A Love Laid Bare (16 page)

“Bah.” Frances noted the direction on her letters and
left them on a corner of her desk for Rose. Thomas would make
arrangements for their delivery to her correspondents in Europe—how
or with whom she did not know, or wish to know. With London being
so close, Lord Summerton would have his letter within a day. She
was disappointed to send him so little, but her change of residence
had disrupted the network.

Wiggling her fingers to ease a sudden cramp, Frances
rose, put her correspondence and other papers in a drawer and
locked it. More secrets—this time on her part. They were a pair,
she and Halcombe. Feeling both discouraged and disgruntled, she
marched from the room. It was time to join Flora for their midday
meal and some playtime.

When Frances entered the nursery playroom a few
minutes later, Nancy was helping the child wash her hands and face.
Flora addressed this simple task with great seriousness, scrubbing
her face earnestly with a washing cloth before squishing the soap
between her fingers. With much splashing, she rinsed her hands, and
then held them up to show her mother.

“I clean, Mama,” she said, beaming at Frances, who
picked up a towel and dried the child’s hands and face.

“Yes, I see that you are clean.” Frances turned the
small hands this way and that. “You did a good job.” She gave Flora
a smile of approval, laid the towel aside, and picked her up. Her
daughter was the picture of health. Her cheeks were rosy with a
touch of the sun, glossy curls wreathed her head, and her sturdy
body was an agreeable weight on Frances’ hip. England agreed with
Flora, it seemed—something Frances should keep in mind when she
struggled with her misgivings about returning here.

“Are you hungry? I am hungry as a horse!” Frances
pretended to nip at Flora’s neck, setting off a storm of
giggles.

“No eat, Mama!” Flora shouted, squirming to get down.
“Eat milk! Wabbit eat milk!” She dashed over to pick up the
floppy-eared rabbit Frances had seen earlier and waved it in the
air.

“Rabbit,” Frances corrected. She took the offering
and propped the animal on a chair at the table where one of the
maids had set out several platters of food. “And we
drink
milk, not eat it.”

“Drink milk,” Flora repeated once she was secured in
her chair.

Frances sat beside her and uncovered a platter. “What
have we today?” The menu seldom varied, but she felt repetition was
important in aiding a child to learn their words and Flora’s
vocabulary grew daily.

“Bwead, butter, cheese,” Flora crowed, bouncing in
her seat as the food was put on her plate. “Ham and berries!”

“Strawberries,” Frances said, laughing. “Red like
rabbit’s ribbon.” She touched the bow tied around the cloth
animal’s neck and then held up a strawberry. “Red.”

“Rwed,” Flora repeated and stuffed a handful of the
fruit in her mouth.

Frances and Nancy exchanged resigned smiles. Flora
had not conquered table manners as yet. “Go have your dinner,
Nancy,” Frances said with a wave of her hand. The young woman was
free to eat with them, but it gave her an opportunity to mingle
with adults if she took her meal below stairs. Even though Flora
was usually a good child, caring for an energetic toddler was
wearing.

***

Wearing and messy, Frances thought when she reached
her bedchamber shortly before the appointed time for her meeting
with the steward. She sniffed at the splatters of milk on her
sleeve and decided the faint odor was not strong enough to warrant
changing. Wetting a cloth, she dabbed at the spots. It was only a
minor mishap, since she
had
been successful in avoiding the
entire glass of milk that had nearly spilled in her lap. She did,
however, tidy her hair and rub some colour into her cheeks before
setting forth to gird the lion in its den.
Hardly a lion, poor
Mr. Compton, who no doubt looks forward to this interview with even
less enthusiasm than you. Do keep in mind he is here to serve, and
that Halcombe is to blame for these problems.

Keeping a firm hold on that thought, Frances greeted
the steward graciously as he entered her parlour.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Compton.” She gestured to a
chair, and then absentmindedly fingered the topmost sheet of paper
on her desk as she studied the man her husband had entrusted with
managing the estate. He was a thin man, of perhaps forty years,
with neatly combed brown hair and a pair of brown eyes that held an
alert intelligence. Walter Compton was no fool.

