Miss Francie's Folly

by Fran Baker

  “Ah—delighted to see me as always, Miss Hampton?” he drawled.

  The mockery that sat so strangely upon his strong face felt like a slap to Francie, and she tensed against the pang that shuddered through her. Extremely conscious of her unwanted response to his mere presence, she turned her head into the shadows and said tonelessly, “The family are gone to dine at Mrs. McLaughlin’s.”

  “I know,” he said.

  Her head whipped round at that, sending her loose red hair swaying, but his face, like his voice, was without expression. Why had he come?

  “Then you must know you should not be here, Sir Thomas. I am unchaperoned.”

  As if he did not hear her, the baronet drew farther into the dimly lit room. Francie tried not to react to his graceful movement, but even a she told herself he was but a man like any other, her pulse leapt. To cover her confusion, she straightened and busied herself with tying on her jean half-boots.

  “I have been trying to see you for days,” Sir Thomas remarked as he came to stand before her. “I wish to make my apologies for my behavior at Lady Rockhill’s ball.”

  “There is no need.” Francie darted a glance up at him, then, unable to resist, she added in honeyed tones, “You could not help yourself, I know.”

  His brow shot up, and he looked at her in puzzlement.

  She straightened and said primly, “Such flirtation has become so habitual with you, you cannot control it.”

  “One of these days, my dear Francie,” he said ominously, “I am going to have to play Petruchio to your Kate and teach you not to be such a shrew.” Her outraged intake of breath drew a low laugh from him as he stretched himself easily onto a chair opposite her. “In truth, Francie, I did not mean to kiss you in such a manner that night. But I excuse myself with the thought that if you did not have such a lovely ankle, I would not have kissed it.”

  “Do you call that an apology?” she snapped, rising.

  The letter, which had again dropped onto her lap, drifted to the floor. Sir Thomas eyed it casually, then more sharply as Francie bent almost guiltily to retrieve it.

  “Love letters, my dear?” he taunted.

  Refolding the missive, Francie threw him a scornful look. “It is from Miss Dill. Not that it’s the least concern of yours.”

  “Ah,” he drawled in a hateful voice. “I should have known. You would not receive love letters whilst Miss Dill is available to stand dragon.”

  “What do you mean by that?” she prodded. When he didn’t answer, she went on, “If you mean to begin another round of arguments, you will have to excuse me. I am not in the mood to listen to your ill-considered views.”

  Francie turned and strode for the door, but a forceful grip on her wrist detained her. Furious, she swung to face her captor. “Let me go!”

  “Come, Francie, I did not mean to argue further with you,” he said gently. “I’ll release you if you will stay to talk with me.”

  Even as her resolve to quit the room faded, Francie resisted. “I cannot see that we have anything to discuss.”

  The clasp about the cuff of her long sleeve tightened, then withdrew abruptly. As she watched Sir Thomas cross to the grate, Francie wondered wildly if he had detected the frenzied coursing of her pulse, if he had realized the violent effect he wrought upon her senses. His back to her, Spencer hoisted the iron poker and aggressively attacked the remains of the logs in the grate. His actions had a stiffness that was at variance with his usual athletic grace, and she stared at the back of his burgundy coat with wonder.

  He cast a hard glance at her over his broad shoulder and then returned his attention to stoking the fire, stating roughly, “I give you my word that there will be no repetition of my actions that night. I . . . regret them more fully than I can convey.”

  Francie’s mouth fell open. Sincerity was plain in his voice. But something else was hidden there, something she could not quite define. As she stood staring in bemusement, he deposited the poker in its stand with a clang and turned to face her. Even in the indistinct light cast by the few tapers of a single candelabrum, she could see that the cynical gleam had disappeared from his gaze. A slight lift of his heavy brow brought her lips together.

  “Very well, Sir Thomas. Your apology is accepted.” She spoke as if conferring a great honor. “And now I pray you will excuse me . . .”

  “But I won’t,” he countered. “Stay a moment, Francie—Miss Hampton, if you please.”

