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

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Mr. Fanshawe saw that his idea of forgoing a meeting entirely in favour of writing Sir Hugo a letter, was going the way of a passing wave. It looked powerful, formidable and sound, but like the Golden Sovereign cresting such a roller, his wife and daughter refused to let it stop them. The ladies saw by his silence that they’d won the day. Mrs. Fanshawe said cheerfully, “Cat and I must attend to our evening dress, but I see no objection to taking a drive past the Hall today, to catch a glimpse of it, so long as we are settled back in our rooms before dinner. Weʼll have plenty of time to get our apparel in order.”

  Mr. Fanshawe cleared his throat. “We have no invitations for the ball, and the man is entitled to his privacy!” His words fell like a judge’s gavel, producing silence, and dousing the spirit of excitement in his wife. A frown settled upon her features, but after a moment it cleared and she declared, “So we shall attend the open hall and you must finagle an audience with his lordship then. But in any case, we shanʼt be deprived of a drive past today.”

  In half an hour their meal was finished, another nightʼs lodging secured, and horses freshened for the drive were straining at the reins of the coachman, stamping their feet to be off. The family set out.

  “Is it an annual tradition for great houses to open their doors at Christmas to the surrounding countryfolk?” asked Catherine.

  Her father said, “Many of ‘em do; ‘tis a way to thank servants, tenants, and farmhands, sort of like a harvest home to show some goodness to the local villagers. All the nobility should be generous in such a fashion, I think.”

  Mrs. Fanshawe winked at Catherine. “It forebodes well for us if this baronet is generous.”

  When, an hour and five minutes later, the Fanshawesʼ hired chaise rumbled onto the grounds of Bartlett Hall, they saw with surprise that another coach had turned onto the drive just ahead of them.

  Mr. Fanshawe kicked the wall and the coach soon came to a stop.

  “What are ye doing, Mr. Fanshawe?” asked his wife.

  In his quiet voice he replied, “That is either the baronet’s carriage ahead of us, or his guests arriving. We shall not intrude today.” To the postilion who appeared at the window, he gave instructions, but there was not room enough on the drive for a turnabout. When they arrived at the front of the Hall, all strained to get a good look at the Palladian style mansion as they kept moving, following the circular drive back toward the turnpike. The coach ahead of them had slowed to a stop before the great front doors. They rumbled past. Mr. Fanshawe saw a well-dressed gentleman peering curiously at them from the window of the vehicle. He nodded respectfully, though he knew him not.

  By the time the Arundellʼs carriage turned into the drive of Bartlett Hall, Frannie was undeniably curious, even excited. Sheʼd never been to the home of a baronet before and knew that even the good taste and elegance of the Arundellʼs townhome would not compare to what lay ahead. As they turned into the drive, another carriage followed.

  “Could that be our carrier with the servants?” asked Mrs. Arundell, craning her neck to get a look. “I hoped theyʼd arrive before us, as we sent them on ahead.”

  Sebastian turned to peer out the back window. “They should be hours behind us, regardless. That plodding equipage of a carrier moves at a snail’s pace!”

  When the long, tree-lined drive ended and the house came into view, Frannie was not disappointed. Though not a student of baroque architecture, she knew at once that the stately exterior with its three stories of bricked façade dressed with stone, many long windows, wide, fanned stone steps and circular drive, must be ancient indeed. It was an orderly arrangement, but ornate. A pair of tremendous Greek urns with evergreens stood to either side of the steps, above which led to a ponderous front door. The only feature Frannie did not approve of was the hipped roof with its four huge chimneys, towering over the house like top hats that were too high. Two liveried footmen now emerged from the door and came toward them.

  It might have cheered her under other circumstances to arrive at such an impressive domicile, for the additional beauty and elegance that must be inside could only excite her sensibilities. But no amount of grandeur could elevate the dread that once again returned to her now they were arrived; the anticipation of pleasure reverting to that former state which had plagued her ever since Mrs. Arundell had first suggested she would make a good wife for the baronet. The pit of her stomach suddenly felt hollow.

  The carriage slowed to a stop. As it did, the one following continued on, sailing past at a good trot. “They must have taken a wrong turn,” said Sebastian.

