A Love Laid Bare (11 page)

“Yes.” Fatigue swept over her. Frances turned her
face into the pillow and slept.

***

Months later, Frances maneuvered her unwieldy body
close to the edge of the well and braced a hip on its low stone
wall. She generally savored this task, her sole contact with the
world outside the Fournier’s cottage, even though carrying the
buckets of water grew more difficult each day. Throughout the
months that followed Frances’ rescue, Madame had kept her close and
busy. Frances was limited to one daily opportunity to exchange a
timid “
bonjour
” and smile with the other women at the well.
Today, however, it was hard to find her usual pleasure in the task.
Her back ached, the baby weighed heavily within her, and the air
was sharp and cold.

Frances slowly lowered the bucket into the well,
waited for it to fill, and then began turning the squeaky crank. It
was an arduous job at any time, but this morning it was almost
impossible. The appearance of another hand beside hers on the
handle was welcome.

“
Merci
, Martine.” Frances said, smiling at the
young woman beside her. Martine was one of Madame Fournier’s many
great-nieces and was always ready to help when she saw Frances.
Whether it was due to their obviously similar age or simple
curiosity about a stranger, Frances was unsure, but whatever the
reason, she was grateful for it.

Martine helped balance the bucket on Frances’
shoulder. She steadied it with one hand, and after bidding the
Frenchwoman good day, began to walk along the dusty street.
Whitewashed houses, leaning companionably against one another,
lined both sides of the thoroughfare, their facades brightened by
colourfully painted doors. The Fournier’s door was blue—the same
piercing blue as Richard’s eyes. Frances suddenly felt the pang of
loss more keenly than usual. She found it unwise to dwell on her
circumstances, however. Acceptance was difficult enough without
constantly brooding about it. There was no way to change
things.

She lowered the bucket to the ground and breathed in
the fishy, salt-laden air. Rubbing her lower back, she sank onto
the bench that stood beside the door and arranged her shawl tightly
around her shoulders. The water was not needed immediately. There
was time to rest for a few minutes and think about her situation,
without Madame’s constant chatter and endless instruction.

The poor woman had been horrified by Frances’ lack of
domestic skills. Gracious, Frances had not even known how to lay a
fire! Cooking, sewing, scrubbing—she had had to learn them all. She
studied her chapped, reddened hands and grimaced, but she had no
real regrets. It was a small price to pay for the knowledge that
meant never again being dependent on someone else to care for
her.

At first, the hard physical labour and appalling
sameness
of the daily routine had sorely tried her patience.
Accustomed to walking, riding or sailing almost every day, reading
for hours at a time, she chafed at the restrictions and endless
lessons in housewifery. In desperation, Frances had taken to
reading Madame’s single book, the Bible. Not that she objected to
reading the Bible. Not at all, but when it was the
only
book
available….

Frances had by now read it end to end several times,
and she often read aloud to Madame and Jean-Claude of an evening.
She found solace in the timeless, wise words when homesickness
threatened to overwhelm her. The loss of her father was a void only
now beginning to fill. She missed Rose and Thomas—and Richard,
always Richard, no matter his betrayal. Somehow, she had to get
home, but the sense of urgency she had felt so strongly at first
had faded as the precious child grew inside her.

Which is just as well, Frances, since Jean Claude
won’t risk crossing the channel or attempt to send a letter to
England. It is out of your control, so stop whining and go inside
before you freeze out here
. Hissing softly under her breath,
she heaved herself upright, grasped the bucket handle, and opened
the latch.

A steady blaze warmed the good-sized room, where most
activity took place, but the two smaller chambers were cold at this
time of day. Fortunately, Frances slept out here, next to the fire
that burned day and night. Humming softly, she set the bucket
beside the fireplace. She was ladling water into the large pot that
permanently rested on the wide hearth when a sudden acute pain made
her gasp. The ladle clattered to the floor and a warm liquid
trickled down her legs.

