“Have no concern, Mother. I am three-and-twenty and I know the facts of life well enough. Not that it really matters in this case.”
“Oh! I didn’t think…” reacted her mother, blushing and then joining in Frances’ laughter. “No, that was not what I came to talk to you about, although your Great Aunt Caroline was deeply concerned that she ought. I had to ward her off. That was what occupied me when you were saying goodbye to your sister and father.”
“Then what is it? We will see each other again soon enough, I am sure. We need not take an earnest leave, Mother.”
“I wanted to talk to you about men, Frances, well, husbands particularly, and the mistakes they sometimes make. The Duke of Westall seems such a kind and well-intentioned man. I should hate to see the two of you ever fall out over something small.”
“We have scarcely had time to learn one another’s full names, never mind have an argument,” Frances returned, amused.
“I know,” sighed her mother. “But I would rather say this to you now when your head is cool. You might hear me more clearly than some day in the future when your blood is boiling and you’re too angry to think.”
“Dear Mother, why should I be so angry with my new husband?”
“Because everyone is only human, Frances, men and women both. He will make mistakes, as will you, and I know how unforgiving you can be. Do try to understand before you judge, my darling girl. Life would be very lonely indeed if we cut off all the people we loved over the smallest of differences.”
Now Frances sighed. Her mother was really talking about her attitude to her father. Lady Scovell imagined that Frances had taken against him for some trivial reason or out of extended adolescent pique. She could not tell her mother that Lord Scovell’s offense was far from trivial and that his wife was actually the person he had betrayed the most…
“I shall remember all that you say, Mother,” Frances replied solemnly and kissed her mother again, this time on the forehead. “Be assured that I intend the Duke of Westall and I to be the best of friends.”
And nothing more than friends, Frances added to herself…
Chapter Ten
Frances was now the Duchess of Westall and all this was hers, she reflected again with some incredulity as she looked over the rich furnishings, paintings and ornaments throughout her suite at Westall Park. She had to keep reminding herself of this fact, or she might think herself in a peculiar dream.
“Did all these beautiful things belong to the last Duchess of Westall?” Frances asked Mrs. Betsworth, the black-dressed and bustling housekeeper who had been more than happy to show her around Westall Park that afternoon.
“No, this suite has been unoccupied and empty since the former Duke and Duchess of Westall died, God rest their souls,” said the housekeeper. “The present duke’s first wife died years before that, of course, so she was never Duchess of Westall, and never lived here, although she often visited.”
“Oh, of course,” acknowledged Frances, vaguely aware of Ambrose’s history in outline. “There is some fine furniture in here, whoever chose it.
“All the present furnishings came down from the attic storage rooms and I chose them myself,” Mrs. Betsworth replied, smiling at the implied praise in Frances’ words. “You are not bound to keep any of it, naturally. The duke wishes you to make yourself at home here, Your Grace.”
Frances blinked to hear herself addressed in such a style and then smiled again. The thought of having rooms of her own pleased her but reorganizing or refurnishing was several steps further ahead than she had yet reached. Nor did she yet know how she should go about these things in practical terms. Mrs. Betsworth seemed to detect such feelings.
“The present duke’s mother liked French furnishings, and his grandmother had the sitting room filled with military memorabilia and paintings of dogs,” the housekeeper told her. “You will also find a way to make this place your own, in time, I am sure.”
“In time, yes,” Frances agreed with a laugh. “I shall give myself a few weeks or months before I attempt it, I think. At present, I possess neither French furniture nor any paintings of dogs, although I do have a sketch that my younger sister Beatrice made of her pony.”
How out of place that homely little sketch would look hung here! The immensity and grandeur of Westall Park were almostoverwhelming, but the warm welcome of Mrs. Betsworth and other staff thankfully offset some of this weight.
The Duke of Westall too had been kind, letting her wander freely without him as soon as they arrived early in the evening. Frances had explored hand in hand with dear little Winifred until the child was taken away to bed by a governess and nursemaid. After that, she had strolled about alone or with Mrs. Betsworth.
Now the housekeeper consulted the watch that hung on a belt at her waist.
“Half an hour until dinner, Your Grace,” she pronounced. “I shall go downstairs and send Nettie up to help you change to an evening gown.”
“Yes, thank you,” replied Frances, glad to be reminded of the name of her new lady’s maid and trying to fix it in her mind.
Susie, who had been her maid at Scovell Hall, had stayed there. She would now attend Beatrice who would soon be eighteen and ready to come out herself.
“Do ring for me if you need anything else, Your Grace.”
“That was a fine dinner,” Frances remarked as the pudding plates were removed and trusting that her comments would reach the deserving cooks. “My compliments to the kitchen.”
“We do have an excellent cook,” Ambrose acknowledged, equally pleasantly. “Mrs. Oliver has been here since my grandfather’s time. Eventually, I suppose she will retire but I try not to think of it.”
They smiled at one another, having managed to keep up a flow of similarly light and easy conversation throughout the meal.
