FRAN PRESSED HER BUSTLE INTO THE DOOR, EFFECTIVELY barricading it with her body should he forcibly try to enter. The door shuddered briefly at her back, reminding her that similar shudders ran through her body. What had just happened? She pressed her fingers to her lips, feeling the swell of them.
Certainly, she’d been kissed before. Randolph kissed her twice before he left for Germany. One could not have been in love without that gentle exchange of trust and devotion. But there was nothing gentle about Bedford’s kiss. This was a kiss of passion the likes she could not have foreseen. It was demanding, consuming, powerful.
What did it mean when one felt the titillating vibrations of a kiss past the portals of decency and all the way to her core? She could feel the sensation still, humming with an intensity that made her feel incomplete, as if her body required something more.
The wood stilled at her back, allowing a calm to replace the rush of sensation she’d fled from earlier. A gentle, yet heady, refrain began to bubble inside her, until it bloomed on her lips.
It worked!
The guidance provided by the journal worked! Be it the powder, the perfume, or the advertisement afforded by her lack of covering, it worked!
Bless you, Madame Aglionby—she sent a silent prayer skyward—for providing a means to direct my destiny. With the journal’s help, she should be with child in no time. A gentleman would never resist his wife’s desire to have her baby in her home country. Her father had already negotiated the issues of schools. She’d have to spend some time in England, but now at least she had the means to minimize her stay.
Of course, she’d have to be more careful about applying these valuable principles of seduction in a public venue. Just the suggestion had almost cost her the services of Mary. The prospect of living among strangers was daunting enough. She needed Mary’s support and friendship if she was to keep her head above the fray.
She crossed the room to retrieve the abandoned fichu and proceeded to attach the linen piece and anchor it inside her jacket. She was just checking her appearance in the mirror when Mary returned from her errands.
Mary glanced at her then smiled. “Pleased to see you’ve come to your senses, miss.”
“About that, Mary. I think it would be wise for all concerned if you addressed me as ‘Your Grace’ or ‘madam’ henceforth. I suppose I need to adjust to the sound of it and bid ‘Miss Winthrop’ adieu.”
Mary’s smile broadened and a bit of relief registered in her eyes. “If it pleases you, Your Grace.”
AS EXPECTED, THE RAIN HAD DISCOURAGED THE PREDICTED crowds and the newly married couple was able to begin their journey without ceremony. In order to catch the train that would take them to the Grand Central Depot in New York City, they had to first take a short ferry ride to Wickford, Rhode Island. A carriage would then convey them to the docks where the SS
Republic
waited. Even though the trip to New York would have been shorter on the Fall River steamer, Fran supported Bedford’s preference of the train, believing as she did in procrastination as it related to their eventual destination.
Fran clutched a satchel that contained her writing implements, two small volumes she hoped to translate on the transatlantic crossing, the tome of lineage that Bedford decreed she learn, and the courtesan’s journal. The trip on the ferry proved a bit difficult. The deck chairs were too wet to use, due to the recent rain. Fran found a chair in the first-class stateroom and tried to busy herself with her translations so as to discourage conversation from any other passengers. Bedford, however, stationed himself along the rail and stared at the horizon.
She thought he looked a tad pale when they departed the vessel, but didn’t comment. Although she had limited experience with the male gender, she had noted that such observations regarding the unseating by a horse, a missed swing of a polo mallet, or insufficient sea legs were rarely appreciated.
Bedford had brought stacks of congratulatory telegrams from family, tenants, political organizations, employees, and friends. Once they had boarded the private parlor car, he used those to quiz her on her knowledge of family. It was tedious and tiring, especially when combined with the rhythmic sway of the railcar.
“What ho!” he exclaimed, after opening an envelope. “This one is from Queen Victoria herself.” He glanced at her, pride radiating from his face. “We are truly honored.”
“That’s lovely.” Fran smiled, without attempting to match the Duke’s enthusiasm. She noted his reaction to the Queen’s telegram certainly exceeded his response to the formal congratulatory note sent by President Rutherford B. Hayes. The British seemed to place much greater importance on these trivial formalities.
