With tears in her eyes, Helen Harcourt hushed her husband, taking one of his hands and kissing it.
“I know you want to do that, Edmund. If I were a man, I would feel the same, but listen to what Ambrose has just told us. He has already stepped in to protect Frances as we never did. It is his job now, not yours.”
“It is,” Ambrose confirmed. “However our marriage began, I love Frances and I would protect her with my life. I promise you that…”
Before Ambrose could complete his earnest declaration, the breakfast room door had swung open again and with youthful gaiety, Beatrice came skipping into the room. Her eyes were bright and she held a letter in her hand. Seeing Ambrose and such serious faces at the table, Beatrice stopped and looked around with puzzlement.
“Good morning, what a wonderful dance we had last night! Oh… What is this? Am I missing a family meeting? Is Frances here too…?”
“We don’t know where Frances is,” Lady Scovell began to say cautiously, looking to Ambrose for what further explanation he might wish to give.
Ambrose’s attention, however, was more on the envelope in Beatrice’s hand..
“That’s Frances’ handwriting,” he observed urgently. “Look, she has written to Beatrice.”
“Do open it, Beatrice,” Lord Scovell prompted his younger daughter. “It might tell us where she has gone.”
“I am becoming quite worried now,” confessed Lady Scovell, watching anxiously as Beatrice broke the seal and unfolded the paper. “What does she say Beatrice?”
The young woman scanned the paper rapidly and then looked up with a frown.
“She doesn’t want Ambrose to know where she is…” Beatrice said slowly, looking thoughtfully at him, but without hostility.
“Then only show the letter to your parents,” he said quickly, making an impatient gesture. “I want to know that Frances is safe and to ask her to speak to me. I will never pursue her against her will.”
“Is this about that scandal sheet?” the young woman asked calmly. “Everyone has seen it, Father. There is no need to look so shocked at my knowing. I didn’t believe a word of it personally, and didn’t think that Frances did either.”
“It was completely false,” Ambrose confirmed to his sister-in-law. “But Frances was very upset when she left Westall Park. Can you tell me at least if she is among friends?”
Beatrice seemed to make up her mind and tossed the letter onto the table so that anyone might read it.
“Well, she was at the old folly here last night… You don’t think she’s still there do you? It was so cold and rainy outside butFrances can be very stubborn when she makes up her mind to something.”
“Why on earth should she go there?” Lady Scovell asked, her brow now creased with worry. “Oh, the foolish girl. Do go and find her and bring her back to the house. I can’t bear to think of my Frances out there alone all night. You don’t think she might have wandered into the woods, do you?”
Ambrose was already on his feet, with Beatrice and Edmund not far behind him out of the door.
Chapter Thirty-One
“Beatrice, is that you?” Frances called out, on hearing the sound of footsteps on the flagstones of the folly’s pavilion.
Stiff and tired, she pulled herself up from the stone bench where she had passed an uncomfortable night with only her light cloak and a dusty abandoned cushion. Frances had already been outside once at dawn, walking around the folly and up and down the hill in order to bring some warmth back to her chilled body in its light white muslin dress.
By the time the clocks were striking midnight last night, Frances knew that Beatrice was not coming, and had likely not even seen her letter. The rain was heavy by that point and the prospect of a long trek to Scovell Hall in the rain seemed scarcely better than passing the night in the folly. Neither was a happy option.
In Scovell Hall, Frances would have had to face her father. Here at the folly, she had to face her past again. What fitful sleep shemanaged was filled with frightening dreams of abandonment and betrayal, bringing together the trauma of the day she had discovered her father’s affair, with the pain of uncovering Ambrose’s present treachery.
“Beatrice?” Frances called again, louder now, after receiving no answer to her first attempt.
The footsteps sounded heavier than Beatrice’s footfall and they had stopped at the sound of her voice, the silence that followed suddenly seeming sinister. More clearly than ever, Frances now recalled that day she had come here with Oswald Keeton to dig up the legendary treasure.
Intruders!
As the footsteps began again and paused again, Frances shivered, feeling the same surge of curiosity and fear as all those years ago. Did the person outside know that she was in here? Were they going to come inside? When you had no idea of who or what you might find, was it better to investigate or wait to be discovered?
Maybe it was only a gardener or gamekeeper. She would be sorry for Scovell Hall staff to see her in her present red-eyed and travel-stained state, but it would not be the end of the world. Then again, it might be a tramp, or a gypsy. If so, Frances would be stern but polite, making it clear that they were on private land and should not linger longer than necessary.
It might even be Lord Scovell. For the first time in many years, Frances felt that she would be glad if it was her father, with his practicedbonhomieand foolish jokes.
