Miss Fanshawe's Fortune: Clean and Sweet Regency Romance (The Brides of Mayfair Book 2)

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Also, he had no vile habits like gaming or much drinking—none she had seen, in any case. His temper was stirred only by Edward, for otherwise he displayed a steady polite restraint of manner. He was not gregarious or demonstrative, but quietly thoughtful in his way. She could enjoy such a man for a long, long time. For the rest of her life. Good thing she refused to think of him. She spent the next few minutes staring into the grate seeing only the face of Sebastian, hearing his kind words, savoring how he’d held her hand.

  Suddenly she came to as from a reverie and focused her eyes on the page. Like some of the other tomes she’d browsed through, this one had notes penciled in the margins. A few books even had pages of notes tucked in at the back, though this one did not. She had meant to ask the family about their origin, assuming they’d been written by the late Mr. Arundell, for it had been his library.

  But she turned a page and saw a date beside an entry. “1805.” The late Mr. Arundell had died at the turn of the century when the boys were young, she’d learned that from their mama. With a start, she realized it was likely Sebastian’s hand that had written the notes! Was he not often carrying books from one room to another? Even at breakfast he usually had a book beneath his morning paper. He was too polite to read when she or Mrs. Arundell joined him at table, but she realized he must often read while taking meals if he was alone. She thought of the many evenings while she and his mother sat at sewing in the dim light, how he’d read to them, often with great feeling, stopping for a sip of sherry or Madeira now and then. In daylight, on many a rainy afternoon, had he not also read to them, walking about the room as he did so? Further, Mrs. Arundell was no great reader, and neither had she seen Edward pick up a book since her arrival.

  The notes took on more significance. That he had written them warmed her heart. And then she realized that her preference for curling up to read in the library might be an inconvenience to him. What if he used to spend more time in that room, but now acquiesced its use to her for her pleasure? He had his study, which was some comfort, but the library was a special retreat with its warm Chinoiserie yellow papered walls, dark wainscot, high ceiling, desks and cosy reading nooks. It would be just like Sebastian to say nothing of the loss. A quiet sacrifice that met with no complaint or cold air.

  She slowly examined the notes in the book with fresh interest. Sheʼd been relying heavily upon them all along as to the meaning of archaic words, for Shakespearean English was as puzzling as it was beautiful, tripping off her tongue as she read aloud to enjoy the sound. Now she read them with greater interest. There were notes about blank verse, the source material that had likely influenced the great bard, about functions of rhyme and couplets, and more. She’d never approached a book in such a studious way, and it fascinated her.

  It was so fascinating that when the door burst open two hours later, she hadn’t realized, between the terrible murder of Polonius in Act III and the sad fate of Ophelia in Act IV, the passage of time. Teary-eyed about Ophelia, she looked up to find Edward standing in the doorway. “Beau said I might find you here.”

  Frannie blinked and sniffed and put the book down. “Oh, dear! Were you looking for me?”

  “Dinner’s on hold until you join us,” he said, with a gentle grin.

  “Upon my word!” Frannie got hastily to her feet. “I won’t trouble to dress, unless you think it would affront your brother or mother.”

  “I daresay they’d be more affronted to be kept waiting,” he replied easily. “Besides,” he added philosophically as they walked down the corridor, “My brother only sits upon points where I am concerned. Haven’t you noticed?” he asked, eyeing her with a raised brow. “He’s a cat’s paw when it comes to women!”

  Frannie wasn’t quite sure what Edward meant. Her eyes looked the question.

  “A kitten!” he said derisively. “My mother always makes him amenable to doing anything she likes. Her spending exceeds her monthly jointure, but she carries few debts, and only until my brother discovers them. He keeps her from the duns.” He snickered. “He is obliged to pay for jewellery and baubles and fur stoles and tippets, instead of putting the blunt where he’d most like.”

  “In horses or carriages?” she asked, understanding these to be common interests of gentlemen.

  “Not him; he’s got two equipages, enough for his needs, so he says. Nothing so fine as Lord Harry’s, of course.” Edward paused here to consider the matter of how fine this Lord Harry’s equipage was in comparison to his brother’s, but then continued in a matter of fact tone, “No, he cares only for investments—he’s got a huge interest in East India—and adding to his collection.”