The baby! The baby is coming—and Madame at a
neighbor’s!
Frances folded her arms across her stomach and
straightened. Her heart racing and panic rising, she stumbled to a
chair.
Calm yourself, Frances. Madame will be home soon and from
all you have heard these past months, babies rarely come
quickly
. Another spasm gripped her. She bent over, clutched her
middle, and waited for it to pass. Everything was ready—swaddling
blankets for the infant, clean linens and bedclothes for her. There
was even a keen-edged knife, used for nothing other than birthing,
to cut the cord.

Madame has delivered a dozen babies. Now get up and
walk as you’ve been told to do.

She was between contractions, making another round of
the room, when Madame Fournier came home
.
Frances had
managed to remove her damp petticoats and gown and was clad only in
a chemise and nightdress.

“Francine! Your time has come,
oui
?” Madame
hung up her cloak, removed her gloves, and hurried to where Frances
had stopped to grip the back of a chair. “I am sorry I was not
here, but it cannot have gone on too long. Did you have the
water?”

“Yes, some time ago,” Frances said with a gasp.

“Good, good. Move as best you can while I light a
fire in my bedchamber. You need a proper bed for this. Then I will
tell Bette to send one of hers for Martine. The girl is young but
already shows a gift for nursing.” The Frenchwoman smiled kindly
and wiped the moisture from Frances’ forehead. “All will be well,
child,” she said, and darted off.

Frances resumed her careful amble, dreading each
contraction but somehow enduring them in silence. Madame Fournier
was more than kind, but now she needed a familiar face. She wanted
Rose—she wanted to be
home
. If only she had never taken the
boat out! Never overheard Halcombe’s tryst with that woman. What if
she died here? Women died in childbirth all the time!

What if horses could fly? You could soar right
across the water. Don’t be stupid, Frances. You are young and
healthy and you are not going to die
.

“It just feels like it,” she panted and staggered to
a nearby bench. No more walking or she might fall flat on her face.
And given the size of you, it will take more than Madame to pick
you up!

Then Madame was back, and Martine appeared soon
after. With the two of them beside her, voicing encouragement,
Frances managed a few more turns around the room before she was
settled on the Frenchwoman’s bed, propped up with pillows behind
her head and shoulders and thick pads of linen beneath her. Madame
pushed Frances’ gown up to her hips and tut-tutted her approval,
while Martine massaged Frances’ belly.

“You are doing well,
ma chère,”
Martine said.
“Breathe with the pain—it will make it easier.” The Frenchwoman
chuckled at Frances’ look of disbelief. “It does not seem so,
oui
? But I
have
seen it so and you have some time yet
before your little one makes an appearance.” She folded one of
Frances’ hands around a length of cloth tied to the bedpost.

Frances gripped the cloth as if her life depended
upon it. The contractions came more and more frequently as the
hours passed. She felt as if her body was turning inside out and
pain was her whole existence. “I can’t do this!” she sobbed,
ashamed of her tears, but she hurt so.

“Of course you can, child. You
are
doing it.
Try to push.
Bon…bon
, you do well.”

With the last of her strength, Frances
pushed.

“The head is through,” Martine said urgently. “Now,
bear down once more.”

“Très bien!” Madame Fournier’s cry rang out, and the
thin wail of a newborn baby filled the room. “A girl,
ma
chère
, a healthy girl,” she said and swiftly cut and tied off
the cord.

Crying, laughing, Frances held out her arms, her
heart swelling with joy. “A daughter. Please, may I see her? I want
to hold her.”

Martine cleaned the infant’s face, swabbed out her
mouth and deftly swaddled the tiny body. “But you are not yet
finished. Push once more for me and we will get you cleaned up as
well.” The young woman laid the baby on Frances’ breast and then
leaned on her womb.

Frances’ felt the gush of the afterbirth, but not
even this pain distracted her from her fascination with the tiny
person lying over her heart. Red-faced and wrinkled, wisps of fair
hair plastered to her head, she was the most wonderful sight in
Frances’ life. “She is beautiful. So perfect.”

