A Love Laid Bare (9 page)

“Anne” was a whispered breath behind him and his
hesitation almost unnoticeable.

“Flora Anne. Flora, this is your grandmother.”

Flora stared at the older woman, then uttered a brief
“’lo”, and turned and raised her arms to her father. “Up,
p’ease.”

Pretending not to hear his wife’s cough of suppressed
laughter, Halcombe savored the rush of joy his daughter’s simple
request engendered and lifted her.

“Spoiling her already, I see.” Leticia’s voice was
caustic with distain. “Undisciplined and saddled with so plebian a
name. You will never get her off your hands.”

He glanced at Frances and saw her stiffen, her
expression unreadable. She seemed to wait for him to respond. He
hesitated and suddenly felt that he had failed in some manner. But
surely that was nonsense. He had learned long ago that ignoring his
mother’s snide remarks was the wisest course. And the easiest? It
was an uncomfortable thought he did not care to dwell upon any
further
.

“We have some years before we need to marry her off,”
Frances said with undisguised amusement. “Flora Anne was my
grandmother’s name. She was a Scot, you’ll remember, and they
are
given to these odd names. Lucky for me, my grandfather
was willing to overlook it, or we would not be here—Flora and
me.”

The dowager looked like she strongly disagreed with
Frances’ idea of luck, and Halcombe’s own back stiffened. “Now that
you’ve met my daughter, and seen my
wife
for yourself, we
must be off. Follow the course we discussed earlier, Mother, and
this will soon be old news.” He glanced at Frances and handed Flora
to her. “Please take her out to the chaise, I will join you
momentarily.”

“Certainly,” Frances said. She gave him a curious
look, nodded to the dowager and murmured “Mother Halcombe,” as she
left the room with Flora.

Halcombe stepped closer to the stone-faced woman who
had never shown him anything but the coolest of affections and
those often laced with a faint dislike. He had never understood the
reason behind it, and had long since accepted that his mother’s
primary concern and interest was herself.

“I expect you to support my wife in every way
possible. If I should hear even one disparaging story that I can
attribute to you, I promise you will regret it. I could house you
much more cheaply in a country cottage somewhere.”

“You would not!” Leticia paled and uncertainty tinged
her voice.

“I would.” His harshly stated words carried absolute
intent, and he watched as fear grew in her eyes.

“You are an unnatural son,” she said bitterly. “I
wish you well of your new family.”

Since it was obvious she wished him anything but,
Halcombe’s pang of guilt at badgering the older woman faded. Her
peevish disposition had caused too much unhappiness in the
past.

He bowed, gave her a pitying look, and walked away.
Her life was one long complaint, and she would never be satisfied.
Almost, he felt sorry for her. Almost.

Giving the butler a curt nod, the earl took his
gloves and hat, stepped outside, and halted on the landing. Frances
was not in the chaise. She stood beside his curricle, talking to
his groom while Flora enthusiastically patted the near horse. The
early morning sunlight burnished the flyaway curls on Flora’s head.
Halcombe’s chest tightened. His daughter.

The second she had turned to him with her simple ‘up,
‘p’ease’, love for this trusting, beautiful child engulfed him. Did
she feel it, too, the connection between them?
Blood will
tell
. It was a euphemism he had heard all his life and never
put stock in before today. Now he knew it to be true.

She does not come alone, Halcombe. Embracing the
child means accepting her mother, unless you have the heart to
separate them, and Frances will fight like a tigress if you attempt
to send her away.

He watched his wife walk toward the chaise, Flora’s
head on her shoulder, and felt a jolt as Frances’ eyes met his. Her
steady gaze held what? Challenge? Expectation? Hope? All of these,
he judged as he went to meet her. Another of her mysteries, and one
he vowed to resolve, along with discovering every secret she
harboured. Then, and only then, could he decide what to do about
Frances.

Sussex, 1809

From the day she first saw the tower looming high as
they came over the rise, Halcombe Manor had fascinated Frances.
Charmingly atilt and, as she later learned, the only remaining part
of the original keep, the sun-leached granite was a sharp contrast
to the newer golden stones of the manor house.