His face paled when he read the next telegram. “It’s from Bertie.” He glanced at her. “Prince Albert Edward. He wishes to meet you.”
Fran thought she might have been introduced to him once, though those introductions quickly became blurred in her memory. “That’s nice of him.”
“Too soon, too soon,” Bedford muttered shaking his head. He picked up some sheets of paper and searched for a pen. “We won’t be ready.”
He lapsed into his list making without conferring further with Fran. She pleaded a headache and retired to the private sleeping car.
It was an excuse to escape, of course. The lineage assignment held no real interest or challenge. Bedford certainly encouraged her to rest, so she took advantage—and brought her courtesan’s journal with her.
UNDER THE TUTELAGE OF FATIMA, THE DEMAND FOR Bridget’s company increased and her entries became less frequent. She grew fatigued by the physical demands made of her person and, in order to keep those requests minimal, began to engage her patrons in conversations.
At first, she bantered lightly about the arts, but she found that frustrating as few of her patrons cared a fig about anything more than the art of pleasuring them. She began asking them questions, at first about what pleased them, and then about other topics—their family, their occupation, even their politics. She kept track of her questions and some of their responses in the journal, which gave Fran a chuckle.
The important discovery to Bridget was that her patrons not only purchased her time to advance these discussions but, in many instances, regarded her as a complete person and not just a convenient vessel. Some of the men even asked her what would give her pleasure. Unfortunately, Bridget didn’t provide details to that issue, much to Fran’s chagrin. She would have liked to know that answer herself.
Bridget’s popularity increased and Fatima noticed. She announced the time had come for Bridget to find a patron who would want her services exclusively. To draw such a gentleman’s attention, she advised Bridget to determine her most attractive attribute and mark the spot with a beauty mark. Without fail, the eye would be drawn to the desired location reminding the gentleman of her charms, while her mode of dress would advise of her availability. Bridget’s conversation skills and education, combined with this reminder of her beauty, should make her highly desirable.
Highly desirable . . . Fran closed the journal, wondering what that would feel like. She knew she was highly desirable because of her father’s offered dowry, but what would it be like to be highly desirable because of one’s self? She wondered what charm Bridget would choose to accentuate with a beauty mark. If Bridget had Fran’s face and form, what charm would she choose, if any?
Fran picked up an ornate hand mirror and critically scrutinized her face. Bedford had said he liked her eyes and nose, but he seemed to spend extra attention to her lips. She knew that he appreciated her chest when it was thrust before him. That memory brought a smile.
It’s a shame that her chest wasn’t closer to her eyes and nose; then all her charms could be concentrated in one place. She tilted the hand mirror sweeping from chest to face and back. Perhaps if her neck wasn’t so unusually long, she’d be considerably more attractive.
The sound of movement on the vestibule between cars alerted her to imminent arrival of another. Probably Mary coming to help her dress for dinner. Good. She could help her with this issue of charms.
“Do you think my neck is overly long?” she asked when the door opened to the sleeping car.
“Is that possible?” a deep male voice answered, sending tingling vibrations down her spine. She adjusted the position of the hand mirror to see Bedford behind her. “A neck is after all a neck, is it not?”
She swirled around to face him. Embarrassment at being discovered in such a narcissistic endeavor sent heat to her face.
“But I would say that yours is a particularly elegant neck, much like that of a swan.”
He reached out and drew a finger down the length of her neck. Her lids lowered almost in imitation of his. She imagined he could feel her quickened pulse through the tips of his fingers. However, almost immediately he withdrew his fingers and stepped back, shifting uncomfortably before her.
“I thought you were resting, but I see you’ve been reading.” He started to reach for the journal on the bed, but she grabbed the book and pressed it to her chest before he could examine it. One quizzical brow raised, but she didn’t offer an explanation. “I’ve come to see if you felt up to the public dining car.”
She could well imagine all those strange faces gazing at them in the public car. Just the thought raised gooseflesh on her arms. “A private meal, if you please.”