Frances held out a hand to Martine. “Thank you. Thank
you both so much. You saved me, saved Flora.” She touched the
infant’s cheek. “Her name is Flora Anne, after my grandmother.”

***

Sussex 1809

A few candles still burned when Frances emerged from
the past, the rest having spluttered out as the story unfolded.
Richard, seated now, was more shadow than substance in the fitful
firelight, but his gaze lay on her with an almost physical
intensity. She closed her eyes, uneasy with the long silence.
What was he thinking? That you had no one but yourself to blame?
That you could have tried harder to get word to England?
Perhaps it was true. Had she used the safety of the villagers as an
excuse?

No! She had
not
done so, at least not
consciously. When she again had her wits about her, the time to
send messages had passed.
Don’t search for any more reasons to
feel guilty, Frances, when you already have enough of them.

His voice came abruptly out of the gloom.

“If your benefactors were so reluctant to send word
on your behalf, how did you get to Portugal?”

Frances started and picked up her forgotten glass of
wine, wishing she could see his face.

“I have Napoleon’s recruiters to thank for that,”
Frances said. “On one of their periodic visits to the village, I
happened to be outside with Flora. One of the men asked about me.”
Her mouth tightened as she pictured the rapacious expression on the
Frenchman’s face. “When the same man returned a second time, with
yet more questions, Madame and Jean-Claude judged it wise for me to
leave.”

Frances set aside her drink and rose. “I was more
than ready,” she said, “and had already considered the possibility
of persuading Jean-Claude to take me to Portugal if England was out
of the question.”

“Plus, you held out the promise of a healthy payment
on the other end, I suppose.”

Halcombe’s tone was more resigned than cynical.
Frances was unsurprised by his taut smile, visible now that he was
on his feet. He moved closer to her—too close. She stepped
back.

“Yes, I was certain Aunt Olivia would help.” Her
senses were assaulted by his heated gaze. Her heart beat in heavy,
painful thuds. The warmth of his body, the long-missed male scent
of him, stirred feelings she’d wanted to keep buried forever, and
she edged away.

He stopped her in mid-step with a hand on her
shoulder and leaned even closer, raising her chin with his thumb.
His breath feathered her hair.

“A very edifying tale, my dear, if not complete. Tell
me, Frances,” he said, his voice and eyes equally cold, “why did
you not send word from Portugal?”

Frances wrenched from his grasp. “I don’t know!” She
gazed at him in despair, the brittle silence raw with misery.

“You don’t know,” he said finally, in tone so laden
with contempt and disbelief that she flung up her hands.

“No!” Frances pressed her palms against her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I simply cannot talk about this any
longer.” Her throat was raw with swallowed sobs. Any further
discussion had to wait. Exhausted in body and mind, she fled.

It was shamefully craven behavior. She knew it. But
until she was strong enough to face him, and decided how much she
wanted him to know, it was better to retreat while some shred of
control remained. A battle lost, and the war yet to wage. A
dispiriting thought and one she prayed was due to an overwrought
imagination. Heaven help her—help
them
—if it portended the
years to come.

She did not know why she had not sent word?
Halcombe took several steps, half of a mind to go after her and
demand some answers. He wanted—he scarcely knew
what
he
wanted, damn it, but he knew enough to realize he would get no more
from Frances tonight. Halting abruptly, he moved instead toward the
sideboard and poured a generous amount of brandy into a glass. He
had no guidance to help him with this insane situation. No maps to
lead him through a storm of emotional disarray where every path was
lined with foxholes ready to trip him up.

Maps.
The word left a bitter taste in his
mouth. If he had only been able to find that damn Legacy Folio his
poor deluded father had squirreled away!
If you had had the
Folio, Frances would never have come into your life, never put you
through this nightmare…never loved you.

“Which I swear she did,” he growled into the empty
room. He tilted the glass in his hand and watched the brandy catch
the fire’s light. The flames spun the deep amber of the spirit into
fiery streaks of colour—much like the colour of Frances’ hair in
the glow of the flickering candles. It reminded him of their
wedding night, when first he saw her hair unbound.