  “I do hope the servants have already arrived with our things,” murmured his mama. “I must have my extra hearing device on hand.” She looked at Frannie, who had, in company with Edward, procured an additional hearing device as security in case of loss. “One can never have too many hearing devices,” she said with a small frown.

  In the confusion and bustle of disembarking, the ordering of trunks, the gathering of wits, Frannie moved along with the others, though woodenly. Sebastian gave her a little encouraging smile, which turned to a look of concern. “Are you well, Frannie?” This should have cheered her, for he had only begun calling her by her Christian name that week, and it still gave her a thrill. But she could not muster a reply of assurance besides allowing that she was fatigued.

  Soon they were ushered inside while footmen unloaded their trunks and bags. Frannie handed over her travelling bonnet, but she had prepared for this moment. Beneath the bonnet she had on a light muslin cap to which she had sewn an intricate lace veil. She coaxed it out and smoothed it down, covering her face to the lips.

  As they climbed the stairs to the first floor, Mrs. Arundell, who had been busy giving over her things and questioning the servants, turned to glance at her. “Frannie, dearest! Why ‘tis a fetching cap, but Sir Hugo will hardly see you behind it. Why should you wear it?”

  “I beg to be allowed, ma’am,” she said with sudden feeling. “It warms me.”

  Mrs. Arundell blinked at her, surprised at the near desperation in her voice. But she was kind-hearted and merely said, “Well, of course, if you wish. But I should enjoy above all things showing you to Sir Hugo at your most advantageous.”

  Frannie said nothing, relieved that her little ploy had worked. If there was anything she did not wish, it was to be shown to Sir Hugo at her most advantageous.

  Sebastian, who was escorting his mama, looked around her to gaze at Frannie with a question in his eyes, but thankfully said nothing, and turned away again.

  Edward, whose arm Frannie was upon, opined, “I, for one, think it dashing. Nothing like a little mystery surrounding the softer sex to make a man look twice, eh?”

  Frannie’s heart froze. Did the Arundells think she was being coy? That she wanted Sir Hugo to look twice? Oh, dear! That was precisely what she did not wish. “I assure you, that is not my object,” she said, grieved that it could be construed as such.

  When they followed the butler into the mansion, Mrs. Arundell sighed with satisfaction. “I always did enjoy this house. Even the corridors, so wide and spacious, as you see,” she added, motioning with an arm at the cavernous passageway lined with illustrious looking portraits of past baronets and their wives. Frannie could just imagine walking this corridor by candlelight at night, the glow of a candelabrum illuminating each large artwork briefly as one passed so that ghostly faces would peer out momentarily and then disappear like phantoms.

  The butler came to a stop before a door. “This is the finest parlour,” whispered Mrs. Arundell, smiling, “and not in the Baroque style. Sir Hugo assured me that he has kept up a careful blending of English style with French taste, and above all, a ‘chaste contour and simplicity of effect.’”

  The door opened to a well-appointed parlour, its large windows pouring in afternoon sun, and with a welcoming fire in a large grate. Frannie thought the “chaste contours and simplicity” neither chaste nor simple, noting the effusion of Grecian pilasters, Romanesque
plasterwork, and Japanned objects in the room. But the mantel was dressed in cheery holly, berries, and pine boughs in anticipation of Christmas, and the candle sconces sported more. As they disbursed into the room, a large, red-faced man came to his feet. Sir Hugo. Frannie made a beeline to the hearth, spreading her hands out to warm them while the others shared greetings. She moved beside a standing fire screen that was off to one side with silk cord and small tassels, wishing her veil had such tassels to hide behind.

  But too soon, “Frannie, Frannie dear, come, my love!” called Mrs. Arundell. Frannie had no choice but to go and curtsey to Sir Hugo as she was introduced. “This is Miss Baxter, Miss Frances Baxter, a particularly dear acquaintance stopping with us,” she said. “ʼTis a comfortable arrangement, for I cannot do without her,” she added, as if to explain Frannie’s visit, but she succeeded only in giving it an air of mystery. Better for her to have said nothing at all, Frannie thought.

