He eyed her gravely for a moment. “ʼTis no one to you, no one of our acquaintance.”
Catherine sighed and leaned back into the seat. “Poor Miss Fanshawe!”
Her mother scowled. “Why do you feel for her?” she asked, drawing out the word her for the space of two syllables. “Do you not comprehend that if the trust is hers, your betrothal falls through?”
“I regret, my dear,” Mr. Fanshawe said to Catherine, “that I predicted as much from the moment I received your letter telling me of the arrangement.”
“Poor Miss Fanshawe, indeed!” cried his wife. “Poor Miss Catherine Fanshawe!”
“My cousin promised, if she comes into the trust, that she would help me,” Catherine offered. In truth the idea plagued her that she must accept help from someone so new to her acquaintance, but a relation was family, and it might appease her mother.
“Did she give you a sum? A set amount?” asked the mother.
Catherine recoiled. “No, Mama! I would never have asked it of her! She was all generosity to make the offer at all!”
Her mother scoffed. “Offered to help, indeed! She’ll sing a different tune once the blunt’s in hand, I warrant you.”
“Mama, my cousin was all amiability. She wants nothing more than to be included in our family. We are her relations. And she has none other.”
“Where’d you meet her?” her mother asked with narrowed eyes.
“I called upon her on King Street. At the home of Mr. Arundell, who left his card.”
“And why is she living with Mr. Arundell, I wonder?” she asked with a bitter edge.
“She must live with someone,” said Catherine. “She lost her mother a year ago August, and—and—another lady, a dear friend.”
“A year ago August?” asked Mr. Fanshawe wistfully. “I wish I’d known. I saw my sister only once since she left the papers detailing the trust into my care.” He sighed heavily. “I had every intention of contacting her as soon as I got to shore.”
“And why would you contact her now?” demanded his wife.
“A report reached my ears that concerns her…I thought I’d give the papers back now, as they’d be safe in her hands.”
“The papers? You have them still? With the terms of the fortune?” asked his wife eagerly. Catherine’s eyes were also fastened upon him.
He nodded.
Her eyes gleamed with hope. “If we hold the papers, we hold the fortune, Mr. Fanshawe,” she said, smiling now. In a quick gush she added, “That fortune belongs to our girl, yet!”
He shook his head, frowning. “No, m’dear. I have only held the papers in trust.” He winked at Catherine. “Iʼve held the trust in trust,” he murmured, smiling.
She smiled back. “ʼTwas good of you, Papa.”
But his wife, scowling, cried, “You kept it all these years. I daresay you must be entitled to something for your trouble at the very least!”
He shook his head, his lips pursed. “Dear heart, there is nothing in it for us. You must reconcile yourself to that.” As the coach left the vicinity of London, rumbling past an empty turnpike gate on the rutted road, Mrs. Fanshawe began to cry. Soon she was outright sobbing. Between sobs, she wailed, “You ha—have ruined your daughter, Mr. Fanshawe! Ruined! All the fat is in the fire, now! Catherine shan’t be married to His Lordship! She is all done up!” She turned and pummeled his chest with one fist while the other held a handkerchief to her nose. He grasped her hand and kissed it. “We are no worse off than we’ve ever been, my dear.” She stopped hitting him but continued crying brokenly, and then fell against him. He patted her back, his eyes meeting Catherine’s . His daughter’s countenance assured him that she was not nearly as cast down at the prospect of her losing her betrothal as her mother.
Catherine nodded. “It’s alright, Papa.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Frannie tried not to lose heart despite the Fanshawesʼ hasty and mysterious departure from town. It might have been a coincidence, beginning with Mr. Fanshawe’s leaving the ship without being seen. He might have hurried home for any number of reasons. The family could have been called away on account of a sick relation on Mrs. Fanshawe’s side. She simply could not countenance thinking the worst of the family, when Miss Fanshawe, her cousin, was all amiability and sweetness.
She’d told Sebastian everything she’d learned from Catherine’s call. He was sorry, he’d said, to have missed her for he would have liked to question her himself. He’d said, “Perhaps with Catherine’s help we’ll unravel this tangle yet. Her father, it seems, may not be depended upon.” Looking at her thoughtfully he added, “I should have preferred to have it settled before we leave for Bartlett Hall—it would be to your advantage for Sir Hugo and any other of his guests, to know you at once for an heiress. Though it is not in fact an inheritance at stake, it is a respectable fortune by anyone’s standard.”
