A Love Laid Bare (8 page)

“I would wish happiness for you, child,” Olivia said
softly, turning her hand to grasp Frances’ fingers.

“Children will make me content,” Frances said,
injecting firmness into her voice, “and that will be enough.”

Olivia voiced her doubt with a simple, “umm,” but
refrained from further comment. She released Frances, finished her
coffee, and rose. “Go tend to your packing. I expect your husband
to arrive soon and having to wait won’t sweeten his temper.”

“He is indeed a punctual man,” Frances agreed, and
stood. She was not prone to tardiness, but children often waylaid
the best of plans. “I’ve but a few remaining items to gather.”

“Frances. One more thing, before you go.” Olivia’s
voice was strained. “Do you plan to continue the network?”

Frances met Olivia’s intent gaze straightly. “Yes, I
am going to try. It is too important to stop. I expect it to be
more difficult, but with Thomas Blount’s help it can be done.”

“Will you tell Halcombe?”

Frances felt her face harden. “No. It is making a
difference, if purely in a small way, and I cannot depend upon his
approval.” She would only bend so far. This she would not give up.
“Besides, I have no intention of completely foregoing my business,
and it and the network are entwined to such an extent it would be
difficult
not
to gather information. Why should I not pass
it along?”

Olivia nodded her approval. “If Charles or I can be
of any assistance, you have but to ask.”

“I know it, Aunt.” Frances fought to keep her voice
even. “I don’t believe it will be necessary. You are to go and
enjoy your visit with Charles’ family. You have already done so
much for me. It is time you thought of yourself.”

“Nonsense. Having you and Flora with me more than
makes up for any trifling service I’ve given you.” Olivia sniffed.
“Now if you are finished being maudlin, I will take Flora
downstairs while you tend to whatever it is you need to do.”

“Yes, Aunt,” Frances said in a meek voice, but gave
her a hug and a whispered, “thank you,” before she moved away. She
went into her bedchamber and Flora ran over to greet her with her
favourite doll clutched in one hand.

“Mama!” She tugged on Frances’ skirt. “Up, Mama.”

“Up, please,” Frances said. She smiled, but waited
until Flora echoed her words.

“Up, p’ease.” Flora held up her arms.

Frances laughed as she lifted her and settled her on
one hip. “That is close enough, I suppose. Are you ready to go
bye-bye?”

“Baby go bye-bye.” Flora held up her doll. “See
cows!”

Smoothing the loose tendrils of hair from her
forehead, Frances shook her head. “No cows today, pet. Horses will
have to do.”

“Horses,” Flora crowed and wiggled to get down.

Holding the squirming child firmly, Frances sat on
the end of the bed and pulled her into her lap. “We are going in a
big coach today, and you need to be a good girl. Your father is not
accustomed to children, so you must try not to make too much
noise.”

Flora stared at her, caught by her mother’s serious
tone, but the reference to her father meant nothing. How could it,
when she had seen him only once? But she knew “good girl”, and she
patted Frances’ cheek. “I good, Mama.”

Frances looked into those guileless eyes, as blue as
her father’s, and sighed. Flora was a well-behaved little girl most
of the time, but being shut up in any kind of conveyance for long
periods of time tried the patience of any child, not to mention
their parents.

“I know you will.” Frances set her on her feet and
looked at Nancy, who was closing the last trunk.

“Thank you, Nancy. Please take Flora to Mrs. Blake,
and if you have all your things ready, send for someone to get this
trunk. You can wait downstairs. I will be along soon.” She turned
to her daughter. “Auntie is waiting for you, pet.”

Flora, who adored Olivia, dashed off without giving
her mother a second glance. Frances exchanged a resigned smile with
the nursemaid, who bobbed a curtsey and hurried after her charge.
Flora was extremely attached to Nancy, and Frances was grateful she
had been willing to come with them to England. Nancy had resided in
Portugal since she was a babe in arms—her widowed mother was
Olivia’s housekeeper.