  Sir Hugo stared at her. He had gone rather white. “Did you not say that night at the ball, Penelope, that she was your cousin?”

  Mrs. Arundell tittered with laughter. “To think you should recall such a thing! Why, it was only a lark, my dear sir.”

  Still staring hard at Frannie, he was overcome by a fit of coughs, and turned away. While the others were solicitous of him, Frannie saw a chance to escape his scrutiny and took a chair near the fire.

  Sebastian approached her with a thoughtful look. “This is the second time I have seen Sir Hugo react strangely at sight of you,” he said, mildly. “The first time, when he came to escort Mama to the ball, I thought it must have nothing to do with you, but only my mother. Tonight, however, it seems evident that he must know you?”

  Frannie’s eyes widened beneath the veil. “I assure you, this is our first acquaintance!” She swallowed, unsure of whether to share her own surmise; that Sir Hugo was just as conscious of the family’s expectations regarding the two of them as was she, and that he was equally disturbed by it. I should not have come! She thought. “Perhaps now,” she added shyly, “you may agree that my coming was ill advised. Perhaps I should return to London—”

  “Why, my dear girl, I was suggesting nothing of the sort,” Sebastian said. “Perhaps there is no coincidence in it. Sir Hugo is easily befuddled by most any female, I think.”

  Meanwhile, Sir Hugo seemed to have recovered, and refreshments were brought in for the travellers. Sebastian encouraged Frannie to take some tea and a slice of seed cake, but she sat down uneasily, wishing only to escape to a place of solitude. While the others chatted, she admired the ornate carving of the sofa wood, the chairs, and couch, as well as the golden scrolled frames of numerous portraits and bucolic country scenes on the walls. Twice, however, she chanced to spy Sir Hugo staring at her. Both times she looked hurriedly away, noting that he seemed as disturbed by her presence as she was by his. A veil, it seemed, offered little protection against being noticed. Sebastianʼs keen eyes missed none of it.

  He approached her at length. “You must be eager to get settled, to rest, perhaps, before dinner?”

  “I am indeed.” Gratefully, she looked up at him. How thoughtful Sebastian was.

  He turned to the company and announced that he would escort Miss Baxter, with the help of a servant, to her appointed bedchamber; he was sure she was fatigued by the journey. He looked expectantly at his mother. “And you, maʼam?” he asked. “Are you ready to take rest?”

  Sir Hugo immediately piped in with, “Of course, Penelope! You must be in want of it, for delicate ladies and long journeys do not well go together, I comprehend.” He spoke in a low tone, timidly meeting her eyes. Mrs. Arundell looked perplexed for a moment, and then annoyed. She exclaimed, “Why, Hugo, you haven’t changed a jot! You never did enjoy entertaining, and I daresay you are hoping we shall retire at once so you may be rid of us!”

  “Mama,” began Sebastian, but she held out a hand. “Say nothing, Beau! I understand your cousin.” Turning back to the baronet, she said, going right up to him and with a little challenging look, “Whatever possessed you to invite us? I can see you still prefer solitude, your own company over any other, even your relations.”

  Sir Hugo, who was perpetually of a sanguine complexion, turned even redder. “Penelope—but no, indeed. You are quite wrong, there. I am heartily obliged you have all come. And to ask me—when, when you must know—” he made a little helpless gesture with his hands—”I wrote of my intentions.”

  Frannieʼs heart froze at those words. Ready to cry, she looked away in mortification, her face crestfallen. His intentions—she knew what that meant! Without realizing it, she drew in a deep, sighing breath.

  Sebastian took her hand. “I think my cousin has it right. Long journeys and ladies do not always meet happily. Come, I shall accompany you to your room.”

  “Yes, yes,” Sir Hugo said, overhearing this. He hurried to the bell pull. When a servant appeared, he was instructed to show the guests to their bedchambers. Mrs. Arundell said with peculiar determination, “I’ll not go yet, if you don’t mind, Hugo.”

  “Not at all, ma’am!” Sir Hugo said with a relieved look, restored to almost his usual color. Beside his large bulk, the boys’ mama looked diminutive. But his eyes strayed again to Frannie with a most particular and worried look.