  “His collection?”

  He gave her a surprised look. “The one you’ve been enjoying. The library! Books are all the rage with him.”

  Of course. It was just as she’d surmised. “I presumed your late father set up the library.”

  “He did, of course; but Sebastian adds to it, extravagantly, if you want my opinion. He could be far more ‘the thing’ if he took a care at his tailor’s instead of fribbling his time for trifles in book shops.”

  Frannie bit her tongue to contain the instant rejoinder that to be well read could hardly be called fribbling one’s time. She did not wish to argue with Edward, considering he would never come round to an agreement on the topic. But she thought again of how Sebastian read to them with animated zeal to amuse, entertain, or enlighten them. ‘Twas not only for their own entertainment; he enjoyed his literary pursuits. There was nothing fribbling about it.

  She realized she had ought to give up the library. Her occupation of it was likely a deterrent, keeping him from his favourite room in the house.

  “Your continued presence here is further proof,” Edward said with uncanny timing, “of Sebastian’s weakness for the softer sex.” Little did Edward know just how true that statement must be! With Frannie’s legitimacy in question, many a proper man or woman would have barred her from the house. She had long wondered why Sebastian hadn’t sent her packing the moment he’d heard her story. Edward’s assertions seemed to answer.

  He added, “Says you’re the gentlest creature he’s yet met with.” He smiled. “A bruised reed, he called you. And far be it from Sebastian to break a bruised reed of the muslin set.”

  Frannie wasn’t sure whether she liked being considered a bruised reed, but she said, “He doesn’t always give way to our sex. Your mama does not wish to go to Bartlett Hall next month, but Sebastian will have his way in that.”

  “So he will,” Edward acknowledged, rubbing his chin. “I daresay he’s in the right. He ought to be on good terms with his inheritance. We Arundells aren’t crawling with relations, I suppose you’ve noticed. The importance of the matter must have made him firm on it.”

  Frannie wished to think more on this, whether or not Sebastian was a cat’s paw with women, as Edward said, or if he was indulgent only towards certain of them—such as herself and his mama. But they arrived at the dining room. She offered an awkward apology as she took her seat.

  Mrs. Arundell said, “Do not give it a thought, Frannie dear. The only one truly put out, I daresay, is cook, who worries the roast mutton will grow tough, or the potatoes coarse.”

  “Oh, dear,” Frannie said, and chancing to glance at Sebastian, saw that customary, veiled expression. Was he too worried about the roast mutton being tough, or whether the potatoes turned coarse?

  “If we were famished we’d have eaten ahead of you,” Sebastian said, as if to answer her unspoken question. Two footmen brought in the covers. “Only a savage cannot wait for his meal,” he finished. These words relieved her mind, and his eyes, she saw gladly, were mild as ever when she raised contrite ones to meet them.

  “Nevertheless, I do apologize,” she repeated. “I’m afraid I lose track of time when I’m reading.”

  “Ah!” cried Mrs. Arundell. “Were you lost in a novel? I adored Waverley! I warrant I hardly left my couch for a week when I was in it.” Before Fr
annie could agree that Waverley was a delight, Edward cried, “She jumped like a March hare when I entered. I warrant it was Byron; all the ladies sing his praises. They fuss and fret over him as if he was Wellington!”

  Frannie blushed, but Sebastian said, “If she jumped, it was no doubt because you failed to knock, you brute.” Turning to Frannie, he said, “I admire anyone who gets lost in a good book, be it novel, or poetry, or something else.”

  Frannie nodded gratefully, recalling Edward’s words that books are his thing. But to end the speculation she said, while searching Sebastian’s face for a sign of recognition, “Hamlet is what has me in its grips.” She was certain, after her conversation with Edward that it must be Sebastian who had written the notes and she watched for his reaction. To her gratification, a look crossed his features, surprise, perhaps. Watching him she added, “I must admit that my enjoyment—and understanding—of it is much enhanced on account of notes I found in it.”

  “Are you reading those notes?” Sebastian asked in surprise. “Can you truly read that scrawl?”

