by Fran Baker
“I trust you did not sit by the wall all night, Frances,” she said with a lazy flutter of a lavender-wrapped arm.
“Sir Thomas did not let her do so, Mama, I assure you,” Mary answered readily. She had by this time regained both her color and her composure and thus went on easily. “Francie did insist on staying with the dowagers at first and poor Lord Coombs was quite put out with her because she refused him so often. But you know Sir Thomas. He was not dissuaded by Francie’s refusals. He simply led her into a dance and afterward I vow Francie had more beaux than I. She was quite the belle, Mama.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Hampton agreed on a drowsy nod. “Sir Thomas is not the man to be easily set aside. In fact, he is the only man who could bring your sister to bridle. But in the end even he was thrown.” She stifled another yawn as if the whole subject were putting her to sleep, completely ignoring Francie’s baleful glare.
“Really, Mama.” Francie got to her feet and turned to leave. “If you mean to occupy yourself with such nonsensical prattle, I pray you will excuse me.”
She stormed to the door, pausing as Mary cried out, “Oh, Francie, we did not mean—”
But her apology was silence by a tap of her mother’s hand. “Let her go. Let her go. Now, tell me again, what was it the Dowager Countess said to Mrs. Middleton?”
Francie slammed out of the boudoir in a huff. Once shut into her own room, she assaulted the creaky floorboard next to her bed with impatient strides. With each furious step, her anger mounted. She raged at her parents, who were so willing to bestow their younger daughter into the care of a man who did not love her; at Sir Thomas for having the power to disrupt her every rational thought or action; and mostly at herself for her own folly in responding to his overwhelming masculinity. She despised her weakness and even the thought that it was merely a physical reaction, far removed from her heart, did not comfort her.
After a quarter hour, she could no longer contain her long-repressed rage. Grabbing a glass powder pot from the top of a wooden corner commode, Francie hurled it vigorously to the floor. The splintering crash seemed to uncoil the springs of her wound-up fury. She stared at the dust-spattered shards, her nostrils filling with the powdery scent of lavender, then drew a long, shuddering sigh and began calmly collecting the bits of glass from the besprinkled floor. One day, she knew, her dreadful temper would be the ruin of her.
The soft click of a door in the next room caught her attention as she was laying the last of the shattered glass onto the top of her vanity. In a flash, Francie hurried into Mary’s small chamber.
Mary’s full lips parted in surprise at her sister’s abrupt entrance. “I—I thought you’d gone to sleep,” she stammered.
“Mary, are you falling in love with Sir Thomas?” Francie asked without preamble. She had at last decided that if, indeed, Mary had formed a tendre for Spencer, then she was posting back to Norfolk without delay.
“W-what? S-sir Thomas?” Mary sputtered feebly.
“Are you in love with him?” Francie rapped out, striding forward.
Mary took a step backward, then laughed nervously. “Wherever did you get such a notion, Francie? Of course I am not! I’ve told you, ours is to be a match of convenience—nothing more.”
“But you looked like a woman in love tonight,” Francie insisted, her voice clearly stating her disapproval. “And don’t try to bamboozle me with some Banbury tale. You know you could never lie to me.”
“But I’m not in love with Sir Thomas!” Mary exclaimed, her body trembling.
The truth was writ plain upon her face, and for a moment Francie gazed at her, nonplused. Her younger sister had never been able to hide her feelings. She’d clearly been moonstruck this evening, and if she did not love Sir Thomas, what possible explanation could there be? As Francie studied Mary with narrowed, speculative eyes, vermilion flags waved over her sister’s cheeks. Francie recognized the apprehension she had noted once before, and her own eyes widened.
“Are you in love with someone else?” she inquired in disbelief.
A streak of blue flew across the room. Mary flung her arms about Francie’s neck, and sobbed into her shoulder. “D-don’t tell, Francie, please!” she pleaded through her weeping. “I—it’s not possible to love him. He has n-nothing to offer.”