Frances glanced around to make sure nothing had been
forgotten, but all was in order. Nothing but her correspondence
remained. She opened the lap desk she had brought from Portugal.
Several pens were neatly slotted into a recess fitted onto the lid.
A vial of sand, some sealing wax and ink were tucked in a corner.
The ink she set aside to leave here, not wanting to risk having it
spill out and ruin the wood. She picked up the folder lying inside,
studied it thoughtfully, and then slipped it into a small bag to
join those items that needed to be accessible on the journey.

Once they arrived at the Manor she planned to send
for Rose Blount. Then they would have a plausible link to Clifftop
through her son, Thomas. He had the contacts with the fishermen—and
others—who would carry the letters across the channel. Even though
some of her sources were free to send letters quite legitimately,
this correspondence could not come openly to her home. Frances was
not ready to share this enterprise with Richard yet, but someday,
perhaps. Supposing, of course, that he ever forgave her and a time
came when he no longer hated her.

Did
he hate her? Hate was such a strong word.
Frances absently ran her fingers over the rough material of the
bag. She did not hate him, had never done so, even when faced with
the unmistakable evidence of his infidelity.
Forgiveness is
another matter, isn’t it, Frances? You think you have put it aside,
accepted infidelity as something to expect in a marriage? What will
you do if the affair continues?

Truth to tell, she did not know.

The post chaise had arrived. Frances was so informed
as soon as she descended the stairs into the lobby. Charles Reede
was there to greet her and escort her to the door.

“Mrs. Blake is outside, with Flora and Nancy—and Lord
Halcombe, who appears rather impatient, although I believe you are
beforehand of the appointed time.”

“Halcombe will be anxious to leave as early as
possible, since he intends to make the journey in one day,” Frances
said. A post chaise. He had realized the larger vehicle was needed
to accommodate all of them. Was he planning to ride in the chaise,
or drive his curricle? Frances felt a moment of dread.
Please
heaven, let it be the curricle
. Spending an entire day in such
close proximity with her husband was not anything to wish for.

“You’ve a long day ahead and I hope for everyone’s
well-being Flora sleeps much of the way,” Charles said. “I am
surprised you will be taking the time to call on the dowager
Halcombe.”

Frances gave him a quizzical look. “The truly amazing
thing is that the dowager agreed to see us at this hour. Leticia is
inclined to stay abed of a morning.”

“Like you, I don’t suppose the earl gave her any
choice.” Charles halted just outside the entrance, turned to face
her, and enfolded both her hands between his. “I admit to some
uneasiness with this entire situation. I want your word that you
will enlist our aid should the circumstances become untenable.”

The warmth in his eyes was shadowed with concern.
Frances felt her throat close.

“I promise. Thank you,” she whispered. She disengaged
from his grasp and hurried toward the chaise. Halcombe waited by
the vehicle, watching as one of the hotel footmen assisted Nancy
inside. Flora was jumping up and down with excitement. Frances
suspected that without Aunt Olivia’s tight grip, the child would
dash over to the horses.

Her mood lightened by her daughter’s enthusiasm—and
by the sight of the curricle parked behind the chaise—Frances
greeted Halcombe agreeably, lifted Flora, and undaunted by her
husband’s stony silence, smiled at her aunt.

“Say good-bye to Auntie, pet.”

Flora leaned forward and placed a sloppy kiss on
Olivia’s cheek. “Bye-bye. Kiss?” She tilted her head and waited
expectantly.

Olivia smiled and returned the child’s kiss. Flora
giggled, and taking advantage of this good humour, Frances handed
her up to Nancy.

Annoyed at the impatience evident on her husband’s
face, Frances suppressed the urge to invent some kind of delay, and
after giving her aunt a brief hug, allowed the footman to hand her
up the steps. Once seated, Frances leaned out the open door. “Thank
you for everything,”

Aunt Olivia’s face was almost as stolid as
Halcombe’s. “Write to me,” she said briskly. She gave the earl a
pointed look and walked quickly to where Charles Reede waited with
commendable patience—and the special smile he reserved for
Olivia.

Frances smiled to herself. Aunt Olivia was a
fortunate woman. This long visit with Charles’ family might be what
was needed to bring her aunt to acknowledge what she surely must
suspect—that she loved Charles. Now if Charles could bring himself
to the point, they might be planning a wedding by the end of the
summer. Frances certainly prayed so.

