Seeing the eyes of one stout matron directly upon her, Frances smiled back at the woman and was pleased to see her look away self-consciously.
When the door to the café next swung open, Frances expected to see Beatrice, perhaps with Lady Scovell. Instead, it was Lydia who came hurrying to her table and sat herself down, looking tense and hurriedly dressed, one of her gloves still unbuttoned and her bonnet half-tied.
“Where have you been, Frances?!” Lydia demanded, although in a low voice. “I have been trying to get hold of you forever. Didn’t you get my letter?”
“There has been so much happening at Westall Park,” Frances began, hoping that Lydia could understand. “I have been…spending more time with Ambrose, and it has been wonderful. I did mean to reply to your letter before now but…Oh, it’s hard to explain.”
She had been prepared for curiosity, laughing incredulity, even requests for more detail of marital relations in the bedroom, Lydia being better versed in equine biology than human. Instead, her friend only looked impatient and waved her hand.
“Never mind that now. Have you seen the latest? I wanted to warn you.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter if people are still talking about that foolish article, Lydia. Ambrose and I are beyond that. We’re happy together and I am not going to pay it any further attention. Our marriage is…”
“You haven’t seen it, have you?” Lydia sighed, interrupting Frances and pulling out a folded sheet from her purse, of the same style as the earlier scandal sheet. “Read the headline item, Frances. It’s almost a week old now.”
…Readers who felt confused, or even disbelieving, at our revelation of the peculiarly chaste marriage of the Duke and Duchess of Westall, may now be satisfied that someexplanation has been found. There is apparently another filly in the Duke of Westall’s stable, and one who receives far more attention than his disinterested spouse….
“Why are they talking of horses?” Frances asked, her mind very far from the language of London gossip and intrigue.
“They’re saying that your husband has a mistress, Frances,” Lydia spelt out in an urgent whisper. “It couldn’t be true could it?”
The question startled Frances. A mistress? How could her husband possibly have a mistress when they had spent the last three days as they had?
“No! That’s ridiculous,” Frances laughed, pushing the sheet away from her with disdain.
“I’m glad to hear it. If it’s definitely false, he might take them to court for defaming his name, although I suppose they did use a euphemism.”
“Am I late?” asked Beatrice, sitting down beside them and taking off her hat. “I thought I was early but you two look like you’ve been here for hours. Mother has gone to the milliner but she sends her love.”
Frances and Lydia had been so wrapped up in their conversation that they had not heard the door or seen Beatrice approaching.The young woman’s eye now fell on the scandal sheet sitting on the table and she frowned and shook her head.
“I hope you’re paying no attention to that rubbish,” Beatrice said stoutly. “One of the other girls at Mrs. Rufford’s musical salon yesterday was trying to make me talk of it and I told her exactly what I thought of people who spread such poisonous gossip.”
Despite her relative youth, Beatrice was a sensible, pragmatic and loyal young woman and Frances took comfort from her attitude. There was clearly no need for her and Lydia to hide or dissimulate their present conversation.
“There’s no truth in it at all,” Frances stated. “Lydia just showed it to me. We wonder if Ambrose might sue the publisher.”
“If it’s worth his while,” Beatrice shrugged. “If it’s false, then it’s better ignored, surely.”
“But if no one takes action, they will just publish more falsehoods,” Lydia pointed out.
Beatrice and Lydia debated these points for some minutes as Frances played with her now-cold tea. Another filly in Ambrose’s stable, another woman in his bed… On the one hand, it seemed laughable. On the other hand, certain unwelcome questions were rising at the back of Frances’ mind.
Where did Ambrose go on his unexplained trips to London? Until now she had trusted him enough not to even ask. Had hehad a mistress before their marriage, or perhaps more than one? When Frances agreed to marry him, she had not cared, but she cared now.
At a lower but more painfully intimate level, why had the Duke of Westall purchased four French silk nightgowns from Madame Rousset but gifted only three to Frances? That small slip of paper she had picked up from the floor in Ambrose’s bedroom was unambiguous on what had been bought, but offered no explanation for these facts.
“Frances, what do you think? Frances?”
Frances blinked and tried to focus on Beatrice who was trying to bring her back into the conversation.
“Oh, I think I must discuss it all with Ambrose,” she returned, not minded to put the vexing question of the missing silk nightgown to either her sister or her friend.
Frances knew her fears were likely irrational, but they were still there and could not be easily dismissed, however her mind turned them around and examined them critically. She must confront them and establish the facts, one way or another. It could not be done here and now.
She folded the scandal sheet and put it in her pocket, signaling an end to this particular decision.
“Let us order some ices and talk of something more pleasant, like Beatrice’s first impressions of London society,” Frances suggested. “Then I should like to shop for some new stockings. There is a little French shop not far from here, I believe. Madame Rousset’s…”