Frannie silenced the protest that flew to her lips. She did not wish Sir Hugo to know her for an heiress, nor for being the owner of a fortune. She did not wish to find favour with the man at all! And now her heart ached, for was not Sebastian implying that he too, like his mama, thought she would answer the baronet’s search for a wife? Despite all he had sensibly pointed out about his chances of being disinherited if Sir Hugo got himself a young bride? As she mulled over this lowering idea, Mrs. Arundell breezed into the library with the information that the modiste had arrived with Frannie’s new gown.
“And with five days yet before we leave for Gloucestershire!” she purred. “Come, Frannie dear, for the fitting.” She glanced at Sebastian. “You may come also, Beau. You’ll be first to admire Frannie’s new gown.”
He lowered the book in his hand and surveyed her above his glasses. He looked so fetching, Frannie thought, when he stood thus, with his dark hair in short waves, and neat, manly attire. His brows looked particularly thick, his eyes green-brown but clear and piercing as usual.
“And subject Miss Fanshawe to further scrutiny than your own?” he said. “I am certain she will look lovely in this gown. She could never look a fright.” For his mother’s benefit he added, “I am especially confident as you had a hand in choosing the frock.” He gave Frannie a short nod.
Frannie knew not whether to be relieved, for facing his scrutiny did seem worrisome; or disappointed, for perhaps he did not care how she looked in a new gown, or for that matter, any gown. However, he’d also said she “could never look a fright.” That was praise she supposed, of a sort, though certainly not high praise. Indeed, Sebastian never seemed to take the least notice of her appearance in a way of personal interest, whether she took pains over it or not. Mrs. Arundell had appointed a maid to help with Frannie’s hair, but he seemed to take no notice of that either. She and the maid, Clarice, were both fully grateful for the new appointment, however.
For Frannie’s part, it relieved her of trying in vain to achieve a proper hair style, as she’d never been required to do her own hair before. Her former maid Eliza, who she’d had to discharge after Mrs. Baxter’s death, had done it.
Clarice, the new ‘lady’s maid,’ was enchanted with the situation, for now she ranked higher than a parlour maid and had less laborious duties. If she raised her nose slightly when in the servant’s hall these days on account of this elevation, could anyone blame her? The housekeeper, perhaps, did. She admonished her to mind Romans chapter twelve, verse three, and not to think of herself too highly. Clarice merely pursed her lips, though the chambermaids snickered, and even Mr. Tipps, the butler, nodded gravely at her.
Mrs. Arundell’s lady’s maid, Betsey, passing by—for she was too lofty a personage to eat with the others—stopped and sneered at Clarice. “You’re only helping a poor orphan!”
“‘Ere, she’s no poor orphan, I’m sure!” replied Clarice fiercely.
“She is, that. I ‘eard it right from ‘er mouth!”
Every servant stared at Clarice pityingly. As the colour rose in her cheeks, she said, “She ain’t! She e
ats wi’ the family! I’m to do ‘er hair! No poor orphan would be given such attentions!”
Tipps dipped a piece of bread in his bowl of stew. “I daresay our Clarice must be right in this matter. The family treats Miss Fanshawe with respect.” He cleared his throat and nodded toward Mr. Sykes. “Mr. Sykes, I believe, can affirm this.”
The valet nodded. In his peculiarly gloomy voice, he intoned, “She is in a good way to inherit a fortune.”
Betsey scoffed, shrugged disdainfully, and went her way.
Clarice was smiling, her reputation wonderfully restored. “Thank ‘ee Mr. Tipps and Mr. Sykes,” she said, not hiding her elation.
The rest of the servants, though still determined to regard Clarice as an unmitigated upstart, accepted defeat and resumed eating. Time would tell, they seemed to be thinking.
The new gown fit nearly to perfection, needing just the slightest taking in below the bust. Mrs. Arundell looked on with satisfaction at Frannie while the modiste flitted about her. But noticing the look on Frannie’s face, she frowned. “You do not look pleased. Are you not pleased?”