  “Scrawl? Did someone actually write in the pages of our books?” his mother asked in astonishment.

  “Dearest, I did. I pencil notes in margins of certain works, such as Shakespeareʼs , that I particularly enjoy. They can be erased if anyone is scandalized.”

  Bright-eyed, Frannie exclaimed, “I am glad you did! They taught me quite a lot! I think…that is, I am sure I will now read additional plays with far more intelligence than I would have before.” Edward smiled indulgently.

  Frannie saw his pitying look and wondered if his amusement was on account of how un-schooled in literature she must seem in their eyes—a thing easily accounted for, since she’d had a governess only intermittently. Or perhaps he found it amusing to see a female interested in more than art and music. Blushing, she held her tongue from further effusions, but in Sebastian’s eyes she saw no teasing look or smug indulgence. In his normally veiled expression she saw something else, and it sent colour to her cheeks. His eyes were upon her, but alight with what seemed like a new idea or thought, like a door opening to reveal a hitherto unknown room.

  The sudden look of a shared understanding, the beauty of his expression, made her look away for fear that her admiration for him would be obvious. Their old cook had said Frannie was “as easy to read as a whistlin’ kettle.” Thoughts of cook, Mrs. Baxter, Mama, indeed her old life, were plaguing her less of late. But worries about her future life were her new distractions. Reading books was a welcome escape from it all.

  “I left notes in a number of books,” Sebastian offered. “I must say, I never expected them to be appreciated by anyone else, and meant to discard them altogether. But I hope you continue to find them enlightening.”

  “I am certain I shall,” she said, still appreciating the different way Sebastian regarded her.

  “You should have been born a man, Frannie,” put in Edward, while helping himself to a dish from his end of the table. “You’d have studied poets and books to your heart’s content. Lord knows I had to slog through it all.”

  “But she may study them now,” put in Sebastian. “Like Edward Waverley of the novel, she may have an ‘unstructured education.’” Reprovingly he added, “And I must say, your idea is reprehensible. Miss Fanshawe is eminently suited to womanhood.”

  “O’course,” said Edward, smiling at her as if he hadn’t inferred that she was a bluestocking.

  Mrs. Arundell looked from Sebastian to Frannie and back at her eldest son. She said nothing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  That night, Frannie tossed and turned. It amazed her to have discovered that strait-laced Sebastian was a romantic at heart! To think, he’d written all those notes. He might have done it as any student, dutifully, only of necessity. But he’d kept the notes. He’d put them in the books where they pertained. He must have intended upon reading them again. And how his eyes had suddenly burned with appreciation when she spoke of them! But it might have had nothing to do with her. He had been reminded of his enjoyment of Shakespeare, or perhaps the feeling of youthful days in academia. He might have been put in mind of visits home between terms when his father was alive.

  His father. If only she had a father. One with a name, that is. She sighed. She thought of Mrs. Fanshawe who despised her, and hoped heartily she would not again see that lady; but what chance that, when speaking to her husband seemed of paramount importance to discover the truth of Frannie’s past? When she fell asleep, she dreamt Mrs. Fanshawe was pushing her out of her house, pointing her to the street, to poverty, to infamy. Frannie’s tears were to no avail. The young Miss Fanshawe appeared, but she too, coldly turned away. As Frannie pounded on the Arundellsʼ front door in her dream, she awoke. She had forgotten about the Arundells earlier in the dream, but suddenly remembered. It wasn’t Mrs. Arundell her dreaming self hoped fervently would open the door, and whose arms she would rush headlong into, however. Neither was it Edward.

  Mrs. Arundell informed the family at breakfast that she planned a day of shopping, and that Frannie would accompany her. The idea was delightful to Frannie after the dream ordeal, and especially on account of the headache which assailed her from the moment of waking. Uneasiness in the pit of her stomach furthered her discomfort. But the prospect of browsing high-end shops from Piccadilly to Oxford Street (for Mrs. Arundell was prodigiously fond of examining all the new and modish merchandise, and knew where to find the finest Brussels lace for a bonnet, and every fallall a lady could want) seemed just the thing to take her mind off her troubles. Frannie had no money, but going along would be great fun. She might even be of help to Mrs. Arundell if she grew flummoxed about which bonnet to purchase, or which fabric better suited her light complexion in candlelight.