She put Flora on her lap so she could watch the
passing scene. Smelly and clamorous as the city was, it was better
to have Flora entertained while possible. In any case, it was not
far to the Halcombe town house—a place Frances had never before
seen. In fact, this was her first time in London, and she was sorry
that she had not had time to see something of the city. They halted
before a tall, stoned-faced building, one of a row that lined three
sides of a quiet square.

Frances stepped down onto the wide pavement. “You can
wait here, Nancy,” she said, reaching for Flora. “I don’t believe
we will be long.”

“I will take her.”

The hand Halcombe laid on her shoulder was as
startling as his firm statement. Frances spun around and was gently
moved aside. “She is not used to strangers. She may not come to
you,” Frances said in a low voice that conveyed none of her
apprehension.
Why in heaven did he choose to do this now, when
Flora was experiencing so much that was unfamiliar?
Frances did
not
want to meet his mother with a crying child in hand.
Shifting nervously, her breath short, she was ready to intercede at
the first sign of a tear.

“But I am not a stranger,” Halcombe said in a manner
that relayed his calm conviction that his daughter instinctively
knew him. He waited for Nancy to help Flora onto the top step, put
his hands around her tiny waist, and settled her in his arms.
“Hello, Flora. I see you have another pretty dress today.”

Her face scrunched up, Flora eyed him warily. “Pretty
dress,” she repeated. She pointed one stubby finger at his chest.
“You.”

Halcombe hesitated.

“Father. My name is Father,” he said, and smiled.

Frances’ breath eased. His smile was sincere and
Flora smiled back.

“Fa…der.”

“That will do. Now, it is time you were introduced to
your grandmother.” He glanced at Frances. “You are ready?”

“Of course.” She picked up her skirts and moved to
walk beside him, then, her voice very soft, said “Thank you.”
For being so caring—and careful. How could you have thought
anything else of him, Frances? Sometimes you are an absolute
idiot
.

***

Did Frances think he would harm the child? Halcombe
had not missed the worry in his wife’s eyes.
Does she fear you
will blame the child for the parent’s transgressions? Damn it!
Surely she knows you better than that.

Did she
? The question niggled in his head as
he automatically responded to his mother’s butler. Mason knew they
were expected, and no doubt why. The servants seemed always to be
aware of these things. He could only trust that news of Frances’
return had not yet spread outside this house.

“Lord Halcombe, Lady Halcombe, if you will follow me?
Lady Halcombe is in the small salon.” Mason gave Flora a quick
perusal and she stared back at him with bright-eyed interest, a
frank curiosity that put two spots of colour on the man’s
cheeks.

Unabashedly amused by Mason’s discomfort— the man was
as stiff-necked and pretentious as the dowager—Halcombe walked past
him. “I know where it is, Mason. No need to announce us.” Such
informality would further annoy his mother, and to describe
Leticia’s horror at the entire situation was a monumental
understatement. When he told her earlier of Frances’ return, along
with a child, he had feared she might succumb to apoplexy, so
furious was she.

The dowager’s expression of cold detachment was
exactly what Halcombe had expected. He allowed that she had reason
to dislike the situation. Leticia thrived on scandal, as long as it
was of someone else’s making. Regarding this affair, however, she
would be wise to put a good front on it. To do otherwise would
reflect badly on her.

“Mother.”

Leticia was seated regally in a high-backed chair,
her expression as disapproving as a queen faced with a disobedient
subject. Halcombe’s glance at Frances, pacing beside him, caught
the glimmer of humour in her eyes. He suspected his mother was not
going to find
this
Frances as easy to cow as his young
bride—a suspicion confirmed when Frances moved forward, dropped a
brief curtsey, and said amicably, “You are looking well, Mother
Halcombe.”

Appearing much like she had just swallowed a very
sour lemon, Leticia slowly raised her lorgnette and surveyed her
daughter-in-law from bonnet to boots. “Humph. You appear rather
peaked, which I suppose can be attributed to these uncommon
escapades of yours.”

“I daresay,” Frances said with a slight arch of her
brows.

Halcombe set Flora on her feet and held her hand. “I
would like you to meet your granddaughter, Flora…”