Frances lingered beside the chaise. How awed she had
been then. Other than the few days she had spent at Lord
Summerton’s country house after her wedding, she had never been
further from Clifftop than the nearest town. The inland
countryside, so opposite the rugged coastal plain, had been
delightful, with the crop-covered patchwork fields and hillsides
dotted with sheep and cows. She had liked everything about it. If
only—but then life was salted with ‘ifs’.
If you had been older,
wiser, not such a child. Had more gumption, and not allowed that
woman to intimidate you, or Richard to ignore you.

Frances could spout out a long list of ‘if onlys’,
but to what use? It changed nothing. She
had
been too young,
too ignorant—and too accommodating. She was, however, no longer any
of those things. Neither Halcombe nor his manor house would find
her so easy a mark in the future.

Frances turned to Flora, who was skipping toward her
with an excited “Mama!” Awake after a long nap, which happy
circumstance had made the latter portion of the journey more
restful, the child was brim full of energy. Frances bent to catch
her as she hurtled into her arms. The graveled drive was no place
for a toddler to run loose, busy as it was with trunks being
unloaded and weary horses eager for the stables. Frances shifted
Flora more comfortably on her hip and moved toward the long flight
of steps.

“Frances.” Halcombe appeared beside her and touched
her arm. “I will carry her,” he said in a low voice, and she
stopped.

A request or a command? Frances narrowed her eyes as
she puzzled out his intent, but it was impossible to judge from his
calm expression. Better to give him the benefit of doubt, she
decided. Frances looked at Flora and asked, “Shall Papa carry you,
pet? We need to go inside now.”

“Go big house?” Flora’s eyes went from the manor to
her father. “Go Papa?”

“Go Papa,” Frances echoed, as Flora held out her
arms.

“Papa?” Halcombe mouthed over Flora’s head.

“It is easier for her to pronounce,” Frances said
with a smile. “You can change it to Father when she gets older, if
you prefer.”

“No, Papa is fine.”

The answer came with a readiness that surprised her.
Pleased at this small evidence of informality since she had never
heard her husband refer to the late Lord Halcombe as anything but
‘Father’, some of Frances’ apprehension lessened. Richard may never
soften toward her, but at least he appeared to have accepted his
daughter.

Frances stepped into the huge entry hall and glanced
around. Nothing had changed. Why had she expected it to? The dark
paneling cast its usual gloomy shadows, despite the long window at
the landing where the stairs turned. Several sagging, dusty banners
hung listlessly on the walls, interspersed with a battle-axe or
two. Even that ridiculous suit of armour still stood guardian at
the side of the newel post.

“Lady Halcombe, Lord Halcombe, welcome home.” She
turned to find the assembled staff staring at her with expressions
that ran from amazement to disapproval.

“Thank you, Benson. You are well, I trust?” She
smiled warmly at the older man, ever an ally in this household.

“I am, my lady. Thank you for asking.” He looked at
Flora, who promptly hid her face in the curve of her father’s
shoulder. “And this is…?”

“Lady Flora is somewhat overwhelmed with so many new
faces,” Halcombe said, before Frances could answer. “Flora, this is
Benson. He takes good care of our household.”

Flora turned her head and peeked at the butler
through her fingers. “’Lo.”

Surprised at even that much of a response from her
daughter, Frances judged it unwise to further extend this
homecoming. She nodded to the housekeeper standing stiffly behind
Benson. “Mrs. Carroll. We are all tired and in need of something to
eat and drink. I realize you have had scant notice, but knowing
your competence, I’m sure you will have readied my suite. It is not
necessary to worry about the nursery this evening. Lady Flora and
her nurse will stay with me tonight.”

“Certainly, my lady.”

The falsely cordial expression on Alicia Carroll’s
face did not completely mask the animosity in the woman’s eyes.
Frances had expected nothing else. The housekeeper was no friend to
her during the time she had lived in this house.

Putting it aside for now, and suddenly both weary and
discouraged, Frances smiled wanly at her husband. She would take
charge here, but please heaven, not today.

“Lady Halcombe and I will dine in my rooms later this
evening, Benson,” Halcombe ordered after a quick glance at Frances.
“Please have Cook prepare a light meal for Lady Flora and her nurse
and see that the trunks are sent up.”