Frantically searching her memory for an answer to this puzzle, Francie suddenly recalled her sister bent earnestly toward Mr. Harvey, and with an astonished exclamation detached Mary from her shoulder to hold her out at arm’s length.
“Are you saying—can you possibly mean—Mary, are you in love with Frederick Harvey?”
A fresh wail rose from Mary, and patiently Francie drew her to sit on the edge of a high, narrow bed and folded her within the comfort of her arms. Murmuring in a soothing voice, Francie tried to comprehend the fact that her silly sister would prefer Mr. Frederick Harvey to Sir Thomas Spencer. Clearly, Mary was cloth-headed.
At length, Mary’s sobs eased, and Francie gently wiped the traces of tears from the girl’s rounded cheeks. “Now, dear goose, please tell me about you and Mr. Harvey.”
Stumbling at first, then gathering assurance as she spoke, Mary told Francie of her deep admiration for Mr. Harvey. “He is so estimable, so good, so noble! His is truly a worthy disposition,” she summed up in rapturous tones.
Francie could only address her sister as if she were discoursing with a Bedlamite. Cautiously, she stemmed Mary’s words of adulation. “But why is he eligible?”
“He has no money, nor even many prospects at present,” Mary explained mournfully. “He is Lord Rockhill’s secretary.”
“So that is how you knew he would be there tonight.”
“Yes. He does not, as a rule, attend many such functions. He is far too serious-minded for frivolities, you know. But he was with Lord Rockhill at the Troosts’ last fall when Mama and I went to stay there.”
“You came to know him there?” Francie probed.
“Oh, yes,” Mary breathed in a glowing voice. “From the moment of introduction, I saw that Mr. Harvey was quite unlike other men. He does not care for wasting his time with gaming or sporting or—or with meaningless dalliance. We—we came to know each other . . . though, of course, not one impropriety passed between us.”
That Francie could well believe, having made even so brief an acquaintance with the gentleman in question. “Have you seen him since then?”
“No, no! We’ve had no assignations.” The sigh that accompanied this most estimable declaration sounded wistful. “That’s what made tonight so very special, you see.”
Francie didn’t take her eyes off her sister. “And do you think Mr. Harvey returns your regard?”
“I—I cannot be certain, though I have sometimes detected a certain warmth . . .” Mary replied with a shy blush. “Mr. Harvey is of far too superior a mind to speak where he knows he cannot.”
“But whyever not?” Francie demanded briskly. “As Lord Rockhill’s secretary, he must have means enough to provide for a wife.”
“B-but nothing to equal the Spencers!” Mary stifled a small sob and continued in an uneven voice. “He is the son of a country clergyman, and there remain three other sons and two daughters to be settled. Even should Mr. Harvey desire to take a wife, it would be years before he could afford to do so. And he could never support his wife’s family in addition to his own.”
Francie inspected her sister’s dismal countenance for some time, then stood and began pacing restlessly. At last she stopped in front of Mary. “You cannot be such a gudgeon as to marry Spencer when your affections are engaged elsewhere. We Hamptons shall manage to rub along without having to sacrifice you, Mary.”
“You have been away for so long, Francie, that you do not realize what state we were in.” Mary’s tone made it clear she wasn’t casting blame. “It is all up with Papa. He was being dunned at every corner until Sir Thomas stopped the creditors from hounding him. For months we did not dare go abroad for fear he would be presented with anot
her vowel. We did without, Francie, in ways that would shock you. You have seen that all the servants are gone save James and Mrs. Brown. You must see that I could not be so ungrateful a daughter as to allow my personal inclinations to send Papa back into dun territory.”
Mary rose with solemn dignity from the bedside and came to take Francie’s hands in her own. “Do not be distressed on my account, I beg of you. I know my marriage is nothing but a Smithfield bargain. But I’m certain Sir Thomas and I shall manage tolerably well together. He is all kindness to me, and that is more than many in my position could expect. Do not worry, Francie, please. I accept my fate. I am satisfied, truly I am.”