Reassured by his air of quiet competence, Frances
smiled at him. “I understand you have been here for some time. Are
you a Sussex man, Mr. Compton?”

“Born and bred, my lady, but my home is on the
coast.”

Frances’ eyes widened. “Is that so? It seems we have
that in common. My childhood home is also on the coast. It is a
beautiful area, if somewhat rugged.”

“It is that, my lady.” Compton said. “My father was
the vicar in a village not far from Littlehampton, but it is a
small place with little scope for a man unless one depends upon the
sea for a living.” He smiled. “Not being so inclined myself, when I
left school a friend suggested I try my hand at estate management
and he helped me to obtain my first position.”

“Was that also in Sussex?” Frances asked. She was
always interested in hearing how people came to their
positions.

“No, Hertfordshire, and from there to Surrey. While I
liked both areas, it was the desire to move closer to family that
led me here. I have two brothers and a number of nieces and nephews
that I like to visit upon occasion.”

“You are fortunate in your family, Mr. Compton. Feel
free to invite them to visit you now and again,” Frances said. She
glanced at the paper under her hand, and continued. “You will have
read over the list of projects I feel necessary to bring the house
into a more modern and comfortable state. As you can see, a
substantial amount will be required to accomplish it all. Before
embarking on any of these projects, I need an accounting of
finances, both mine and also what monies, if any, are available
from the estate. With Lord Halcombe being much too busy to involve
himself with running the household, this project has fallen to my
charge.

More that Lord Halcombe cannot be bothered. Why
should he be, when you are quite capable? Do you really want him
interfering?
Frances answered that question with a resounding,
if silent
no
and returned her attention to the steward.

“As you requested, I have a copy of the marriage
settlements for you,” Compton said, placing a sheaf of papers on
the desk. “Your father endowed a generous amount, much of which is
soundly invested. The rest is held by Barclay’s bank and you are
free to draw upon it as necessary.” He paused, curiosity showing in
his dark eyes. “You have not seen this as yet?” Frances shook her
head and he went on. “May I summarize?”

Bemused at the grave tone of his voice, Frances
nodded. “By all means.”

Compton laid his hand over the documents. “This is a
somewhat unusual arrangement in that the settlement is entirely
assigned to you. While the law decrees that a wife’s property is
considered to be her husband’s upon marriage, it is possible to
draw up a trust that allows you to retain access to your funds and
gives you the sole authority to oversee them. This was done, and
agreed to, by Lord Halcombe. There are some restrictions, which I
have noted. Most involve your potential remarriage, should such a
thing occur in the future. In the event of your death, the funds go
to your progeny direct. Should you die without issue, half reverts
to his lordship and half to a school for young women.”

His expression was more speculative now. Frances
stiffened, half-expecting some disagreeable surprise.

“Mr. Nesbitt made several generous donations to New
Brook School in past years. Were you aware of this, Lady
Halcombe?”

Relieved, since she was indeed familiar with the
school and her father’s interest in it, Frances sat back and
smiled. “Yes, my father was a great believer in the value of
education for females. He believed that even the most basic skills
would enable those less fortunate women who have no one to support
them to find employment. I plan to continue helping the school, as
is possible.”

“You will have no problem doing so if you wish, my
lady. You are a wealthy woman,” Compton said, returning her smile.
He then named a sum that made Frances start.
Goodness! However
did father keep this a secret? Not that it matters in the least.
You had everything you needed—or wanted. But this, combined with
your dowry…

A heady sense of freedom, along with a wave of love
for the man who had provided it, swept through her. Frances blinked
away sudden tears. Dear Papa. The pain of his passing had eased
some over time, but she still missed him sorely. She kept her eyes
on her desk until she regained her composure.

“My father had a knack for business,” she said
finally. Amused at the blatant understatement, she deftly changed
the subject.

“If you will give me a list of the investments, Mr.
Compton, I would appreciate it. Now, I know you have many other
concerns. Would you please tell me if any funds are available to me
from the estate? While it appears my personal fortune is adequate,
I prefer not to overly deplete those funds.”

