concerned about your future happiness.’ He paused, then shook his head. ‘I’m wrong. Everyone should be concerned about your future happiness, but your family seem incapable of thinking of anyone but themselves.’
They were harsh words, but Francesca couldn’t protest, it was the truth.
‘Except your sister. She’s a decent human being and doesn’t want you to sacrifice your happiness for hers.’
‘What would you have me do?’ Francesca asked, a little sharper than she’d planned. ‘If I didn’t marry Lord Huntley, what would you have me do?’
‘What would you want to do?’ he asked, searching her face.
Run away with you. She couldn’t say the words, even though she realised it was the truth.
Instead she shrugged, feeling his eyes on her and not knowing how to respond.
‘We’d lose the house, the estate. Father’s creditors would finally lose patience, I’m sure. I would have to find work, perhaps as a governess.’
She’d always wanted children, but after the unsuccessful years with Lord Somersham she doubted she would ever have any of her own. Perhaps being a governess wouldn’t be too bad.
She saw a flash of disappointment flash across Ben’s face and knew he despaired of her putting social appearances first, before anything that really mattered.
‘You’d make a fine governess,’ Ben said.
‘And what about your relationship issues?’ Francesca asked.
‘I’m working on them.’
‘Really?’
He chuckled. ‘Well, I will certainly try to. A man doesn’t like to be told he has flaws.’
‘Do you think...?’ She paused to take a deep breath. ‘Do you think one day you might have a meaningful relationship?’ she asked, knowing it was a deeply personal question.
‘Who knows? I wouldn’t like to promise anything I couldn’t be sure to deliver.’
Francesca looked up sharply, unsure if what he was saying had a deeper meaning, whether he was talking about their situation, or if she was reading too much into his words.
‘Come inside, let’s have dinner. Perhaps tomorrow things will be clearer.’
Allowing him to take her arm as she got to her feet, Francesca felt a wave of sadness wash over her. Mr Crawford was right, she did yearn for a future with Ben, but there were too many obstacles, too many things keeping them apart. Added to that, he hadn’t ever mentioned staying in England, not for her or anyone. Soon he would sail back to Australia and out of her life, and she couldn’t build their relationship up into something it wasn’t or it would be even worse when the time came for him to leave and for her to get on with her normal life.
* * *
Dinner was a cheery affair. Ben was sat in the place of honour at the head of the table, with Francesca on one side and his brother Thomas on the other. Further down the table his father and William sat, and even Thomas’s young son Benny had been allowed to stay up as it was a special occasion.
For the first time in years he felt at peace, as if his homecoming had dampened down the turmoil that was always raging inside him.
‘Ben came home covered in soot with dust all over his clothes.’ His father was telling a story of one of Ben’s exploits from his childhood, his face glowing with happiness.
‘I remember that,’ Francesca said slowly. ‘You were convinced you could climb the chimney in the dining room at Elmington Manor, but the butler caught you before you were even halfway up and thrashed you with a carpet beater.’
‘If I hadn’t been caught, I would have been able to climb that chimney,’ he said, grinning.
‘Nonsense. It was too tall and even then you weren’t that agile.’
‘I was like a cat. Probably even more lithe than a cat.’
‘I think you have a touch of selective memory,’ Francesca murmured as his brothers laughed. ‘You were always falling off things. I was the better climber.’
‘You were not,’ Ben said, gesturing with a fork loaded with peas. ‘The number of times I had to catch you or rescue you...’
‘You’re remembering it wrong. I always had to catch you.’
‘I’d have squashed you.’
‘You were quite a scrawny boy...’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Ben said, grinning, ‘I was a strapping lad, made of muscl
e.’
An unfamiliar sensation was washing over him and Ben realised it was contentment. Here, with Francesca by his side, surrounded by his family, he felt content. Perhaps he needed to consider what was important to him going forward. He might have built a life for himself in Australia, but was it the life he wanted?
‘I want to propose a toast,’ Mr Crawford said. ‘To my boy, finally you’re home. We’ve missed you more than you’ll ever know.’
Ben looked around the table, seeing the happy, open faces and wondered whether he was being a fool even considering going back to Australia.
Perhaps his brothers would grow tired of him, resent the return of a man who’d they had thought long lost to the other side of the world, but there was no indication of anything like that yet. And his father was ecstatic to have his eldest son back home.
He had a lot of decisions to make and right now he didn’t know where to start.
Chapter Eighteen
Feeling like a naughty child once again, Ben pulled back his arm and threw another pebble at Francesca’s window. He hoped he had the right room—when he’d last been at Elmington Manor she had still had her bedroom in the nursery, but this was the only room on the first floor with a hint of a candle burning behind the curtains.
Another pebble left his hand and made a satisfying tapping sound against the window pane, this time resulting in movement in the room. The curtains twitched and he held his breath as Francesca looked out. Her hair was loose and untamed, the sleekness she had managed to maintain throughout the day long gone now, and she was dressed in a billowing cotton nightgown that made her look like someone from the last century.
Opening the window, she peered down at him.
‘You could have knocked at the door,’ Francesca said, an amused half-smile on her lips.