While Frances wanted to see her husband no more than she wanted to see her father, the thought of his not caring still cut her to the quick. Taking out her already wet handkerchief, Frances wiped her eyes and tried to force back any new tears as best she could.
An idea formed itself in Frances’ mind for how she might see Beatrice or Lady Scovell without alerting her father or Ambrose. It was not ideal but it was strangely fitting. Taking deep breaths, Frances made an effort to pull herself together before they reached Mayfair and she changed her carriage.
“Drop me off on the path on this side of the hill,” Frances instructed the coach driver, leaning her head out of the window to address him.
“Are you sure, Madam?” the grey-haired little man queried doubtfully, looking around at the fields and woodland of the Scovell Hall estate. “There’s not much out here and it looks like rain tonight. Are you sure you don’t want me to take you up to the main house?”
Frances shook her head.
“No, I shall be meeting my sister up at the folly on that hill. My parents own this estate and I know it well.”
Despite his misgivings, the elderly coachman had to accept this decision. He slowed his vehicle and Frances jumped out before he could climb down and open the doors for her. She was impatient to see Beatrice and would create no further delay.
“Here is the letter you must deliver to Lady Beatrice Harcourt at the main house, and an extra shilling on top of the fare, for your trouble.”
She handed the man the short note she had written and sealed in the private parlor of a coaching inn in Mayfair. Hopefully Beatrice would be home to receive it. If not, Frances might have a long wait at the folly and she hoped her light summer dress would be equal to the weather.
The clocks on country churches were striking eight o’clock in the morning by the time the Duke of Westall rode up to the frontdoor of Scovell Hall, knowing himself to be dusty, unshaven and travel-worn. The air itself was fresh and clean after last night’s rainfall, although the ground was rather muddy in places.
Handing his horse off to a surprised-looking footman who had evidently not expected any early morning callers, he rang the bell.
“Is my wife here?” Ambrose asked the startled-looking young maid who answered the door and seemed not to know what to make of him in his present state. “Did Frances come here last night?”
Ambrose had tracked Frances to the coaching inn where she had left Lightning to be stalled and returned to Westall Park, and then had traced her to the coach stop in Mayfair where she had apparently alighted from a hired coach. There, the trail had gone dead.
None of the coachmen now on duty could recall a passenger matching Frances’ description. Nor could the landlords or bar stewards of the nearby coaching inns. While Frances had been wearing a white dress and blue jacket without particular markings, Ambrose felt sure that his wife’s beauty and distress would both have made her memorable. How could she simply vanish?
A call at the home of Lydia’s parents near Hyde Park had also produced no results and no further leads beyond a suggestion to try Scovell Hall.
Not wishing to go home without Frances, or to ride out to Scovell Hall without any evidence that she was there, Ambrose had retuned to the last place she was seen instead. Taking a room at a coaching inn, he had sent a message home to Barrington with his whereabouts and passed a sleepless night on a lumpy mattress.
Rising early, Ambrose’s luck had then changed. The boy brushing the dining room floor remembered Frances using the parlor for an hour to write a letter, and then taking a coach driven by “Old Tom.” Going back out to the queues of waiting vehicles, he was pointed in the direction of the grey-haired little man, just as he was about to drive away from the inn with a fare.
“Scovell Hall,” the old man had confirmed in answer to Ambrose’s question and the silver coins he proffered. “That’s where she wanted to go. Not the main house, mind. She wanted to see her sister, she said.”
This was enough for Ambrose. Swallowing down some coffee and bread while his horse was saddled, he set his mind towards Scovell Hall and his heart towards Frances. Please God let her be there, and let her listen to him.
Now, on the doorstep of Scovell Hall, the maid’s reaction flummoxed him. Was Frances not there after all, or had she perhaps instructed her family that she did not want to see him? Ambrose supposed he could not blame her, but nor could he give up so easily.
“Frances?” he called into the hallway, not wishing to barge in past the maid and create any further upset. “Frances, are you there? It’s Ambrose.”
“What’s going on, Matilda?” called the warm and motherly voice of Helen Harcourt, now coming to investigate the situation at the front door. “Who was at the door?”
“It’s…I think it’s the Duke of Westall, Your Ladyship but he looks…”
Here the confused young maid stopped and looked back towards her mistress for guidance.
“Good Gracious, Ambrose!” exclaimed Lady Scovell, as she stepped into the doorway and saw him. “What is to do? Come in at once. Do excuse Matilda. She is still being trained on front doors. Is everything well? Where is Frances?”
“I was hoping that you could tell me that,” Ambrose returned with a frown, following his mother-in-law into the house. “I was told that she came to Scovell Hall last night, wanting to see Beatrice. I thought she would still be here.”
“Oh my, you have been sent on a wild goose chase. Beatrice stayed overnight with a neighboring family after a dance last night and I do not expect her back until after breakfast. Might Frances have gone to the dance too?”
Ambrose shook his head, disappointed and bewildered. If Beatrice had not been here, where would Frances have gone? In such a state as she left Westall Park, it did not seem likely that she would have wanted to attend a party.
“Come and have some breakfast while we work this out,” proposed Lady Scovell, taking Ambrose’s arm. “You look as though you need to sit down and rest in any case.”
The duke let himself be steered into the breakfast room where Lord Scovell was sitting at the table with his newspaper and a pile of hot buttered toast.