  He favored her with his most irresistible smile, but his eyes remained serious and his taut stance bespoke his determination to detain her. Whatever his reasons, it was clear Sir Thomas meant to speak with her. With a disgruntled sigh, Francie resumed her seat upon the sofa. He again took up his place across from her. For a time they eyed one another in a strained silence.

  Then on a sudden impulse Francie leaned forward, her translucent beauty outlined against the firelight as she burst out, “Why on earth are you claiming Mary for your wife?”

  “Can you not come to accept me for your brother-in-law?” he asked in a guarded reply.

  “No.”

  “Why do you disapprove so?”

  “Because you do not love her,” she said in all honesty. “And more, because she does not love you. One love might perhaps beget another, but where there is none between you, I fear your chance of success in this marriage to be slim indeed.”

  Sir Thomas made a careful study of his well-trimmed nails. Very slowly then he said, “I have already settled a vast deal of money upon your father, my dear.”

  The color fled from Francie’s face. So Mary had not exaggerated after all. Left speechless, Francie bent her head.

  “He was at point nonplus,” Sir Thomas explained quietly. Without looking up she was aware of his piercing scrutiny. She refused to meet his gaze, and after a time, he continued. “It is time I married. My mother fears she’ll not live to see the Spencer line continue. I do not seek a love match and want no wife to expect it. Your sister fully understands the reasons for our bargain.”

  Francie nodded dumbly. A shiver convulsed through her slim frame. Whatever could she do? The thought of Sir Thomas covering Papa’s debts made her feel sick.

  “Poor Mary,” she thought, belatedly realizing her thought had become a whisper. She raised her head in time to catch a flicker of pique traverse his face. But it fled so quickly before the inscrutable mask that settled there that Francie doubted she had seen it at all.

  “There could be an . . . alternative,” Sir Thomas said without expression.

  A sudden suspicion colored her eyes an opaque green, but she refrained from comment.

  “If you so dislike the idea of my marrying Miss Mary,” he went on, watching her intently, “we could resolve the matter easily enough.”

  “How?” she asked, her body stiffening with distrust. If he dared to offer Mary a Carte Blanche . . .

  He startled this unjust thought from her by suggesting in a careful tone, “Marry me instead, Francie.”

  “What!” She stared at him in stunned disbelief. Not in her wildest imaginings had she expected such an offer. She barely heard him as he bent forward to speak.

  “I am in need of a wife. Your family has need of my wealth. We could have an arrangement—”

  “An arrangement!” she broke in, fairly leaping to her feet. “Is that all you understand? Do you honestly believe that I would sell myself to you for the sake of—of your money?” she sputtered, her eyes sparking dangerously.

  He came lithely to stand before her. “No,” he replied. “But for the sake of your sister, I think you might.”

  “It is impossible,” she declared. She was trembling from head to foot now with a sickening rage. That he would offer for her in place of Mary as casually as one might change horses in a harness made her ill. She felt hot color climb her cheeks and struggled to control her anger. “I cannot believe you would suggest it. Love should bring two people together, Sir Thomas. But of course that is a notion beyond your com
prehension.”

  “Oh, I fully understand the state of love,” he bit back. “That hellish torture that you women employ to torment mankind! I removed myself from the list of eligible victims some time ago, my dear, and do not intend to offer myself up again. It is the honor of my name and my wealth that I am offering—”

  “Honor!” she cut in, then had the pleasure of seeing him flush. “It is clear to me, Sir Thomas, that three years’ time has done nothing to dim your arrogant conceit!”

  “And it is clear to me,” he returned though tight lips, “that it has done little to cure you of your intemperance!”

  “Oh, you dare to accuse me of intemperance!” she cried.

  “Yes, I do. You are self-indulgent to excess, caring for no one but yourself.”

  For a frozen instant they glared at one another, then Francie summoned up her poise and swept to the door. As she took hold of the handle, an imperative “Miss Hampton!” halted her.

  She pivoted stiffly. “Yes?”

  “You would not wish to chance losing your letter from your dear Miss Dill,” he said with heavy sarcasm.

  She stared with rigid hostility at his still-flushed face, then stretched out her hand to snatch the letter from his. About to exit, she paused.