  Sebastianʼs mother, however, had other things in mind. She announced, while stirring a cup of chocolate, that she’d decided to bespeak a gown for Frannie.

  “Well done!” Edward exclaimed. “Every lady ought to have a new gown at Christmas. No family wants to present a shabby appearance, eh?”

  Frannie blushed.

  Sebastian scowled. “Are you implying that Miss Fanshawe is in danger of that?”

  With a comforting glance at Frannie Mrs. Arundell hurriedly said, “Frannie has never looked shabby, dear heart.”

  Edward cleared his throat and quickly amended, “Well I only meant, a lady delights in the latest fashions and being all the crack.”

  “Of course,” agreed Mrs. Arundell, “and what with meeting your cousin and the local gentry, a new gown is just the thing to bolster any lady’s confidence.”

  Sebastian’s look was not promising so she added, “It will be my Christmas present for her, if that settles your mind.”

  “Dearest,” began Sebastian, but Mrs. Arundell held up a hand. “Do you doubt Mr. Harley’s success in securing her fortune? He and his men have learned that a goodly annual sum came to Frannie’s mama each year, and therefore they say it can only continue, and then there’s the trust fund to follow. I assure you,” she added with a smiling glance at Frannie, “Mr. Harley will not rest until ‘tis settled, and it shall be done to everyone’s satisfaction.”

  Frannie frowned. Mrs. Arundell surely did not understand the matter could never be solved for “everyone’s” satisfaction, for the Fanshawes would hardly be satisfied if Frannie were indeed assigned the trust. Nor, if the matter was settled to their satisfaction, could it be equally so to Frannie’s. She was about to object but the boys’ mother gave her a quelling look. Shaking her head as if to dismiss the notion that further discussion was necessary, she said, “Let us not speak further on it—money, we all know, is a vulgar subject.”

  But Frannie could not remain silent. Mrs. Arundell’s intention was generosity itself, but all Frannie’s fears of being found less than respectable one day made her loath to accept it. She said, “Ma’am, I thank you, but I have two gowns I have not yet worn. They are too fine for casual evenings at home, and I have not had ne
ed of them. They will answer perfectly for Gloucestershire.”

  “My dear,” she replied, putting one hand upon Frannie’s and patting it. “I have examined your wardrobe. I own, those gowns you mention are very agreeable, but you need one that is especially fine for our visit.”

  Frannie wondered if the lady still had hopes of making a match between her and Sir Hugo. Her heart sank. “Ma’am,” she ventured, “I maintain, my gowns are sufficient; I have no desire to bespeak new ones.”

  “Nonsense,” returned the lady, smiling. She turned to the men. “Is our Frannie’s attitude not refreshing? She is the farthest thing from a grasping female!” Turning back to Frannie she added, “But as Edward noted, all women must adore a new gown. And since this is my gift to you, there is nothing in it to dislike.” Frannie opened her mouth to object, but the boy’s mother put a finger to her lips. “Not another word, my dear! I won’t hear it.”

  Mrs. Arundell had made up her mind. Frannie turned a perplexed stare upon Sebastian, a silent plea. She saw thoughts roiling in his eyes. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and set it down. Now he would set Mrs. Arundell straight—that nothing was certain as far as Frannie’s trust fund was concerned and that they ought not put out extra expense for one not entitled to the trappings of wealth. But to Frannie’s concern he said to his mother, “So be it, dearest. Frannie is become a part of our family circle,” he added, giving her a look of benign approval, “so we ought indeed to furnish her a new gown under the circumstances.” Mrs. Arundell thanked him prettily, and then cast a dazzling smile at Frannie.

  “Thank you, sir,” Frannie said in a small voice. Would they regret this generosity if she was discovered to be illegitimate? Would Mrs. Arundell rue the day she came to stay with them? Oh, that fateful day when Edward had nearly run her down on Monmouth Street! If the worst were true, and the Arundells were forced to reject her, she could almost wish that Edward’s curricle had not missed.