“Mademoiselle is not pleased?” repeated the modiste lightly, but with her brows furrowed in concern.
Frannie said, “To be sure, the gown is more beautiful than I imagined!” She peered down at the peach satin with its delicate pearls and spangles. Her only displeasure, which she needed somehow to make clear to Mrs. Arundell, was the reason for the purchase: to make Frannie more appealing to Sir Hugo.
“Come, move before the looking glass,” ordered Mrs. Arundell. Frannie obediently went and stood where she could see her reflection. The peach gown contrasted dramatically with her dark hair, making it look black as night. The square neckline and standing lace collar accentuated the perfect bare space for jewellery. “I have a necklace from Mama that will look just right with this,” she said, observing the patch of skin. The necklace was one of the few items Frannie had not been willing to part with in order to cover Mrs. Baxter’s debts. It was something her father had given Mama—she hadn’t thought of it until now, for she always kept it safely hidden in an etui—the embroidered jewel case she had painstakingly sewn by hand, to contain it. That case was in her trunk, right there in her bedchamber.
“Let’s see it!” cried the older lady. Frannie opened the trunk, and after rummaging down, for she kept it well out of sight, drew out the little case. She opened it, took out the necklace lovingly, and held it up. All three women admired it. The modiste said, “Ah! Un beau rubis!”
“Indeed!” said Mrs. Arundell, taking the necklace in her hands and examining the blood-red jewel closely. “This is a fine gemstone, Frannie,” she said, “unless I am much mistaken.” She looked at the girl brightly. “From your mama, you said?”
Frannie nodded and allowed the lady to put it around her neck and clasp it from behind. “It was given her by my father.”
Mrs. Arundell turned her around by the arms and smiled up at her. “You see? Your father could afford such a gift only if he were a gentleman of means. ‘Tis just as I said!” She turned the girl around to face the looking glass. “Now take a look at yourself.”
Frannie peered at her reflection and had to give a little smile. She said honestly, “I feel like a princess!”
Mrs. Arundell chuckled. “I believe a princess could wear that gown or that necklace, but it looks splendid on you!”
The seamstress removed the matching plumed headdress from a bandbox with fingers adept at handling delicate fabrics and bonnets. She came and placed it securely on Frannie’s head, pinning it into place.
“My, but that is a regal look, is it not?” said Mrs. Arundell, beaming with pleasure. “I daresay I have transformed you. Even with your quiet manners, you will now draw eyes wherever you wear this.”
Frannie smiled weakly. “Thank you, ma’am, but it is never my ambition to do so.”
Mrs. Arundell leaned in confidentially. “I noticed that about you, dear. You are almost too retiring. Gentlemen aren’t enraptured by women who are too quiet.” She paused and gazed at Frannie affectionately. “And some are slow to appreciate what is before them and must be coaxed to take notice.” She stood back again and smiled. “Fortunately for our sex, we know ways in which to nudge such men! I warrant this gown, the way you look in it, will do the trick!”
Frannie’s heart sank. Perhaps now was the time to put an end to this. Surely Mrs. Arundell had Sir Hugo in mind, for, having failed to marry, was not his the character she described as “slow to appreciate” the opposite sex? “Ma’am,” she said, her large eyes troubled. “I must tell you—I have no wish for the match you have in mind.”
The lady’s face fell. “No wish? Why ever not? I wouldn’t put it forward for just anyone, dearest. You are really my idea of the wife he must have. You observe economy; you are not overly loud; you enjoy strengthening your mind with reading, and above all, you are amiable!”
Frannie’s distress grew. How could she explain it in terms the lady would accept? To cavil on account of her uncertain social standing or the jeopardy of her position was useless. Mrs. Arundell refused to believe Frannie could be anything except of good stock.
“Ma’am,” she said finally, “there is such an age difference, for one thing—”
“Oh, that is nothing! That is nothing, I assure you!” With pursed lips she said, “Frannie dear, I warrant you just need more time. Now be a good girl and get out of this dress—Madame will help you—”
“Oui, Madame!” said the Frenchwoman. Instantly she was at Frannie’s back to undo the fastenings of the bodice, but a knock at the door made her freeze, waiting.