  “Whyever must you mock her so?” she asked with a touch of sadness in her voice. “Agnes Dill has stood my friend for many years. I can think of no reason for you to hold her in dislike.”

  “No reason . . .” Sir Thomas echoed in a blank tone. He looked at her for a long moment as if she had suddenly acquired a second head, then recovered the practiced mask of cynicism and said with a hint of boredom, “You wrong me, my dear. I do not hold Miss Dill in dislike. I do not, in fact, hold Miss Dill in anything at all.”

  Francie stamped her foot. “Oh, you are insufferable!”

  She wrenched open the door and retreated to her room. It took her no little while to calm her raging pulses. Not only had the baronet insulted her friend, her family and herself, but he had also played upon her every weakness. Igniting the hot temper he knew she possessed, in flaming the desires he knew she could not deny. He was a scoundrel of the basest sort, and it disgusted Francie to consider that she had—for the barest moment, to be sure, but still she had—wanted very much to accept the terms of his suggested “arrangement.” She could not understand herself, and, it was obvious, she could no longer trust herself.

  By the time the rest of her family returned from Mrs. McLaughlin’s, Francie had the headache in earnest. She placed the blame solely upon Sir Thomas’s shoulders, for she had gone round and round their confrontation until her head whirled. Her greatest puzzlement came from his disclosure that he had removed himself as a “victim of love.” Had he meant he had done so before their betrothment ended or because of it? Sometimes she told herself fiercely she did not care a rap which it was, but at others she thought she would go mad if she did not discover the truth behind it.

  As she was trying unsuccessfully once more to shove these disturbing questions from her mind Mary slipped quietly into her darkened bedchamber.

  “Francie, dearest, are you feeling unwell?” she whispered.

  Longing to be alone, yet having no desire to be further beleaguered by her thoughts, she answered after a slight pause, “No. I still have the headache, that is all.”

  “Still? Oh, you poor thing,” her sister said in sympathetic tones. She came to Francie’s bedside. “Shall I prepare a tisane for you? Or perhaps fetch some of Mama’s laudanum?”

  “No, no,” Francie protested. “I have no wish to be physicked.”

  Mary hesitated, then at last perched herself on the edge of the bed. “As you wish, dear one.” She toyed with the pleated ruffles of her primrose gown before adding with forced casualness, “You did not tell me that you met with Mr. Harvey this afternoon.”

  Francie smiled into the night shadows. “No, I didn’t, and wonder therefore how you came to know of it.”

  “Lord Rockhill took ill this evening and his secretary attended Lady Rockhill in his stead,” Mary explained in a carefully neutral tone. “He was very much disturbed to discover you wandering in York Street unescorted, and truly, Francie, you know you should not have done so.”

  “Perhaps not,” Francie agreed, credibly managing to keep the amusement out of her voice. Mr. Harvey was, without doubt, she decided, the prosiest creature alive. “And beyond dissecting the follies of my behavior, did the pair of you discuss much else?”

  “We spoke a little of the shocking tale of Lord Byron and Claire Clairmont—but only in passing, for Mr. Harvey does not indulge in idle gossip. And you must not think that he paid me any particular attention, for he has too much sensitivity to expose me to any talk.”

  Mary’s speech was colored with her admiration. It was obvious that the estimable Mr. Harvey did not strike her in the least as dull. It occurred to Francie that only a woman deeply in love could overlook such a major flaw in his character.

  Shifting her weight, Francie propped herself up on her elbow and stared through the darkness at her sister. Choosing each word with care, she said in a voice not quite steady, “You cannot marry Sir Thomas, Mary. It is unfair to both of you to do so when your heart is bestowed elsewhere.”

  Mary’s head turned away, completely hidden behind the soft veil of her brown hair. “Please don’t hector me further on this subject,” she begged. “It cannot change my mind, and it serves only to inflict a pain I am sure you would not wish upon me.”

  Though she flinched at the gentle rebuke, Francie did not mean to give way. “He came here tonight while you were away.”

  “Sir Thomas? Here? Tonight?”

  “Yes. And he put forth a suggestion.” Francie’s voice hardened at the memory. “He thought perhaps it might suit if I were to become his wife in your stead.”

