“Youwalkedfrom the tearoom?” Catherine gasped. “Why didn’t you instruct me to order the cakes?”
Frances shrugged. “Because we were passing and the thought came to me, and I wanted to just get it off my list of things to do.” Her jaw clenched. “I love my sisters dearly, but, despite the rain, I was rather glad of the peace. That walk was the calmest I have felt since I returned. It is not their fault, of course, but I wish I had taught them to be more… independent of me.”
“I’m so sorry, Franny,” Catherine said, using the name she only dared to speak on occasion, though Frances had often insisted on informality.
“It cannot be helped,” Frances murmured in reply. “I had the choice not to come back early, and I… did my duty instead. Besides, imagine how the situation would be if I wasnothere. I daresay my father would have ridden to Alderwick and dragged me back in the end.”
She mustered a laugh, but it echoed hollow, her strength threadbare.
“I feel as if I am drowning, Cathy,” she rasped, her eyes stinging with tears that she would not permit to fall, giving herself every excuse for their emergence: she was tired, she was grumpy, she was soaked through and freezing, she had not eaten, she likely would not sleep much tonight…
Anything but the true reason, that haunted every spare second that she had to herself. Lying in bed at night, she thought of him. When pausing to sip some tea, she thought of him. In the five minutes she stole to be alone in her hideaway pergola, shethought of him. When she heard something funny, it was him she wanted to tell.
“And I am becoming so… bitter,” she added hoarsely. “No one did any of this for me when I debuted. Why am I running around like a madwoman when Ishouldlet them figure it out, as I did? I know it is my duty as the eldest but, goodness, it is hard sometimes. And when Juliet and Lucinda are married, what then? What life will I have here? The best I can expect is that my father will make a match for me with someone, so I can do the same thing in someone else’s household, and take care of my father when he is older.”
Catherine rocked forward and put her arms around Frances, holding her tightly; the very thing Frances had not known she needed until that moment.
“I’m so sorry, Franny,” her friend murmured. “I wish I could say that it will all be over tomorrow, after the first ball, but we both know that’s not true.”
“Exactly. It will only get worse, and if I make one mistake, if I miss one thing in someone’s diary, it will all be my fault. All the tireless good I have done will mean nothing,” Frances whispered back, her chest so tight that she could not breathe properly. “I was… free, Cathy. At Alderwick, I was… free in a way I have not been for years.”
At times, when thinking of Dominic, she did not know if it was the experience at Alderwick or Dominic himself that she missed. They were so entwined that she doubted she could everbe certain. Did she love the freedom or did she love… No, it was not love. If it were love, she would not have left. If it were love, she would be somewhere else in Mayfair right now, at his townhouse, excited for Harriet’s debut, excited about life itself.
Love would be impossible with him.In their world, love could not exist without marriage, and he would never remarry. Nor did she know if he felt anything for her beyond appreciation. After all, he had not written, he had not sent word that he might visit; he had probably forgotten her already, missing only what she had been able to do for his daughter.
“I am going to take a nap,” she announced, as she pulled away from Catherine and rose to her feet. “If anyone asks for me, tell them I am still walking back from the tearoom.”
Catherine nodded. “I will, my lady.”
“Thank you, Cathy.” Frances sighed. “I truly do not know what I would do without you.”
She had made it just a few steps up the staircase when Catherine called out to her, “A parcel came for you while you were out. I didn’t know what to do with it, and I didn’t want to leave it lying around for your sisters to inspect, so I put it in your room.” She hesitated. “It’s rather large.”
“A parcel for me?” Frances glanced back at her friend, frowning.
She racked her brain, trying to remember if she had ordered something for herself, but nothing sprang to mind. Nor could she think of anyone who would send her something, for it was not as if she had time for friends.
Puzzled, Frances mustered the last of her strength to hurry up the stairs and across the landing, straight into her bedchamber. Realizing she was shaking with something akin to anxiety, she closed the door behind her and took a breath, searching the room for the supposed parcel.
It was there on the table by the window, a large rectangular box wrapped in brown paper.
Something from my father?
She approached as if it might bite, her eyes narrowing as she read the name and address on the front. Her name. Her address. No mistake.
It had been a very long time since she had opened a parcel, her fingertips all flustered and clumsy as she tore apart the brown paper to reveal an elegant box beneath. In curling black letters, a familiar name leaped out at her from the top of the box:Madame Jonquille. A delicate print of a daffodil curved over the name.
“What on earth?” Frances whispered, as she tentatively lifted the lid.
Her heart seemed to jump into her throat as her eyes took in the liquid-like sheen of Dhaka muslin, the color shifting from sea-green to silver to dusky pink and back again, depending on how the low light of her bedchamber caught it. An exquisite, gossamer top layer, fashioned on a bottom layer of cream silk that would not interfere with the muslin’s absolute perfection. The hem and neckline were bordered with golden trim, while delicate clusters of beads added weight and delicate embellishment.
It was the single most beautiful gown Frances had ever seen.
And, according to the small square of card in the box, it was all hers.
Lady Frances,
Something that is all your own, to make up for all the gowns you did not buy.