“Nor would your trustees approve of doing so. While
they will not interfere with your decisions, they do have the right
to question any expenditure or investment they feel is unwise.”
Unexpectedly, Compton smiled widely. “They would frown upon
investing in a gold mine in the West Indies, for example.”

Frances laughed. “Since that is quite unlikely, I
believe I can satisfy those gentlemen with my choices.”

“I’ve no doubt of it,” Compton said. He went back to
her earlier question. “With so much of the estate’s working capital
being reinvested in the land, Lord Halcombe is not in a position to
pay for all you wish done.”

Compton named a sum, not paltry by any means, but
less than Frances had hoped. She grimaced. If it was all that could
be spared, then Halcombe simply had to agree to invest in other
enterprises. Frances did not want to depend entirely upon the land
to support them. What if the harvest failed, or disease swept the
herds? Yet another thing she wanted to discuss with her husband.
The list was growing and she could not postpone it much longer.

In response to her involuntary expression of dismay,
Compton hastened on. The man was quick, Frances acknowledged,
confirming her initial impression.

“Lord Halcombe wanted me to assure you that you are
free to call on the estate’s own craftsmen. We have several highly
skilled carpenters on staff, as well as a metal smith.” He smiled.
“And many strong backs, my lady, willing to paint and such, if you
can use them.”

Frances brightened. She had hesitated to take
Halcombe’s men from their current tasks, but since
he
had
suggested it, she would no longer do so.

“That will be helpful. Some projects will require
specialists but there is much that can be done in-house. Please
tell Lord Halcombe I will take him up on his offer,” Frances said.
If Mr. Compton wondered why she did not tell him herself, he gave
no sign of it, but stood when she did.

“By your leave, my lady.”

“Good day, sir. Thank you for your time.” Frances
swept all the papers on her desk into a drawer. Later she would
read the settlements word by word. Now she needed to see Flora,
change her dress, and prepare to sit through another interminable
meal with her husband.

His bath was prepared and clean clothes lay ready
when Halcombe came in. He was later than usual and was tempted to
call for some meat and cheese in his suite. He had come to dread
the hour of forced conversation with Frances as much as he
suspected she did. Nothing had been resolved between them, and he
was no closer to any solution than on the day she had
reappeared.

Bathed and dressed, he dismissed his valet with a
message that he was delayed. Driven by some irrational impulse, he
opened the door that connected his suite to his wife’s. As he
expected, the room was unoccupied. Frances was either in the
nursery with Flora, or downstairs, and the maid had gone to her
supper. He stepped inside Frances’ bedchamber, closed the door
behind him, and leaned against it.

Even though he had not heard or seen any signs of
renovation, he was still somewhat surprised to see it unchanged.
True, a shawl lay folded over a chair and a nightdress was draped
over the footboard of the half-canopied bed, but the toiletries on
the dressing table were lined up as precisely as his wife had left
them. Frances was ever an orderly person. In that she had not
changed. Nor had her choice of soap, the scent of which clung to
the silken fabric of her nightdress.

Halcombe looked down, startled to see the garment in
his hand. He brought it to his face and breathed deeply, felt his
cock stir, and dropped the gown as if scalded. Damn the woman for
making him want her! She had his insides in knots. Anger and hurt
vied with a wrenching feeling of regret. It pained him that the
sweet promise of their marriage had deteriorated into a state where
they rarely spoke to each other. If it was not for his daughter,
his sweet Flora, who filled his heart with joy, he might wish
Frances had never returned.

Devil take it, Halcombe. Be honest. You don’t
believe any such thing. What you want is to change the past into a
history where Frances never disappeared, where you were able to
watch her grow large with your child, where you celebrated Flora’s
birth together.

He scowled at this maudlin lapse. Life was not like
some child’s fairy tale. There was no going back. He walked out,
his strides long and angry. He’d accept no more of this “I don’t
know” business. The woman owed him an explanation, and by God, he
would have it this very night. Or…or
what? Will you beat it out
of her?
Lock her up and feed her on bread and water?