Francie did not believe a word of it. The nobility of Mary’s sacrifice was lost on her. Cold fury struck at her over her parents’ selfish willingness to ruin Mary’s chances for happiness. She needed to be alone before the rein on her temper was loosened further still.
Silently accepting her sister’s kiss, Francie retreated swiftly to her room. She threw off her clothes without looking where she hurled them, then slipped between the muslin sheets to stare at the shadows pirouetting about her room.
Her anger slowly seeped away into the night as she lay considering all that she’d learned. All thought of posting back to her school vanished. She would stay in London until she discovered how she might best save Mary from forfeiting herself without pitching her father into ruin. If, indeed, he truly faced such a state, which Francie sincerely doubted.
Her other problem set her to trembling beneath the eiderdown coverlet. Sir Thomas might be a rogue capable of breaking hearts as carelessly as the wind tosses leaves, but knowing his character did not prevent Francie from reacting to his physical magnetism. To remain in Town, she must renew her determination to avoid him at all costs. This, she told herself, should be the easiest of all things because she had not the least desire ever to see him again.
The last image that rose before her sleep-laden eyes was of a dark, wavy head bent over the curve of her ankle, his lips pressing warmly against her silk stocking.
Francie tossed and turned all night and awoke heavy-eyed and melancholy the next morning.
* * * *
But her resolutions had not dimmed. They had, in fact, grown even stronger. In keeping with her determination not to again set eyes upon Sir Thomas Spencer, Francie closeted herself with Mrs. Brown in the kitchens, selecting and discarding choices for the supper to be given for an intimate group, some thirty or so guests, on the night of her sister’s ball. Then she found she must call upon several old friends and remained from home until close upon the hour to dine. Arriving to learn that Sir Thomas was expected for supper, Francie retired directly to her room for the evening, claiming unaccustomed fatigue.
Her stratagem proved successful. By keeping a sharp eye on the street, Francie managed to disappear each time the baronet’s carriage drew up. For the next two days, she avoided him quite easily, a fact which should have bolstered her spirits, but perversely had quite the opposite effect.
Francie was thus unaccountably blue-deviled when she left the Wedgwood warehouse in York Street on the third afternoon following the disastrous ball at Lady Rockhill’s. She had not yet struck upon a method of untangling her sister’s snarled heartstrings, and it was to this singular failure that Francie attributed her own downcast humor as she stepped unseeing down the noisy street.
She was startled from her melancholy reverie by the sound of her name and she halted, looking about her in a daze.
“Miss Hampton,” said the voice again, this time directly behind her.
She turned to find Mr. Frederick Harvey making her a rather stiff bow.
“Good day, Mr. Harvey,” she said, holding out her hand.
He took it briefly, eyeing the length of her outmoded pelisse of durable drabcloth, taking in the high-crowned cloth bonnet trimmed with yellow cording, and the worn muff that clearly had seen better days. In turn, Francie noted that Mr. Harvey carried himself with a calm assurance that had been lacking at their last meeting. The plain nut-brown jacket and fawn trousers became him far better than his evening wear had, and Francie concluded that the gentleman had not been in his element at the ball.
His hazel eyes cast about in a searching manner, and she followed them, puzzled as her gaze returned to him.
“Is your maid executing some errand, Miss Hampton?” he asked.
A smile flitted across her mouth, but she managed to respond with creditable sobriety. “I am without a maid, sir.”
“Then, of course, Miss Hampton, you must permit me to give you my escort home.”
Overcoming her impulse to laugh at the heavy frown gracing his features, she said levelly, “There is no need, sir, for you to inconvenience yourself on my behalf.”
“It is no inconvenience,” he insisted. “I cannot allow a young lady of my acquaintance to wander the streets unescorted.”
“I am quite beyond that age, sir, I assure you,” Francie said with a light laugh. Really, he was quite absurd!
“Nonsense,” Mr. Harvey returned in an implacable voice. He presented her with his arm, and Francie saw no option but to take it.