Relieved as Frances was to have him step in, she was
equally dismayed by his decree that they dine together, an intimacy
almost certain to end in confrontation. Any protest would put her
at a disadvantage, however, and giving him an infinitesimal nod,
she held out her arms for her daughter. “Are you hungry,
sweetheart? I am, and I’m sure Nancy is too. Shall we go find
something to eat and see where you are to sleep?”

Flora nodded, so serious a look in her wide eyes that
Frances’ heart ached. So many changes for the child.

“Milk? Milk, Mama?” Flora whispered.

“An excellent choice. Milk it is.” Frances looked at
Halcombe. He had stepped aside to speak to Benson as the other
servants returned to their duties. All but Mrs. Carroll, of course,
who placed great importance on protocol; she would insist on
showing Frances to her room. As if she required a guide! But it was
not worth a protest, and here was Halcombe at her side, touching
her arm, and they dutifully followed their retainers.

She was surprised to see that nothing in her
bedchamber had changed either. She had assumed her husband to have
long since disposed of her belongings. But her toiletries lay on
the mahogany dressing table, and her now outdated clothing hung in
the wardrobe. Frances set Flora on the bed, tossed her hat and
gloves onto a chair, and untied the ribbons of Flora’s bonnet.

“I think you are in need of some soap and water,” she
said, rubbing at a smudge on the child’s cheek. “Tomorrow you shall
have a bath, but for tonight a wash will do.” Frances glanced over
her shoulder at the housekeeper lingering at the door. “Have
someone bring up some warm water, please, and direct a trundle and
a cot be put in my sitting room.

“Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Carroll gave one disapproving
sniff and left the room.

“Nancy, if you wish to freshen up, you’ll find what
you need in my dressing room, through the door on the right. I will
see to Lady Flora.” The wan and apprehensive expression on Nancy’s
face reminded Frances that the young woman must be as bewildered by
all of the changes as Flora was. She gave the nursemaid a
reassuring smile. “It is a lot to take in, I know. You will soon
become accustomed.” Frances said. “Beginning with calling our
little imp
Lady
Flora!”

“Yes, my lady,” Nancy said. “It will all take some
getting used to.”

She hurried away and Frances sighed, chagrined at her
lapse. How could she have forgotten so important a thing?
Because it was not important to you—you can rarely remember your
own title!

Frances sat beside her daughter and began to unlace
her shoes. The spurt of energy that had manifested when they
arrived had disappeared, and Flora was content to watch without a
single “
Me
do.”

The requested water arrived promptly, followed by the
beds and a light meal for Flora and Nancy. It took very little
persuasion to coax Nancy into retiring along with Flora, who was an
early riser.

“Good night, my sweet. Tomorrow we will find some
cows.” Frances brushed Flora’s hair from her forehead and tucked
the blanket around her shoulders.

“‘Night, Mama. ‘Night, Nancy.” Flora smiled sleepily
at her mother and closed her eyes.

“Good night, Lady Flora, good night, my lady.”
Nancy’s voice sounded as sleepy as Flora’s.

Frances smiled to herself as she quietly closed the
sitting room door behind her. At least someone was content this
evening. She rang for a maid and gazed longingly at her own bed.
The thought of climbing in and snuggling under the covers was far
more inviting than a
tête-á-tête
with her husband. In fact,
the thought of the next few hours had her stomach cramping. It
would be a wonder if she could swallow a morsel.
Better not to
make a habit of dining with the man or you will fade away from
hunger.

The inane notion had the cheering effect of
lightening her mood. The man was not an ogre, after all.

***

In an effort to at least
begin
the evening
with some semblance of formality, Frances used the corridor to
reach Halcombe’s suite of rooms instead of the doorway between
their bedchambers. Johnson, his valet, responded to her tap on the
door, and stood aside for her to enter.

“Good evening, my lady. Welcome home.”

Frances was unable to tell from the man’s stolid
expression if he meant well by the comment, but he had always been
courteous to her. Why hunt for ill feeling, when there was other
household staff, less friendly, to face?