  “If there’s a drink to be had,” piped up Edward, “I will linger also.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Sir Hugo.

  Sebastian helped Frannie to her feet. She curtseyed to the company and allowed him to lead her from the room, her throat still tight with unshed tears.

  “Iʼll see you at dinner,” said Mrs. Arundell. “And you, Beau, are you also done in?”

  “I will return after seeing Frannie to her room.”

  Frannie, not Miss Fanshawe. It still thrilled her. The word rang in her heart and mind like a little sun shower amidst a torrent of rain.

  His mama smiled. “Good man.”

  Frannie accepted Sebastian’s arm as they followed the housekeeper to the quarter of the house where the bedchambers were. Sebastian purposely slowed their pace, however, so that soon there was enough distance between them and the servant for a private conversation.

  “Frannie dear,” he began, sending another shot of warmth into her heart. Gently he continued, “Are you certain you haven’t met Sir Hugo before you came to us?”

  “I have not,” she said, surprised at his question.

  He smiled wryly. “Why did you don a veil, then? I haven’t seen you wear one in all the time you’ve been with us. Is it not to avoid recognition?”

  He must have felt the hand upon his arm tighten. “No, not that at all!” she said in a little choked voice, and blinking back tears. How it pained her to know that he wanted her to marry his cousin! Why should he? He had once said himself that he would be disinherited if Sir Hugo had a son of his own, and surely he must see that Frannie, if she wed the baronet, could provide that son. Why should he so wish to be rid of her, that he would gladly endanger his own inheritance?

  All these thoughts roiled in her brain and yet she could speak none of them. If she dared to express even one, they would all come rushing out. She would never be able to hide her anguish of heart, the anguish that came from wishing Sebastian would want her to be his wife, not the baronet’s.

  “What makes you wear it, then?” he persisted.

  Frannie swallowed her heart. She sniffed and replied, “Surely you do not expect a rational explanation for every accoutrement a woman deems indispensable.”

  He smiled. “But you have never found this particular accoutrement to be indispensable before.”

  She was silent. They ascended a set of stairs, for the bedchambers were on the second floor. She looked down at the carpeting.

  “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” he said. “We shall have the ball tomorrow night. Then we shall have a happy Christmas, I trust. And on the following afternoon, I will return to town to find Mr. Fanshawe. I’ll find him, wherever he has gone, I ass
ure you, and wrest the truth from him, come what may.” In a gentler tone he added, “Your agony and dread of what is unknown shall be removed forever.”

  “No, Beau!” she cried, without realizing it. Something rippled in his eyes, a quick flash of warmth, but then was gone. She had hardly time to comprehend it as she hurriedly added, “You mustnʼt interrupt your visit here on my account! I have waited months to learn my history. Surely we can wait until after Twelfth Night.” As soon as she spoke, she realized he might want the information in order to reassure the baronet that she was an eligible bride, a bride bringing a sizable dowry. To his steady, thoughtful gaze, she added, “The—the baronet need not concern himself with me!”

  His brows furrowed. “The baronet need not— ? Come, we’re all of one family,” Sebastian said kindly. “Any concern of yours must be ours.” But he fell silent, for the housekeeper stopped ahead of them at a door and waited politely for them to reach her.

  To the gentle warmth in his eyes, hers answered only with anguish, for was he not saying that the Arundells wished to know her history as much as the baronet, for they were his family? He stopped at the door to the room, raised her hand and kissed it. “I hope you find some rest. I’ll see you at dinner.” With a bow, he turned and left.

  Frannie could hardly attend to the housekeeper, who ushered her into the room, pointed out the lovely prospect from the window, the closets with fitted shelves, the comfortable four-poster bed and japanned writing desk. A chambermaid was at work raising a fire in the grate.

  Frannie was asked if there was anything she needed, and then was finally left alone in the sizable room. It was high-ceilinged, and intricate plasterwork and roundels stared sightlessly back at her. The wallpaper was a delicate floral, the bed and bedclothes properly plush. It was all elegance and beauty, but she sat upon the bed dejectedly. In the next moment, she threw herself down.

  And sobbed.