A Love Laid Bare (10 page)

“Thank you, Johnson,” Frances said with a smile, but
her attention was drawn at once to her husband. He was dressed in
black trousers and jacket, a grey waistcoat, and snowy white shirt
and cravat. She was glad she had also taken pains with her
appearance. Her gown was one made up by Olivia’s London
modiste
, and while modest in style, it did not in the least
resemble the dresses chosen for her by the dowager. The gowns
favored by Leticia were bedecked with ribbons, bows, and flounces,
and were not only unbecoming in colour, but overemphasized her
youth
. You were such a weak-willed creature, Frances—no wonder
the woman found you an easy mark.
But never in her life had she
been subjected to endless criticism and already feeling inadequate
and out of place, Frances had meekly submitted to Leticia’s
unflattering selections.

Halcombe watched her walk across the room, his
expression hooded. He raised the glass in his hand.

“Would you care for some sherry? It is not from your
aunt’s winery, but it is quite good.”

Frances nodded. “Yes, thank you.” She stopped some
distance from him and looked around. As in her bedchamber, no
changes had been made to this room, nicely furnished with a sofa
and several chairs flanking the fireplace. Now, a table was set in
an alcove, laden with covered platters, and the air was scented
with tantalizing aromas that awakened her appetite. Perhaps, if
Halcombe refrained from sniping at her, she could eat after all.
She took the offered glass with murmured thanks and waited for him
to speak.

“I take it you were able to get Flora settled without
too much trouble?” Halcombe asked. “She seems an adaptable child,
but such a major change in her life has to be difficult.”

“I believe her to be too weary to protest,” Frances
said. “Although she normally is a good-natured little girl, this is
all so new to her. It
is
a wonder she has not been more
contentious.”

“She looks very like you.” He stepped forward and
laid his fingers on Frances’ cheek. “She has your colouring. I’ve
seen that portrait of you as a child. I suppose Flora’s hair will
darken, as yours did.”

Frances’ pulse quickened in response to his touch. He
had always affected her this way. Annoyed, both by the knowing
glint in his eyes and her reaction, she moved casually away and
took a sip of wine.

“Perhaps, although it may change to red, as my
mother’s did.” She set the glass on a nearby table and gazed coolly
at him. “I believe her features favour your side of the
family.”

“So they do,” he agreed with a mocking smile and then
indicated the table with a tip of his chin. “I, for one am hungry.
Are you ready to eat?”

“Yes, of course.” Frances allowed him to seat her and
watched as he poured a deep crimson wine into two fine-stemmed
goblets and removed the covers from the platters. The braised
chicken with mushroom sauce was one of her favorite dishes, and she
was warmed to think Cook had remembered.

“I see you have regained something of your appetite,”
the earl said, after the not-uncomfortable silence that reigned
while they ate. “You hardly touched your dinner last night, or the
midday meal.”

Frances stiffened. He did not appear critical, but
having him observe her so closely was unnerving.

“Travel does not always agree with me.” She allowed
her lips to curve into a slight smile. “Cook’s good food, though,
is too tempting to pass up. I am glad she is still with you,” she
said, casually adding, “Have there been any changes to the
staff?”

“I believe several of the younger housemaids have
been replaced. That is Mrs. Carroll’s bailiwick. You will have to
consult her.”

Frances laid aside her fork, her hunger gone, and
laced her fingers together in her lap. She would have preferred to
wait before bringing this up, but now seemed the perfect
opportunity.

“So I shall. However, I plan to give Mrs. Carroll
notice and ask Rose Blount to serve as housekeeper.” There it was
out. And if the matter sparked the fire smoldering under her
husband’s calm demeanor, why not this—something that was important
to her?

“Indeed. May I ask why? As far as I know, Mrs.
Carroll has given satisfactory service.”

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.

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.”