“Since it distresses you, we’ll speak no more on it now,” continued the older woman with a kind smile. She lifted her little delicate nose up. “Every young woman is fearful of marriage to some degree, I suppose, though I was not.” She turned away. “Come in,” she said, in a tone meant to be heard outside the room.
A moment later the door opened to reveal Sebastian, bespectacled, with a note in his hands. He entered the room with barely a glance up from the note but saw Frannie and his head came up. He held the note out to his mother, all the while surveying Frannie. She gave him a shy little smile.
Mrs. Arundell took the note. “Thank you, dearest. Who is it from?”
“Sir Hugo.” He looked toward his mother. “He merely sends his hope that we are still coming as planned, and instructions as to where to stopover to bait the horses, and for meals.” Looking back at Frannie he came toward her. “This is the new gown?”
She nodded, watching for his reaction.
He circled her, while the modiste stood back, smiling. “What good taste you have, Mama,” he said, and then, when he was back in front of Frannie, added, “You look splendid.”
“Thank you.” Though his words were praise, his voice was curiously flat. She hardly felt flattered. Perhaps he did not really think she looked splendid. Perhaps there was something about the gown he disliked.
Sebastian apologized for interrupting them, bowed, and left, not looking back at Frannie once. Mrs. Arundell smiled at her, though. “I am so glad he stopped in!” She went toward the door. “Until dinner, dearest!” She stopped and turned back to level a mischievous grin at her. “I can hardly countenance waiting for you to be thus unveiled at the Christmas ball!”
After she’d gone, her last words hung in Frannie’s mind as heavy as the tolling of a death knell. “Unveiled at the Christmas ball.” For Sir Hugo’s benefit, no doubt! And suddenly, an idea formed that gave her hope.
After Madame had carefully packed away the gown in papers, the headdress in a huge bandbox, curtseyed her goodbye and gone, Frannie took the bandbox and withdrew the delicate headdress. She found scissors, took a lacy shawl from her wardrobe, and cut a good piece of it. Now she would execute her idea.
She stayed in her room, sewing piece after piece of the lace onto various bonnets, all her simpler headwear such as wide ribbon bandeaus, and her only tiara.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Charles Fanshawe, with his wife and daughter, eventually stopped for the night at a country inn. Mrs. Fanshawe had cajoled him into making the stop, claiming it was too much for her poor soul to be expected to return home, they’d travelled too far to make the journey back that day, and if her husband had any sensibility at all for a poor woman’s nerves and constitution, they must stop.
After a substantial inn supper, Mr. Fanshawe thought himself entitled to peace. But his wife, as it were, began a new campaign against his having it. Instructing the inn keeper to keep her husband supplied with a steady infusion of his best ale, she reasoned upon him thus: He must reveal the identity of the benefactor of the trust, first of all. For as yet he had kept this personage’s name strictly to himself, and a body had a right to know. Secondly, they must find this man and prevail upon him to include their daughter in some disbursement of funds, for hadn’t they kept his secret all these years? Mr. Fanshawe must see that he had been monstrously abused otherwise; he had been keeper of the trust and should rightly be rewarded for his discretion, his honesty, his help.
Mr. Fanshawe resigned himself to a long evening during which his wife would relieve herself of every complaint concerning the business that she could devise. He listened with a disinterested air, but focused instead on enjoying the ale, which was excellent. Sometime during the third pint, however, his wife’s petitions began to sound sensible. He had done the man a great service, hadn’t he? He’d been silent for nigh two decades about the business when he might have gadded it about, even to the newspapers. The newspapers, he could not deny, were always amenable to printing a scandal.
Was not a secret trust fund scandalous? A secret marriage and runaway bride? Mr. Fanshawe began to feel the injustice of his position. Why, he had ought to have received some small stipend for his extraordinary discretion in the affair, if not solely for his keeping of the papers. He had guarded the secret, not even leaking His Lordship’s name to his own family. He was a paragon of virtue! The name of the solicitors was another well-guarded secret which he had kept. Was he not shamefully abused to have gone without reward until now? Surely he must see that it was time to contact the family and set the case to rights. He had hobbled the business altogether, but now he could seek redress.
Miss Fanshawe's Fortune: Clean and Sweet Regency Romance (The Brides of Mayfair Book 2) Page 17