“Private it shall be then.” He narrowed his eyes and glanced down the length of her. “Are you feeling well? Queasy, perhaps? I’m told that happens. I can request a light fare, if that would help.”
Obviously he had mistaken her sudden flush upon his arrival to the onset of illness. She smiled, preferring his interpretation to the truth. “I feel fine, though I appreciate your query.”
She waited for him to leave, but he hesitated a moment before pointing toward her chest. “What are you reading that has so captured your interest?”
This was difficult. She couldn’t very well disclose that she was studying a woman of the sporting nature because she obviously hadn’t the basic knowledge of seduction that most seemed to have been born with. In the recesses of her mind, she could still hear the taunt of “Frosty Franny.” Even the press had recognized her deficiencies. Embarrassment burned a path up her neck, causing her to be grateful that she was wearing the fichu. It hid the resulting flush from his eye.
“It’s a German childrens’ tale,” she lied. “I translate them into English,” she added, hoping the part truth would mitigate the lie.
Interest sparked his eyes. “Amazing. I had not suspected that of you.” He gestured that she should sit on the bed. “Tell me about the story.”
She complied, though that was not her wish. She’d prefer he was in the other railcar, not seated on the opposite end of the bed. Granted it was her plan to lure him here eventually, but she wasn’t prepared. Not yet. She hadn’t dressed appropriately nor had she determined her best features.
“It’s the story of a little girl whose most prized toy is a ball of pure gold.” She improvised with the story most fresh in her memory. He nodded his head encouraging her to continue. “Her father has warned her to be careful, but she loses the ball in the bottom of a deep pond.”
“Are there illustrations?” he asked, gesturing to the book.
“Oh . . . no, there are none.” She slipped the journal behind her, out of sight. “Just the story . . . in German.” She hoped he wasn’t fluent in the language. If he asked to see the book she’d be hard-set to comply.
“One would think, for a child’s story, there would be an interest in illustrations,” he said, apparently disappointed. “My brother, you know, is an exceptional artist. Now that he has a child, I wonder his thoughts on the subject.”
“I would think illustrations would be a wonderful idea,” she said. Strange to think of Bedford having a family and to hear a sort of yearning in his voice when he spoke of children. She hadn’t thought to ask him his thoughts on family, so much of their conversations had been her lack of appropriate grace, her lack of appropriate etiquette, and recently her lack of appropriate fashion.
“You shall meet him soon enough. In his congratulatory telegraph he said he was anxious to make your acquaintance and reassure you that first impressions can be deceiving, though I’m not sure what he meant by that.” He frowned. “I’ve asked him to join us at Deerfeld as I need to speak to him about some urgent matters that require his . . . unique knowledge.”
She nodded, curious about his brother and envious of the way Bedford’s tone changed when he spoke of him. The affection was apparent. What would it be like to have had a brother or sister with which to share stories and experiences, with which to share long, lonely hours?
“I know that newly married couples traditionally go on a honeymoon of sorts, but I’m afraid with Bertie’s imminent arrival there just isn’t time. There’s much to be done and Nicholas can be of assistance.”
She assumed this was his way of suggesting she would have to find her own way in this new household, that he would be unavailable. She was well experienced with the concept of alone. That did not concern her nearly as much as this grand reception for the Prince Regent. As hostess, she would again be placed on public display.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy meeting Nicholas’s wife and child.” He managed to smile in that particular way that set her rib cage aflutter, reminding her of her own need to advance her impregnation efforts. “What happened to the little girl when it was discovered the ball was lost?” He tilted his head, looking both earnest and concerned. One would think they were discussing the Indian wars or the women’s suffrage movement, serious issues of the day, not the Frog King. His brows lowered. “Was she punished?”
His face held such a rapt expression of fear and curiosity that she wondered briefly if he had experienced harsh punishments as a child. Perhaps this too was another thing they had in common. But the sentiment was lost in the novel sensation of a man so engaged in her words. Especially as the subject matter was an innocent children’s story.