  “Oh.” Mary held her breath for a long instant, then inquired as she expelled it on a long sigh, “And what did you say?”

  “Say?” Francie repeated in some heat. “I told him it was impossible, of course.”

  “Oh,” Mary said again, this time with flat disappointment.

  Francie sat upright with a little flurry. “Dearest, you must see that it is impossible. Why, he insulted both of us by even suggesting such a thing. He does not offer his heart—if he has one, which I take leave to doubt—but only his name, his money.”

  “Both of which are considerable,” Mary returned with more spirit than was her wont. “I have tried to explain, time and again, but you willfully refuse to believe that Papa has landed us all into the River Tick.”

  Francie fell back onto her bed. Staring at the ceiling, she said tonelessly, “So Sir Thomas confirmed. But I will find a way clear for us without having to throw either of us into that man’s clutches.”

  Even in the darkness, Mary’s distress communicated itself clearly. Her lips trembled and her voice shook. “Why can you not see that it is Sir Thomas’s kindness that is saving our family? We owe him a debt of gratitude worth far more than Papa’s vowels, yet you heap nothing but scorn upon him. What have you become, Francie? You did not used to be such a cruel judge.”

  Francie’s astounded silence followed Mary’s impassioned speech, so unlike Mary’s timid nature that neither could find words. Then, with a smothered sob, Mary leapt up and ran from the room. Francie did not go after her, but continued to lie staring, unseeing, at the ceiling.

  The child her sister had been when Francie had removed to Norfolk had vanished. Mary was a woman now and it seemed, more of a woman than any of them had suspected. Sitting up, Francie drew her knees in to clasp them with her arms, and rested her chin on them, pondering whether she ought to cease interfering after all. Mary had made her choice and what right did Francie have to say it was right or wrong.

  Then she suddenly recalled Mary’s glowing tones in speaking of Mr. Harvey, and Francie knew without further doubt that it would be wrong to stand by and let her sister throw herself away, even for the good
of the family.

  Mary and Mr. Harvey had not, after all, had many opportunities to be together, to realize fully the depth of their regard for one another. Perhaps if they were thrown together more, the force of their own desires would convince them that they were meant for one another.

  Francie fell asleep while mentally composing a note inviting Mr. Frederick Harvey to take tea.

  Chapter 7

  “Humph! Er—that is to say,” Edward Hampton stammered gruffly as he sidled his rotund figure toward the door.

  Francie cut short his escape by wagging a finger under his bulbous nose. “Do not think to put me off, Papa. I mean to have it out of you. Just how much money have you received from Sir Thomas?”

  Mr. Hampton twisted his head, seeking a means of retreat from this unpleasant discussion. The curve of his chin settled farther into the folds of his cravat, and he fixed a longing gaze on the brandy decanter atop the sideboard. Like an untamed spirit, his eye darted on, sliding past Francie’s visage to run hither and t hither.

  “You wouldn’t care for a bit of breakfast, m’dear?” he offered as a condemned man pleading for a stay of execution.

  “Papa,” she rasped in a dangerously low tone.

  Sputtering now, he took a step back as she took one forward. “Well, well, I was badly dipped, you know, very badly dipped.”

  “How badly dipped, Father?” came the relentless demand.

  He halted, his back pressed against the striped wall of the breakfast room. Running a nervous hand through his thick gray mane and looking everywhere except at his oldest daughter, he supplied on a huff, “A matter of twenty thousand or so, my dear.”

  Twenty thousand! Francie blanched and froze, stripped of all power to move. Grabbing his opportunity, Mr. Hampton eased his bulk past her and departed, muttering something about his club as he went. She did not stop him. She did nothing, in fact, for the next several minutes. She had never dreamed of such a sum. How could it have happened?

  Sinking slowly into a chair, she propped her elbows on the oval table and covered her face in her hands, suppressing an hysterical gurgle of laughter. Twenty thousand! She had thought to offer her father what was left of her inheritance and now could only shake her head at her own foolishness. Her three thousand pounds would be more pocket-change to a man like Sir Thomas Spencer. Even if she sold the school—which, of course, she could never do—she could never cover such a sum.