Frances thought and shook her head.
“No, Ambrose seemed angry about it more than anything else and said that the writer was no friend of his and never had been. He had the letter returned to sender straight away. What would you make of that?”
“Well, it was so obviously from another woman,” Lydia said, taking another mouthful of strawberry ice-cream. “The question is whether there is anything between them.”
“I do not think so. He said that it was inappropriate for her to write to him,” Frances added. “Apparently it was the same woman Ambrose was trying to avoid at the ball on the night we met. I think I believe him.”
“But did you see anything of what was actually in the letter?”
“No, I only know that it made Ambrose unhappy, whatever it was. I was angry too, even though I didn’t read it. Or maybe it was Ambrose who made me angry. I don’t really know.”
“You should be angry if your husband has another woman!” insisted Lydia a little too loudly, waving her spoon for emphasis.
“He does not!” Frances insisted after hushing her friend and looking around to check that neither Henry nor anyone else appeared to be listening.
Aside from Lydia’s brother and the blonde woman, no one else was within easy earshot. The latter seemed to be paying them no attention, only reading her newspaper with absorption and making some notes with a pencil in a little book. In any case, her neat but functional dress told of her social class and made her unlikely to know anyone in their circles.
“If she writes again, you must ask to read it,” Lydia told Frances decidedly. “That way, you can be more certain whether he is telling the truth.”
“You are the one who is uncertain, not I,” demurred Frances. “I do not believe that Ambrose was lying to me. Nor am I sure that I should be demanding to read his mail. After all, I did not show him the letter from Oswald Keeton, did I? I threw it straight in the fire.”
“Ugh, I am not surprised. Any decent-minded woman might have done the same without thinking. You should still tell the Duke of Westall directly of Lord Mulford’s inappropriateconduct, though. He can protect you, remember. Nor will it look good if he ever finds out through other means, and maybe suspects you of encouraging it.”
Her arms folded, Frances hugged herself, wishing that it was as easy as Lydia seemed to imply. Unfortunately, confessing one thing might require confessing another and then another. Before she knew it, her whole soul might be bared and weeping. She wanted the protection that Ambrose might offer, but could not ask for it. Where might such things lead..?
“I will think again if Lord Mulford persists,” Frances offered. “It may be that this was his final sally and he will now give up. After all, he doesn’t even like me. Why should a man pursue a woman only to torment her? I have never understood it.”
“Some people are very twisted,” advised Lydia, as if she knew anything of such things beyond the scandal sheets, her own family all being thoroughly straightforward and normal, if a little over-obsessed with horses. “Anyway, let us hope that neither of these misguided people write again.”
Frances nodded emphatically.
“That is certainly my own hope. I would rather be able to focus on other things like raising Winifred and getting to know Westall Park…”
“…and getting to know that handsome husband of yours,” Lydia suggested with a giggle. “Forget all these poisonous letters, Ihave been dying to ask whether you stuck to your resolution about not sharing a bed?”
Slightly embarrassed but glad to move on from talk of Oswald Keeton, Frances nodded, her admission only generating another guffaw from her friend.
“Oh no! I can’t believe it, Frances. I assumed you would change your mind and be able to tell me all about it by now. Does your husband really not want to…?”
Frances’ eyes went to her own untouched ice-cream, now largely a pool of vanilla liquid in its glass.
“I think Ambrose does want to, but he respects my wishes,” she told her friend, blushing as she spoke.
“Then, do you really not want to…?” Lydia pressed her.
“I don’t know,” admitted Frances, thinking again of Ambrose’s gentle, knowing handling of her body in the library that day. “Sometimes I do, very much, far more than I ever expected…but it frightens me even more to feel such longing. Then, I have to run away, sometimes literally.”
“You must have kissed him, at least,” asked Lydia now and received a barely perceptible nod from her companion. “What was that like?”
“It was wonderful,” Frances told her honestly, without revealing how far they had gone beyond simple kissing, “but now I don’t know what I will do if it happens again. I stay away from Ambrose as much as I can at Westall Park unless we have Winifred with us, or other company.”
“You can’t do that forever, Frances. You’re married!”
“I know,” answered Frances with a long sigh. “Ambrose has said the same thing. I would not want Winnie to notice it either as she grows up, but I feel trapped.”
“It sounds as though you’re only trapped by yourself,” observed Lydia.
“Even so, trapped is trapped,” said Frances, a little hopelessly.
