“How well you drive, Lady Levene,” Frances commented as the buggy wended along the narrow country path towards Levene Hall, its two matched bay horses neatly bypassing a stray sheep as Winnie called out and pointed at the wandering animal.
The summer morning air was fresh and clear again today, Winifred and Lady Levene were refreshingly easy companions, and the oppression of scandal sheets and London gossip felt very far away again. When she closed her eyes, Frances could almost forget the night of the Fordham House ball. Almost.
“It is as well to be able to set ones own direction in life, I have found,” returned the older lady calmly. “Whether driving a buggy, or doing anything else, one should not let matters run away with you.”
“I can’t imagine you ever do,” laughed Frances, wishing that she had the same confidence and competence as Ambrose’s grandmother.
“Not for a long time, no,” agreed Lady Levene. “It is something one learns over time. Look over there, Winnie, Peter and Susan are out in that field playing ball, and Isabelle is riding her pony in the meadow.”
Winnie smiled but also leaned into Frances, the little girl’s hand seeking hers. While pleased to be visiting her step-cousins, she was still shy, even in familiar company.
“I have been looking forward to meeting your cousins, Winnie. Would you introduce me?” Frances asked and her stepdaughter nodded.
“We shall all go out and play and then we shall have luncheon,” pronounced Euphemia Wilson, now guiding the buggy down another track in the direction of the large Jacobean building that was Levene Hall. "I happen to know that my stepson’s cook has made an orange cake today and that all children who eat their meat and vegetables shall have a slice.”
“I love orange cake!” declared Winnie. “I wish Papa was here. He loves orange cake too.”
“Your Papa had to go to London,” Frances said sympathetically. “Maybe we can take a piece of cake for him.”
She too found herself sorry that Ambrose was not with them again today. Frances had been very pleased to see Euphemia Wilson driving up the path an hour after he left for London.
“Yes, I shall do that, if Great-Grandmama lets me,” agreed the little girl. “But why did Papa have to go to London again? He only just went.”
Frances hesitated. It was indeed the second time the Duke of Westall had been to town for a full day since the Fordham House ball and she supposed that Winnie was bound to have noticed her father’s absence. While Ambrose had not mentioned that horrible pamphlet again since the ball, Frances supposed his days in London related to it.
“Your father has business to attend to. I don’t suppose it is anything of great interest for you, Winnie,” she said as lightly as she could, the very thought of the scandal sheet making her wince, and certainly not wishing to touch on it with a child or Ambrose’s grandmother.
“Don’t you know what the business is, Duchess Frances?” Winnie persisted innocently. “Didn’t Papa tell you?”
“I can guess,” Frances replied, patting the child’s hand, “and I guess you would find it all very dull. I have not asked your father for details and there is no reason why you should either."
She spoke the truth. Frances had deliberately not raised the subject of the pamphlet, or Ambrose’s intended action. She had a sense that, as with Oswald Keeton, Ambrose would do exactlywhat he had said, and then tell her later. Rather like Euphemia Wilson, he would not see a need to seek further approval from Frances or anyone else.
Frances’ disinclination to think about the pamphlet and her confidence in Ambrose were not the only reasons for her avoiding the subject with him, though, were they..? She also remembered weeping in his arms at the Fordham House ball and how comforting his strong body had been in those moments of vulnerability.
The sweetness of such solace terrified her, as did the swinging of her emotions when she saw Ambrose and Annabelle Sinclair together. To speak of these moments with him again would be to open a frightening door and Frances was not quite ready for that.
Glancing sideways, Frances saw Euphemia’s eyes focused steadily on the road ahead. Would she know of the scandal sheet and the story of her grandson’s failing marriage? If she did, she had given no hint of it since her impromptu call at Westall Park that morning to sweep them away in the buggy.
“But don’t husbands tell wives everything?” Winnie piped up again, still not quite satisfied.
Lady Levene guffawed at this and answered before Frances could formulate an appropriate response. On the one hand, a large part of Frances did believe in complete honesty within a marriage. This went some way towards explaining why she had never been able to forgive her father for betraying her mother.On the other hand, Frances’ marriage with Ambrose was not really a normal marriage.
“How dull it would be to hear every single thing that crossed another persons’ mind,” stated Euphemia. “Imagine, Winnie, every single thought about toast at breakfast, tying shoelaces, changing interest rates on bonds, stray sheep, the style of speeches in parliament, a lame horse, a delayed letter… A man or woman could speak of such trivia all day and their companions would be bored to sleep.”
The little girl giggled.
“It would be a lot of talking,” she admitted.
“Maybe husbands and wives should only share things that are important, or interesting,” suggested the silver-haired woman, to which Frances slowly nodded approval. “Some things don’t matter at all, and for other things, there is a time and a place for them. Husbands and wives have to trust one another to talk about the things that do matter.”
“I think you are right, Lady Levene,” Frances agreed.
“You did not want to go to London with Ambrose today?” the elder lady enquired mildly over the top of Winnie’s head, once the child was singing to herself and ignoring them again. “I dare say you might have seen friends or done some shopping.”
Now, Frances shook her head. Ambrose had suggested this too and she had declined, just as on his previous visit to London. Until there was resolution, Frances preferred not to think about that nasty article and its writer. She did not wish to be in London, where she imagined people might point and stare at the Duke and Duchess of Westall, speculating about their bedroom arrangements…
“I would rather stay here with Winnie for now,” Frances told Euphemia, entirely truthfully.