As they walked, Francie inspected him with several sidelong glances and found much to admire in his regular features. His manner might be straitlaced and dull, but he radiated dependability. He would not keep a light-skirt, she decided with a surge of partiality.
“I could not but notice your appraisal of my dress, and must beg you to excuse my dowdy state,” she finally said.
“Nothing of the sort,” he disagreed. He looked at her with a gaze that inquired how she could have thought him capable of such a reach of etiquette. “If anything,” he continued seriously, “I admire your ability to look so well turned-out in a fashion quite obviously out of date.”
Her lips curved upward at the backhanded compliment. “Thank you. But as I am somewhat rather more out of date than pelisse, I trust you will realize I can see my own way home.”
Her smile was met with Mr. Harvey’s horrified disclaimer that she was certainly not “out of date.” It occurred to Francie that, as provoking as he was, at least Sir Thomas had the saving grace of a sense of humor. With a sigh, she tried a new tack.
“I do try to make my belongings last, Mr. Harvey. Raised as we were, Mary and I have learned how to economize. She would make an excellent wife for a man of limited means.”
She felt him tense beside her, a sudden rigidity finding its way into his step, and was not surprised to discover a dull flush creeping over his face. He stared at the crowds ahead of them and made no response.
After a slight pause, Francie prodded, “But then, of course, fortune may provide Mary with no need to practice economy.”
She peeped at him around the brim of her bonnet and noted that his flush had heightened. More than a devout declaration, Mr. Harvey’s refusal to discuss Mary told Francie how deep his regard for her sister was. Satisfaction added a cheeriness to her voice, as she airily began to converse upon the chill spring weather, to which Mr. Harvey returned only the most wooden response.
Chapter 6
Slipping her shoes from her feet, Francie tucked herself into the corner of the sofa nearest the flickering fire and read the letter in her hand. With a minimum of words, Miss Dill conveyed her understanding, tinged with regret, that her dear Frances would be remaining in London. She further intimated that she herself would post to Town should Miss Hampton not return by the end of the school term.
Though she could not say why, that prospect brought a slight frown to Francie’s brow, and the letter dropped into the folds of her faded ensign-blue half-dress. Like most of her gowns, it was several years out of fashion, though the kerseymere frock still became her slender figure.
Her hand rubbed restively over her brow, as if she had in truth the headache she had pleaded when she begged off accompanying the rest of her family to dine at Mrs. McLaughlin’s. More than ever, Francie had felt the need of solitude. The satisfying kn
owledge that Mr. Harvey returned Mary’s affection in full force had presented her with further problems to untangle. For as much as she meant to bring the pair of lovers together, Francie had not the least idea how to do so.
The question currently worrying her was how much of Mary’s tale regarding Papa’s finances was truth and how much exaggeration. She had no doubt that her malleable sister had been led deliberately to believe the family’s straits far worse than they actually were. She knew precisely how much both her parents welcomed the alliance with the Spencers, and she also knew they would play upon Mary’s sweetness and gullibility to get what they wanted. It was a coil that would take longer than she wished to unwind, and though she desired nothing more than to set aside these problems and return to Norfolk, for some inexplicable reason, Francie desired nothing less than to have her friend come down to London.
Again she picked up the letter from Miss Dill. The hand was as thin and sparse as the author herself, the message as pragmatic. A picture of the very neat, very precise Agnes rose from the vellum. She was but a year or so older than Francie, but Agnes had never indulged in the follies of youth. Any chance remembrance of her younger years had been long suppressed. Perhaps this was why her colorless blond hair was already graying, and deep lines marked the edges of her wide mouth. Thinking of her sensible, yet pertinacious friend, a warm smile touched Francie’s lips.
The smile lingered as a light tap upon the door lifted her eyes from the page in her hand. It vanished upon perceiving the gentleman crossing the threshold.
That the disappearance of her smile annoyed Sir Thomas was evident in the flash of anger that turned his eyes nearly as dark a black as his glossy hair.
